Creepy - My Husband's Murderer

Episode Date: April 6, 2020

Revenge is complicated...***Content warning: child abuse***Written by Monica Dunne and narrated by Heather Thomas***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Produced by Steve Blizin***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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We'll be narrating a series of episodes released Monday through Thursday this week. Strange times deserve distraction, and we're doing everything we can to do so, including our just-released full version of Ted the Cave are complete with pictures on our YouTube page. We have even more content to come, as much as we can manage. keeping my previously read legal disclaimer in mind. Now, this is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling

and disturbing creepy pastas 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, my husband's murderer, written by Monica Dunn, and narrated by Heather Thomas. He had cut himself that morning when shaving. As he was sitting across from me at the restaurant, I noticed the time.

tiny cut on his jaw, and my heart swelled up with love. It was these little things I noticed about him, a little cut, a mole even he may have never seen, a freckle on his nose so small, you could only see it if you were very close to him. The way some of his eyebrow hairs looked golden, blonde in the sunlight. That made the love I felt for him feel the strongest, because they made me feel like I knew him better than anyone else. I love you, James. I told him softly, and his eyes darted up from the menu he had open in front of him and lit up with joy. What a kinky thing to say to your husband. He laughed, squeezing my heart over the table. It's true that I hadn't been my most affectionate self lately. With the baby coming, it seemed like almost anything could trigger my anger.

An anger that I never even knew existed inside me before. I didn't like myself when I snapped at him. But I always apologized right after, and he always forgave me. And he knew I loved him, as sure as I knew he loved me. There were no doubts between us. We left the restaurant giddy, and giggling like two teenagers. We had definitely needed that date, probably our last one until the baby came. It brought us closer again.

It reminded us of our first nights out together. We stopped in the middle of the alley leading into the larger street we had parked our car on, so that he could zip up my jacket over my pregnant belly. As I was looking down to his hands, fiddling with my uncooperative zipper, His beautiful, strong hands that felt as familiar as my own after all the years I had held them. I heard a cold, raspy voice coming from behind him. Turn around, asshole. It took my brain a few seconds to process what was happening.

The voice came from a man wearing a black ski mask over his face. By the way, he was standing close to my husband's back. I could only assume he must have been holding some kind of weapon. My hands instinctively went to the belly, my brain screaming that I had to protect the baby. James's baby. Who would undoubtedly have his ocean blue eyes? Our baby. James turned around slowly.

As he did, I could see the glistening blade of a serrated knife pointed towards him. A scream stopped in my throat. my legs started shaking my knees feeling like jello i tried to analyze our attacker memorize any details that would help the police identify him later average height average weight all black clothes no visible tattoos i couldn't distinguish the color of his eyes he could have been anyone i could barely hear james telling the man that we didn't distinguish the color of his eyes he could have been anyone i could barely hear james telling the man that we didn't want any trouble, that we had money, that nobody had to get hurt. It all sounded like lines from a movie. This couldn't be really happening. We were happy. My due date was in almost two weeks. It wasn't possible. My ears were ringing. I felt dizzy, nauseous. James reached to his back pocket, grabbed his wallet and handed it to the man. He had a little picture of us in there.

Us on the beach on one of our vacations. Our faces beaming with big smiles. We were flushed from the cocktails we had been sipping all day. It was one of the last times I would have alcohol. A week later we found out that I was pregnant. Our lives were only just starting. Next to that picture, he had folded the baby's first ultrasound. I felt even sicker remembering these details.

Next, James took off his wedding ring and his watch. The watch had been a present from me for his 32nd birthday. It had the message, I love you forever, engraved on the back. I had obsessed over which watch model to get. What message would perfectly explain? express everything I felt for him. I slowly pulled my wallet out of my purse and, with trembling hands, handed it to James to give to our robber. Then I took out our phones. The fact that I had

his phone in my purse, because he kept putting it in his back pocket along with his wallet, and inevitably cracking the screen sitting down on it, felt like such an absurd detail in that context. The subject of so many of the jokes between us, contrasted with the blade of the knife held against my husband. The man took both phones with a swift movement. With them, so many of our pictures were gone. My growing belly throughout the months of the pregnancy. Several years' worth of travel pictures. Cities we explored hand in hand.

Foods we tried for the first time together. Hundreds of pictures. of our old, spoiled dog, rings, the man said flatly. I took off my engagement and wedding rings with mechanical movements, not fully feeling myself move. Nothing felt real. I remembered James kneeling in front of me and opening the little box in which the engagement ring was nestled, his gorgeous eyes fixing mine, hopeful and full of love. I didn't even let him finish the question before saying yes and jumping into his arms. Remembering this, my eyes filled with tears, and I started crying silently.

That's everything, said my James. He reached back and grabbed my hand, holding it softly, drawing tiny circles with his thumb on mine in an effort to call me down, while he still. had his back turned to me, always taking care of me, always protecting me. The robber didn't leave. For several seconds, he didn't even say anything. He lingered, seemingly debating what to do. I could feel my heartbeat in my temples. Suddenly, the man seemed to have decided. Faster than my brain could process, He punched James straight in the face. I can still perfectly recall the sound my husband's nose made when breaking.

A second punch followed almost immediately in his stomach. He stumbled back and collided into me, my back hitting the wall hard. A sharp pain burned in my belly. James was wheezing and gasping for air, bent at the waist. The man prepared for another hit. his fist tight. I started saying something, screaming something. My voice felt alien to my ears.

He stopped, relaxed his hand. He was looking at me, not at James. Was that pity in his eyes? That's when my brain registered the blood running down my legs. The pain in my belly was hot and strong. I could feel myself getting. way too dizzy. I forced my body not to slip into unconsciousness. I had to be there for my husband, for the baby. James straightened himself and looked at me, noticing the blood too. He had tears in

his eyes as he started whispering my name with worry. Whatever he was going to say was cut off by the attacker. I hope you rot in hell, James. You fucking monster. His voice was guttural, pained. He was shaking with anger as he plunged the knife into James' stomach. Once, twice, again and again. Angry and quick, thirsty. I must have put my hand in front of the knife at some point,

because he cut me too, although I don't remember doing it. I remember the blood. So much blood everywhere. I remember the sound of the man's steps as he ran away, leaving me crying and howling, screaming for help, holding James' body as he started to shake. I remember trying to put pressure on the wounds,

but not being able to cover all the sources of blood. I remember being frustrated with my small, useless hands. and I remember his voice right at the end as we were waiting for help to arrive as people started gathering around us he was saying he loved me repeating it over and over again stuttering over the words

as I felt his body grow colder with every second the baby was fine a healthy beautiful little girl With my dead husband's eyes, I can't say I really remember the birth, just like I don't remember the funeral. Everything was a haze, a blur. I wasn't numb. Not exactly.

I was blind with pain. More pain than I could process. Everything hurt me, holding the baby girl, the slight resemblance. to my husband, gutting me. Walking into our home, where we spent countless days together, where I slept in his arms every night, where we shared meals and made love, where we fought and made up, seeing our dog curled up at the end of James' part of the bed as usual, where his feet would have been, the poor animal grieving too.

having to go through our usual routine alone, to sleep in our bed alone, the fraction of a second when I woke up and instinctively searched for his warm body, before reality hit me. But as the days passed, one by one, the pain started becoming more bearable. I started living with it as a part of me. I stopped crying every morning. I started being more aware, more myself again. I had to keep going. My baby girl was growing every day, and I finally had a purpose again.

After some time, I was even able to bring myself to put some of his things in storage, his clothes, which still smelled so strongly of him, that I felt like I could turn around, and he'd be there behind me, with his usual little half-smile, ready to pull me into a hug. His toiletries, his collection of books, his old college textbooks. That's when I found, under what turned out to be a fake bottom of a wooden box inside which he kept all of his old high school yearbooks. A little silver-colored thumb drive. tiny cold on my palm inconspicuous plugging it in my computer i discovered it contained five videos

in each video there was a new little girl two redheads three blondes fair-skinned all but one curly-haired tiny and adorable All of the videos followed pretty much the same scenario. The girls, usually already crying, their innocent eyes filled with pure fear, would receive several hits with a black paddle. Their desperate cries would be deafening in the silence of the dark room it was all filmed in. Then they'd be hit with bare fists, angrily and mercilessly. focusing on their eyes and their teeth. The fists? Obviously, my husband's.

Maybe not obvious to someone else, but I knew him. I knew his hands better than I knew my own. I noticed the little details, like the pale freckle at the base of his left thumb, getting covered in the child's blood. My husband's hands that had held mine everywhere we went that checked my forehead for fever, wiped my tears, and gave me backrubs at the end of the day, colliding repeatedly into their small, fragile bones until they'd break.

The abuse would keep going and going, each video hours long, after their pretty faces would be disfigured and unrecognizable, swollen, bruised. and bleeding. He'd use various tools to lacerate their bodies. Sometimes he'd burn their skin with a lit cigarette, again and again, until their bodies would be covered in burn marks, seemingly enjoying the repetition of the action. He'd whip, kick, cut, choke, but nothing sexual ever happened. his thirst seemed to be for violence, for the brutality of everything. At some point, their eyes would become glassy and unmoving. By that point, the crying and screaming would have stopped for a while.

Their spirits broken long before they died. He'd stop. The video would end suddenly, the last image a mostly indistently. distinguishable mess of blood and bruised skin. From there, it wasn't hard to figure out who would have hoped that my husband would rotten hell, who'd consider him a monster. I found the girls in local missing children reports. There was no doubt that it was them.

Their little faces had been burnt into my brain. Their parents came on the news, crying and begging for their return. they'd look into the camera with a kind of exhaustion only the eyes of a desperate parent can have and plead for whoever had any information to come forward. They'd address the girls directly and tell them that their favorite plush toy was waiting for them at home, that their beloved pet was missing them,

and that they'd cook their favorite meal as soon as they'd come home. Only two of the bodies had been found. One of the girls, Abby, had a father that seemed beyond devastated. But he was undoubtedly, considerably more overweight than our attacker. Not him. The other girl, Beatrice, B for her family, was an orphan, but she was in the care of her aunt and uncle. The uncle, David, fit the height and weight.

But most importantly, I recognized his voice. I had been replaying, I hope you rotten hell, James, you fucking monster. Over and over in my mind every day, hoping that I'd just recognize the voice one day. At a gas station, in a supermarket. I had heard that voice in my nightmares every night, and there it was now. There was no doubt for me.

It was him. David raised Little Bee as his own child after his brother died in a car crash, along with his wife. Bee had saved his life. She was his purpose. She gave him the motivation to recover from his lifelong battle with a life. addiction. He built his life back up in order to give his niece the future she deserved. He said all of this through tears and interviews, begging for her to be brought back. She was brought back, but only so she could be buried. She was found in a river. Her small body bloated from the water,

one foot missing, seemingly chewed off by some animal. But the effects nature had had on her were nothing in comparison to the abuse she had suffered before she died. She had been bludgeoned to death. She had tens of cigarette burns on her body. Her fingertips had been burnt off too. Some parts of her skin seemed to have been poured with scalding water. several of her teeth were missing, having fallen out as a result of the force she had been punched with.

Knowing the torture she had been subjected to must have broken David. He hunted Bees murderer and somehow found him, which even the police hadn't managed to do. He took justice into his own hands. He must have considered that even being put in prison for life would have been a moment. mercy for my husband after what he had done. He deserved death, and most importantly, he had to be stopped. What had been done to be couldn't happen to another little girl. Finding James, he must have found out about my pregnancy, too. He must have even found out we were expecting a girl. I was going to be bringing an innocent baby girl in the same house.

as a monster. James had to be stopped forever before I gave birth, for the sake of the baby. And then, he never came forward about who James had been. He mercied me, allowed James to remain the wonderful person I knew him as in my mind, the love of my life. He mercied my little Jamie, allowing her father to keep being known as the strong, smart, loving man he had always been known as instead of a heartless monster. I had thought that the attacker had stolen the most important part of my life. But really, David was trying to protect both me and my baby. I killed David, of course.

He was an intelligent man, clearly more capable than the baby. police, but he had become careless. He wasn't cautious. He thought he had defeated the monster on that alleyway. He thought he was safe. Breaking into his home in the middle of the night was ridiculously easy, just as easy as it had been when abducting B. He hadn't even installed a security system. Stupid David. When the effect of the Sedative wore off. He woke up, tied up. Defenseless. I had his girlfriend tied up too in between us. Anger was radiating off me. I was impatient to make him suffer like my husband had suffered. But I kept myself in check. Control, patience, covering your tracks. I had learned it. I had learned

all from James. Shock washed over David's face as he recognized me. Enough patience. I grabbed the girlfriend by the hair. One hard punch in the face, nose crunching as it broke, a spray of blood rushing from her nose. Another punch in the stomach. Then exactly 17 stouts with a knife. One of David's kitchen knives, finally enough, just like the one in James' body. Now we were as close to even as we could be. This chick was nowhere near as important to David as James had been to me. They couldn't have had the kind of connection we had shared, but she was everything David had left, and I had to take everything away from him, just like he stole my everything, so that he'd experience the same pain I had before I murdered him.

David's eyes are wide with shock, panic, fear. He's crying, moaning uselessly against his gag as life runs out of his girlfriend's body. "'Snot is running down his chin. "'Did you think I didn't know?' "'I growled him, "'careful to keep the volume of my voice in check, "'so that the neighbors won't hear. "'Did you think he hid something from me? "'We loved each other.

"'I knew him better than anyone else. "'If this need was a part of him, "'of course I'd accept it. Of course I'd help him. We were partners in life and in everything else. Do you understand? His eyes grew wider in realization. Yeah, you underestimated me.

I'm not some clueless, helpless wife. Did you think you were protecting me? Did you think you were protecting our baby? Did you think James would hurt our baby? He would have killed a million others like your precious bee before he hurt something that was part of me and I would have been right by his side as he did it. 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 All stories told on this podcast can be found at creepypasta

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