Creepy - My Son Was Sent By An Angel

Episode Date: July 15, 2021

Wasn't he?***Written by Visual Dreaming and narrated by Michelle Kane***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.

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. Crupy Presents My son was sent by an angel, written by visual dreaming,

and narrated by Michelle Kane. I was married to young. My mother and father had always been good to me, did as best they could to raise me right, took me to church every Sunday in our little one-room church house. Summertime was when they were, congregation could suss out the truly faithful in our sleepy Georgia town. Our little old church

had any manner of cooling, except opening the windows and setting off the ceiling fans, that one of our generous patrons had seen fit to purchase and hang up for us. And those children who were too old to have an eye turned to dozing off during service found themselves fidgeting, doodling, and counting the wood slats in the ceiling. To fight off the drone of the cicadas in the trees that seemed almost a particular sort of lullaby. I accounted myself as one of the faithful. I sang those old hymns with all my heart, soaked in every word the preacher spoke as though it were manna from heaven. And when the time came, I was old enough, I asked the Lord into my heart and was baptized in the river that very day. I was one of the faithful. Of course, I had my moments of

carousing and running amok with the other kids in my teenage years. I don't reckon there's any teenagers who don't get into some manner of shenanigans, but I was faithful. Whilst others were sneaking off with their mama's wine and canoodling in the back of their daddy's old pickup, I occupied my time working in the gardens and learning to paint the beauty of God's good earth. I would sing those old hymns,

long after the pianist in our church had passed on, to be with the Lord, and the preacher had made his way to a biggest city a couple states over. As happens with all young girls, I eventually took a shine to a boy, one who was a few years my senior. He caught my eye the summer I turned 16, and I caught his. He had just graduated, but not many chose to leave our little town. It was a simple fact. And as it happened, over the summer I turned 16, Thomas and I began to spend time together. And as it happened, fell in love with one another through quiet talks with our toes in the creek

and traips them through the fields at dusk, sneaking a kiss amongst the fireflies. And as it happened, the summer I turned 17, Thomas asked my father's permission to ask my hand in marriage. Looking back, I can see the unease in my daddy's eyes in the weeks that followed. I could sense attention in my mom. Mama smile as I was caught up in the euphoric whirlwind of putting together my wedding.

I was too young. Another simple fact. I almost wish they'd spoken their mind, told me their guts weren't telling them anything good was to come. They loved me something fierce, though, and so they bit their tongues and prayed, prayed that the God to who I'd been so faithful would in turn be faithful to me. In the scheme of things, it didn't take long for things to take a downward turn. Thomas and I had been married about a year or so when he'd taken up a job in a city not too far from our hometown. He'd had no choice, you see, as there weren't many prospects nearby,

and, sweetheart, this house ain't paying for itself, nor are the taxes on our land gonna stop coming. And I trusted him to be faithful. He'd never done me wrong, and he certainly wasn't going to start doing me wrong now. Months trudged on, and my feelings of loneliness grew. He worked near an hour's drive out of town. Some days, at the week's end, he opted to stay overnight in the city, as he was simply too weary after a week's work to make the drive home that particular night.

My heart ached for him, working so hard while I stayed home, helping tend my family's crops. It just didn't seem right. All the burden of our finances laid on his shoulders. I eventually suggested that perhaps I ought to join him in the city, carry my fair share of the weight and responsibilities. Thomas rejected the notion immediately. My place was here, helping my family, making a home. As his wife, it was certainly not my place to argue, and so I obeyed. I dutifully worked the land side by side with my mama and daddy. They kept me company and kept my mind off those little thoughts that would come across my mind in the late hours of the nights that Thomas didn't come home. We had drifted apart. What was he doing in the city? Why were the nights he didn't come home becoming more frequent?

Why doesn't he love me like he used to? What if we had a baby? What if I gave him a baby? Certainly I was aware of the added stress of having a little one, but I was home already anyhow. And certainly I was aware that Thomas wasn't too often interested in love-making these days, but ever so often. And so my troubled thoughts became daydreams of little toes and pattering feet

and squeals of laughter and of loving and being loved. I didn't share my dreams of motherhood with Thomas. I think something in me already knew that he was not much invested in our marriage anymore. But I still dreamed. And then one night, I dreamed. I was barefoot on a cobblestone street, my white nightgown being gently tugged to and fro

by a breeze that came from everywhere and nowhere at once. I could hear a resonant humming in the distance. I looked around and found myself square in the middle of two intersecting streets, and a lamp shone its light, completely commonplace but brighter than it ought have been, and I thought nothing of it. We all know that dreams have a way of making the mundane things magical. No sooner had I taken in my surroundings than the lamp began to shine brighter than before. A piercing blue white light from which I looked away on instinct.

I was not afraid. I'd read stories of angels in the Bible, and I knew that they often showed themselves in such a manner. When it spoke, its voice had no real sound, almost as though it spoke right into my heart and mind. When it spoke, it sent waves of joy crashing over me, and though I thought I'd known euphoria before, it paled before what I had now.

The angel told me, that the Lord had heard my prayers, that he had seen my loneliness and turned his ear to my cries. The angel told me that I would conceive a child, that this was his gift. I would never again be lonely or have caused to fear.

My faithfulness was being repaid. As the angel departed, the resonance that had been in the distance before began to mount, building layer on layer of tones and intricate melody that overtook me and reached into the very center of my being, like an embrace, like a kiss.

When morning came, I woke, and at that time the memory of the dream was a fog. It was evaporating like early morning mist on a pasture at sunrise. Thomas was beside me for what seemed like the first time in such a long time. I turned and placed my feet, on the wood floor, smooth with age and wear, quietly as I could, to go make coffee and start

breakfast for my husband. Unexpectedly, I felt his arm wrapped me around the waist and pulled me back into bed. I did not realize how much I had missed his touch, his affection until that moment. When had we last made love? When had he last held me? Told me he loved me. In that moment, everything melted away, my loneliness, sorrow and weariness, along with the dream I'd just woken from. It should come as no surprise, given the nature of what I've shared so far, that I felt pregnant after that morning. Thomas retreated to the distant place in his heart that he'd been dwelling in for so long, and soon after I discovered my pregnancy. I hadn't quite remembered the visitation of the angel.

The memory was just out of sight. I could sense it, but not quite catch hold of it. My mama and father were appropriately happy for me, though I can again see their concern looking back. Thomas feigned excitement as best he could. I think I'd come to terms with his indifference toward me by then. I chose to pour myself into this new life. inside me. My son was born through an easy pregnancy and delivery. He was perfect. He had curly

wisps of white hair that looked like snow flurries, and even as a newborn, I could see that his eyes were a deep sapphire blue. He was perfect, down to the tiny birthmark right in the middle of his forehead. He was perfect, and he was mine. I named him Caleb. He was, he was. He was, as parents will say, an easy baby. He cried only went hungry, and his cries were even mild-mannered. I tended to him with my whole heart. And when his ancient seeming ocean eyes looked into mine, I knew that I was living out my true purpose. His daddy was wrong. My place had not to do with making a home or tending a field. My place was with Caleb. In 2008, when Caleb had just turned to too, the Great Recession struck the country, reaching even into our remote little town.

My daddy had fallen ill and passed away, about a year prior, leaving me and my mama to tend the land in our homes. We did our best to hold our heads high and keep the weight of our burdens off our faces, hoping that little Caleb would be able to have some manner of joyful childhood. He played out in the dirt in the garden, often laughing, but usually quiet. I knew by then there was something special about my boy. Whenever he was out, I nearly always spotted jays and magpies nearby, picking in the dirt and flittering about. Our home came to be known by local children as a menagerie of sorts. The little ones could always spot bright-colored butterflies and birds when Caleb was out,

and his gentleness seemed to draw more of them to keep him company. A little while after Caleb turned three, we were out for a walk, through the main parts of town. I'd saved a little money to surprise him with the small toy from the corner market, and his daddy hadn't been home in a couple days. So I took the chance to get out and try to take my mind off things. As we were leaving the store, Martha, a friend of my mamas, was out walking with her dog, having just left the post office. I'd not seen her in some time and didn't recognize her little dog, so as I greeted her, I knelt down to say hello to her dog as well. I didn't anticipate getting bit, as I never had any kind of encounter with the mean animal before,

especially not since Caleb was born. But bit is what I got. The animal snarled and snapped at me in a flurry of wery furrowing teeth, and as I yelped and pulled my hand back, instinctively reaching to put myself between Caleb and the animal, I realized that he wasn't at my side anymore. In the span of just a second, he put himself, between me and the dog.

And after another second, I realized that the dog was just frozen, staring at Caleb. And Caleb was staring back. His face placid, but I felt something. It felt the way

one of those singing bowls sounded, building in my chest, stirring and tugging at something inside, like a memory that had been long forgotten. I grabbed Caleb up and held him on my hip. Martha apologizing over and again, as I told her it was fine. Of course I'm all right. I know how dogs can be with strangers, and I'm just glad Caleb didn't get bit. As we walked back to the car to head home for lunch, Caleb's eyes never left that dog,

and I could hear its owner trying to coax it gently at first, but with increase in sternness to come along. We never did see that dog again. A few weeks later, news got round to me that Martha's little dog must have gotten out, and been got by some coyotes or Big Al or something of the like. The poor animal had been found in pieces strewn about, just off Martha's property line. I showed appropriate sympathy, but it felt ever so slightly vindicated. The darn thing was a nuisance at any rate, and I thought no more of it. Years passed, and my mama passed on and joined my daddy with the Lord.

And so it fell to Thomas and me to deal appropriately with their estate. He insisted that keeping up the farm was too much, though my mother and father hadn't had all that much land, really, and that it was time to sell the property, and so we did. Caleb grew, still quiet, still gentle and kind, pale hair, still soft ringlets around his face, eyes still deep and older than they ought to be. His interest had moved from playing in the dirt to woodworking,

and our home always pleasantly smelled of warm wooden sawdust. He often brought me his creations, little dolls or birdhouses, and as he got older, more practical things. He never talked too terribly much, but he showed his love and his way. I performed my duties as a wife faithfully, even when Caleb's daddy started stinking a whiskey, even when he stopped making any effort to hide his affairs in the city. I kept on because I was faithful.

And my only concern was giving Caleb a safe, happy childhood. Of course, it was an embarrassment. Our town was small and word spread like wildfire in high winds that Thomas had become a drunken adulterer, and the city had corrupted his moral fiber to the core. The church did what they could to be kind and supportive of Caleb and me, bringing out a casserole here, sending a fruit basket with homemade jam

and a nice letter there. The few women I was friends with would occasionally come out with their children and sit and chat with me in the shade of our birch tree. I knew they came to do their duty as church-going women to check in on me, but not speak of my husband's infidelity. As that simply was not done

for the sake of spare in all parties the discomfort, Caleb and I were content enough anyhow. Not long before Caleb's 15th birthday, I woke one night to a commotion in my front room. With that almost familiar resonance taken up and over my head, bringing me lurching out of bed and onto my feet with speed I did not know I possessed. It was known enough in town and the neighboring counties that I was a woman living alone with her son, who was known to be the oddity of the region, who did not speak much, who was meek and gentle and kept to himself. and so would not be immediately considered a dissuasion for a burglary. We didn't have much, but the growing drug problem in the area was another of those unspoken of

things that everybody knew, but no one addressed. With fluid motion, I reached for the raffle I kept just above the doorframe and stepped into the hallway, hollering for Caleb, announcing that I was armed and ready to shoot. I rounded the corner into my front room, unprepared for what I saw. The front room was chaos. The window had been busted in, glass glittering in the moonlight that poured in unobstructed. Photos of Caleb and me had been strewn across the floor,

frames cracked and splintered. I cocked my rifle and began to shout again, but my words caught in my throat. As I recognized the snow-flurry curls of my son, standing between me and the intruder. He stood frozen, as did the intruder. Caleb's back was to me, and in the darkness I could barely make out who had broken in. But I was able to see the unmistakable look of terror on his face.

The whites of his eyes were wide and wild, and though he was unmoving, his body looked as though he had been in the process of reaching. Moving something. I was certain I could smell urine, like the would-be burglar had relieved himself. Caleb remained still and spoke only one word. Go. Eyes still wide with terror, the intruder turned and left our home. His movements jerky, almost puppet-like.

Caleb kept his eyes on the man till he was out of view. Then turned to me and wrapped his arms around my waist. where there should have been panic, adrenaline, something. I felt only quiet peace. Together we set about cleaning up the mess that was around us. I was certain that Thomas would not be happy about the window that needed replacing, but that was a concern for another time. Lord only knew when he'd be home again anyhow.

As we finished cleaning up and I got Kayla back to bed, I set a kettle of water on to boil to make myself a cup of tea, reflecting on what I just witnessed. Some part of my mind noted that there was something that was significant and familiar. Like a melody building on itself, but it slipped away. It was late. I was tired. I took the kettle off the stove and went back to bed, forgoing my tea. The next morning, Caleb and I went to town to look to have our window-pair. replaced. The town was

abuzz, with folks murmuring amongst themselves. My friend Caroline spotted me and waved us over, asking if we'd heard what happened the town over. She told us in hushed tones that one of the deviant boys, one who'd taken a path of darkness and debauchery,

not much older than her son Avery, Lord above, she was so relieved that it wasn't her son, had been found, hanged in a tree on the outskirts of town. He was well known to have been one such case of a drug-addicted youth, who was known for breaking into cars and bonds for things he could sell a couple counties over to get his fix. It wasn't just that he'd been found hanged that was causing such a fuss in town. He was found high up in a birch tree that had been stripped of every branch,

except the one he was hung from. Every branch and twig and leaf was directly beneath. the tree, and his wrists were bound to rope where it encircled his neck. Arms bent backward at a viciously unnatural angle. His eyes frozen wide in fear. My blood ran cold. And looking at Caleb, who took this information with his usual passive, placid demeanor, I knew that this was the same person that had broken into our home the night prior.

Somehow I knew that Caleb had seen. something to do with his death. I remarked at the tragic nature of the occurrence that I'd pray for the poor soul and his family and decided that perhaps that day was not the day to look at window paints. As we made our way back home, I felt like pieces of puzzle were falling into place.

I looked at Caleb in the mirror, who looked back with his eyes that whispered the secrets of ages that were full of love for me. I remembered the resonance, the melody, a distant memory of cobblestone streets and blue light. We pulled up to our house to find that Thomas was home. It was just shy of noon on an overcast Saturday, and he was already half drunk.

He leered with contempt at my boy and me, turning his head and spitting at the splinters of broken glass that were still on the porch outside. He didn't say anything. and he turned on his heel to go pour himself another drink. I set myself to making lunch, believing that as with most any other time, if I left Thomas alone,

he'd be content to watch television and maybe even fall asleep in his chair. Instead, he sauntered into the kitchen, fumes of his liquor rolling off him. Eyes bloodshot in the way that told me he'd not slept the night before, an air of animosity and danger coming off him. It was something entirely new. Disregard and resentment, I was used to, but he felt almost predatory,

every bit like a mountain lion stalking its prey. I asked what he wanted, more curt than I was used to hearing myself speak, certainly more forward a question than my husband was used to receiving from me. He eyed me up and down, and the hair on my neck stood up. I took a step back and knew I was cornered. His mistress had left him, you see. He was a man and had needs, you know. He'd been more than a decade since he'd had me last.

He reached and caressed my face, tucking my hair behind my ear, and I shuddered. His brow furrowed and his face darkened, and I closed my eyes and braced for a horror that I'd only heard rumors of. But it didn't come. A few seconds passed, and I opened my eyes to see Thomas, frozen in place. Hands still raised, eyes wide. I looked over his shoulder and saw Caleb in the doorway, staring intently at him,

and felt that now familiar tone building and harmonizing within itself, reverberating in my chest and in my head. And then I remembered. I remembered the angel, the cobblestone streets, the wind, and the promise. The promise that I would never be lonely, that I would be protected. I looked into Caleb's eyes and without words acknowledged what was about to happen. Caleb spoke only the word, sit, to his father, and sit he did. His motions unnatural as had been those I'd seen the night before.

He moved almost mechanically toward the front room and sat in his chair. I know that tonight, after Caleb and I are asleep, my husband will go missing. I don't rightly know how or where, or if they'll find his body or when. But I know that he'll be gone. I know that my son will make sure that it's not ever thought to be our doing. as it certainly is not. I know that we will be okay, my son and I. He is my gift, my promise,

my proof that God will repay faithfulness. My evidence that oftentimes the answers to our prayers coming away that we don't quite expect. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, please visit creepypod.com. If you'd like to submit a story for consideration or recommend a story, please see our submission page at creepypod.com slash submissions. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative comments,

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