Creepy - Nearby

Episode Date: June 25, 2018

When neighbors go hunting for the source of the bump in the night, they face something beyond what they are able to handle...***Written by Michael Whitehouse (CC-by-NC)To hear more from Michael himself, check out his podcast Ghastlytales.libsyn.com and YouTube.com/ghastlytales  ***Subscribe to us on YouTube for your chance to win an X1S microphone or podcast shirts! https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCQ3SrH_3fsROXFAjomKcUtw***Please consider supporting the podcast at Patreon.com/Creepypod or creepypod.com/support***Produced by Steve Blizin, Puzzle Audio***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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Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications. for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. Nearby.

Written by Michael Whitehouse. Well, it's known by some that I have a keen interest in the uncanny, seeking it out on occasion. Nevertheless, it proved a decidedly unsettling unsettling experience to find such a strange event taking place just a few feet from my front door. The street that I lived on at the time was like any other. Not an affluent place, nor one mired in poverty. A mix of kind, selfish, and empathetic neighbors. Some taking interest in those around

them, others not. There's a relatively quiet area, but I had a fondness for it. As the large birch trees, which occasionally drooped over the hedges and fences from both cared for and neglected lawns, reminded me of my childhood. Despite being just a few minutes from a busy motorway, only the occasional car came plotting through to disturb the peace, joined at times by sporadic domestic arguments which resonated from house to house, unhindered by the quiet. And so children played outside in the summer sun, some more pleasantly than other. I would have to describe the street from top to bottom as

quite, quite ordinary. I'm sure you can imagine then how shocked I was to find what I did surrounded by the mundane. I should correct myself here. It was not what I found, but rather what my neighbor initially discovered. His name was Bill, and he moved into the house next door only a few months previous.

Nevertheless, in that short time, we had grown to be from friends. Neighborhood barbecues, Friday nights at the local pub. A shared fondness for classic films. We got on well. One Saturday night, I invited Bill over for a game of cards with a few of my colleagues. I've never been particularly brilliant at poker. But I've always enjoyed the well-intended banter produced when placing bets against the good crowd. That night, night that night that,

their luck nor skill was on my side and I found myself out of the game fairly quickly. So I sat back, had a few drinks, and just enjoyed the good nature ribbing. The night flew in, and before long the first suggestion of daylight whispered across the sky. Everyone else had drunkenly stumbled home by a then with the exception of Bill. So both of us sat in my living room having a few more beers, something I was sure to regret in the morning, and talked about our favorite. Alfred Hitchcock films, particularly what we thought he would be making today if he were still alive. Suddenly a change occurred in Bill's expression.

His eyes focused intently on a bookshelf which stood behind me, and for a moment there was silence, until I asked him if he was feeling okay. I assumed, of course, that he had perhaps drank a little too much. But the quiet spoke of more than simply an oncoming hangover. After a pause of contemplation, he altered the focus of our discussion inquiring about my interests and hobbies. Glancing over my shoulder to the books, which seemed to be the catalyst of this change, the oncoming topic was now revealed to me. I laughed at the observation, knowing full well that some would mock me.

But when I told him that much of my book collection pertained to the study of the paranormal and the bazaar, his disposition changed markedly once more from one of casual, conversation to embarrassment. And still, he proceeded. You see, Bill believed that there was something living in his house. What that something was you could not entirely be sure of, but nonetheless, it was there, physical, and manifest, though there was a suggestion that it may not rely upon a purely conventional explanation.

From the very first night which he had spent there, he had experienced a variety of unsettling phenomena. Initially, it was nothing more than a faint knocking sound which seemed muffled but nearby. However, he could not determine the origin, where its source was indistinct. Indeed, at times the sound traveled as if moving, even sliding through the walls, under floorboards, and creeping around in the hollow of the attic above. The unusual noises continued for many weeks, and to Bill it felt as though, with the passage of time, they were increasing in intensity. Frustrated by lack of sleep, where the sounds became faint or ceased altogether during the day, he concluded that the house must have become infested by a mass of nocturnal rodents,

scratching between wood and sliding their fouled bodies between any gaps in the house's construction which they could find. Of course, his first approach was to lay down traps to catch them. But while the thought of their fur blackened with dirt and feces, their hairless claws and coiled tails crawling over his face while he slept provoked disgust, he hoped to avoid blood on his hands. For Bill was a kind-hearted individual. At first he procured a large number of humane traps, which would entice the little pests into a metallic tube with bait, holding them there during the night to be released in the nearby field the next day alive and well. At least that was the plan. A little research online revealed that chocolate was a favorite of most rodents

and an exceptionally effective lure. So he bought a substantial amount from a local news agent, with the owner jokingly asking Bill if he were setting up his own shop. A garage clung to the side of the house, cluttered with boxes and loose belongings which he had yet to sort through and he considered it the prime means of entry for any mice into his property

but on placing the traps around the damp corners of the interior trying to avoid getting hit on the head by some of his tools which hung from the ceiling he found no trace of unwelcome visitors no droppings no scratch marks in fact there was no evidence of anything living there at all It seemed odd to him that he saw not one single spider or insect since it was clearly a place where both would thrive, and the garage itself had seen better days, with several small holes in the wall along easy entry to unwanted vermin.

Once back inside, he placed the rest of the traps, baiting them carefully with the chocolate around the house, under the bath, in the kitchen, and even in his bedroom. after an hour or so he felt confident that he would verify what type of animal was causing on the noise by morning. Yet that night, the knocking came, faintly at first and then more pronounced, traveling through unseen spaces and amongst hidden cavities. Lying there awake for several hours, sleep was a struggle as he tried to block out the banging, scratching, and moving sounds from which the very structure of his home seemed to pulsate and shudder as if alive. and his sleep finally took him.

His last conscious thoughts of the night were for a hopeful catch in the morning. Before going to work the following day, each trap was checked carefully. Dejected, Bill found that none within the house had been touched. Each metallic tube was still housing a slab of chocolate. But those in the garage were a different proposition. They were not only empty of bait, but two of them had been broken open. The metal container cracked and bent as if crushed under a substantial weight. All day of work Bill contemplated the force required to break those traps.

He concluded that he must surely be dealing with something bigger than he had hoped, perhaps an infestation of rats rather than some local wood mice. While he did not wish any animal harm, he shuddered at the thought of something larger writhing around his house while he slept. Knowing that he might have to concede defeat and call in pest control to poison the creatures, he stopped by a hardware store for one last attempt of his own. That night Bill lay in the darkness as the shuffling and knocking sounds continued once more, hoping that the two large metallic rat-cage traps he abated in the garage would produce a catch,

but all was not well. For in the morning he pulled open the garage door, climbed over some junk towards the rear wall, and found both cages torn apart. The thick metal, which should have contained even the most powerful of rodent, bent backwards with the chocolate inside removed. The thought began to cross his mind. What was living in his house? Reluctantly, Bill conceded, placing an abrupt call to a local pest control company.

Within hours, three men pulled up a house. outside in a white van, sporting a vulgar and distasteful depiction of a dead rat on its side. They efficiently baited the entire house with traps and poison, and before long we're almost ready to leave. One of the men, a slightly overweight individual with a clear loathing for his job, looked at the rat cages billed at placed the day before, inquiring as to whether he lived alone, quite clearly implying that he held doubts that an animal could have broken open the traps by themselves. The implication was not welcomed. Several weeks passed and the traps continued to be torn apart recklessly and with apparent brute force.

Chocolate missing, but the poison inside, designed to be irresistible to rats, would remain untouched. Something which puzzled the pest control workers. Indeed, after a series of games, destroyed traps, they accused Bill himself of breaking their equipment. This ended in a shouting match outside, with the men retrieving their broken rat cages and expecting Bill to pay for the damages. A few of the nosier neighbors popped their heads out of their windows to see what the disturbance was outside, as a men packed their belongings back into their van.

Even the children ceased playing in the sun for a moment, staring at Bill and the others as they argued in the street. While he was a little relieved and no animal had been killed, he was disturbed by the obvious presence of something even pest control could not deal with, living in his house.

Each night when he went to bed, the noises would continue, and when Bill himself replaced any traps, the chocolate once more would be removed, and the rat cages left in tatters. The strange knocking occurred as it always had done, at the end of each day his sleep approach, week after week, moving and shuffling between walls

and under floorboards. Yet one night a change took place. As Bill lay there in the bedroom bathed in darkness, a strange atmosphere began to pervade the house, slighted first, then more apparent. Each breath filled with a tangible consistency. In the preceding weeks he had learned to block the sound out. to a degree, and at least attain a sleeping pattern of sorts. But on that night, a change of routine had been forced upon him,

one which provoked an uncomfortable sensation, not unlike the stifling air before a storm. He waited, for what he knew not, yet anxious anticipation of something in the dark course through his veins. Then the noises appeared as usual, scratching, moving. tunneling. But now they were no longer hindered by plaster, nor wood, nor brick. Each thump, every bang was no longer tall, no longer distant or removed. Change had come. For now the knocks and scratches in the night gave the impression of something quite free, unshackled, and unimpeded.

At first, the thumping sounds rattled around in the living room across the hallway. Then an occasional and intermittent high-pitched squeal accompanied by loud thudding on the walls slowly progressed throughout the house. The sound grew loud and brash as it approached Bill's room, and while part of him desired to see what had been causing him so many sleepless nights, the thought of something there which had the force to tear apart a metal cage was not something to be taken lightly. The knocking now rose to a fierce boom, growing ever closer to where it. he lay. As it crashed against the walls in the hallway, a picture frame fell to the ground,

smashing into pieces on the floor while the alarm clock shuddered across a nearby nightstand threatening to follow suit. The thumping, scratching, and high-pitched shrill grew so loud, so violent that he imagined the vibrations from it shaking the bed in which he lay. He clutched his ears in pain as the noise swelled upward into a cacophony of gratuitous and enraged strikes against the very structure of his new home, piercing his eardrums. Then just as it reached the bedroom door, Bill grabbed a nearby lamp for protection against what would soon be upon him. The noises ceased.

No knocking. No scratching. No high-pitched squeak. Nothing. Yet the silence was not welcome, nor was it empty. He gasped loudly as a shadow fell from outside, moving quietly in the hall, blocking the light which crept under the door onto the bedroom floor. Lying there in the throes of terror, he stared at the door, waiting for it to burst open at any moment, revealing something hideous on the other side. The floorboards in the hallway creaked slightly as something substantial shifted its weight.

Bill gripped his bedside lamp, ready to hurl it at whatever waited nearby. A familiar noise then sounded. Quiet, yet suggestive of a movement. And will it cannot be certain of what it was, his mind interpreted the noise as something gliding slowly back and forward over the wooden surface of the door. Feeling, sensing, touching. perhaps even looking. The handle on the door juttered briefly as something pawed at it from the other side.

Then just as abruptly as it appeared, the intruder moved back down the hall away from the bedroom, towards the front door. A repetitive squeak sounding as it did so. Yes, Bill was terrified. But possessed by curiosity, he hoped he could sneak a glance. of what now sat at the end of the hallway. At least it was now a distance from his bedroom door by then. And if he had to react quickly, he could leap back into his room and block the entrance with a dresser or wardrobe nearby, barricading himself inside.

Creeping towards the door, Bill took a deep breath in and then slowly opened it, letting the light flood towards him, careful not to make a sound. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light. but as they did so he saw something large moving at the end of the hallway. It was indistinct. But although he saw it only for a moment he was certain that someone, something, had turned at the front door, just out of sight, disappearing into the bathroom. Silence once more.

And with each pocket of nothing, the hairs rose up on the back of his neck one by one. Then suddenly, a quick succession. of loud bangs escaped from the bathroom. Fight, feathered flight, took over and without any hesitation or thought he rushed down the hallway, past the open bathroom door, with a swift turn of a key he was outside, running at speed from his home. Standing in the middle of his street on a cool summer night, fear was quickly replaced by embarrassment as he looked down at the pajamas he was wearing, which had seen better days,

nodding an acknowledgement towards a group of twenty-somethings leaving a party nearby. All he could think to say was, a bit brisk, isn't it? Bill apparently knocked down my door that night to ask for assistance, but unfortunately I was out of town and only returned in time for a poker game the following evening. Another of my neighbors, an awkward man by the name of Harold, whom owed Bill a favor for him helping fix his car a few weeks earlier,

agreed in sleepy and grumping fashion to help search the house. Of course, nothing was found except for the smashed picture frame, which led to Harold regarding Bill with suspicion, voicing his opinion that the entire fiasco was a waste of time. And so, that was his account of the troubling experience he had the previous night. He seemed relieved to have spoken of it. And now it made sense to me why he was so reluctant to leave for his own house next door. I sympathized with my friend and told him that we would tackle this problem together.

I confessed that the thought of identifying the animal of solving the mystery, appealed greatly to me. In the meantime, I offered him the spare room and hoped he would get a good rest for the day's work ahead, one which I did not relish facing with a hangover. and so after drinking what felt like several gallons of water, I turned in for the night. The next day, after we both shook off the previous night's excess

with a large cooked breakfast, we went over Bill's account once more. I was relishing my task as makeshift detective, hoping that there might be a clue as to the creature's identity that we had overlooked. But when I saw the toll to the events had taken on my friend, I became resolute in my desire to provide a solution to the puzzle. Well, he said that he felt rested. It was clear that Bill was worried about his home,

wondering if it was badly infested with something a little more exotic than a colony of rats. But most of all, there was a fear in his eyes. An unspoken and anxious contemplation etched in his face. The thought of spending another night in that house provoked revulsion within him. Trying my best to relieve his concerns, I set out in front of him a plan of action. One which I was confident could solve the mystery once and for all. We would carry out a vigil in the house overnight, however, preparations had to be made. First of all, we contacted the estate agent that had sold the property to bill.

Our task was to contact previous tenants, of which I remembered at least three others, and inquire as to whether they had experienced any strange phenomena or animal infestation. I did not wish to alarm, my friend, but since I had moved into the street, the realization came to me that most had lived in that house only a few months at a time. This had never particularly affected me as I did not know any of them very well. But the question of why they left so quickly did now enter my mind, while we were waiting to hear back from previous tenants, We sat about preparing the house for the night, using what we already knew about the phenomenon to track, identify, and trap it. First, it had already been established that whatever was smashing the traps open was interested

solely in the chocolate, having left the poison behind. So we used this as bait. Second, most of the physical evidence for something living in the house had been in the garage. With this in mind, we emptied all of its contents. tents, placing the boxes, furniture, and other assorted items in one of Bill's spare rooms. Third, with permission, I covered the floor of the house in flower, hoping to catch an impression of the intruder, sealing each door shut with masking taped to help identify which room the disturbance originated in. Lastly, we purchased some fishing wire that I used to create a snare trap

in the garage. It was attached to a wide basin weighted down with a concrete slab on the floor. Inside the noose of wire I placed a large pile of chocolate, angling the snare so that if a substantial animal attempted to eat it, the wire would tighten around its body or an appendage, trapping it in the process. Next to this we placed a large cat cage which we would use to store the animal safely after cutting it free from the snare. We closed the garage door and then sat outside, chatting quietly in the summer night over a couple of beers. Waiting. The local children reluctantly trundled back to their homes to sleep for school the next day. And as time passed and the sky's blackened, occasional neighbor would look out their window,

wondering what we were doing sitting in the garden that late at night. During the week. Some of them, obviously annoyed. Others merely curious. It was actually fun. And as we talked and laughed about anything and everything, torches in hand. I was glad to see the tension slowly fade from Bill's shoulders. There we sat, until after two in the morning, at which juncture we decided to take turns

listening so the other could get some sleep. It was around two hours later, during Bill's watch, that I awoke to an almighty crashing sound, and I was both startled and disturbed me. For while I knew it was brought about by my snare trap inside the garage, I shuddered for a moment. certain that I heard a cry, a wild shriek accompanying the crash. Quickly I leapt to my feet as Bill stared across at me and I at him. It was quite clear that we were both unsure about opening the garage door. Such a violent, unsettling noise echoing out from within. Just what we would find we did not know.

After a pause, in the last fleeting remnants of Dutch, courage. We both grabbed the door and slid it upward to reveal what was inside. Our hesitation had cost us. The chocolate was gone. The snare wire broken. And the rocks which had waded down cast around the room in haphazard fashion. Yet Bill believed that he had seen something which I had not. A panel on the rear wall moving slightly. He swore it was not his imagination. It was certain that something was behind it. We approached the back of the garage cautiously and found that the panel was indeed loose. The bottom of it was not fastened, and I instantly remarked that a nimble rodent could easily slip under,

disappearing into the structure of the garage, and possibly even into the house. I felt confident that we had at least identified its mode of movement. I could see now the overwhelming sense of anxiety in my friend's experience. expression. And I must admit that I too felt strangely afraid. Nevertheless, we agreed to pull the panel up and look inside. As Bill wrenched it open, I cast the glare of my torch inward. Yet there was no rodent. But there was a cavity which clearly ran along the interior of the wall, and I suspected, eventually into the house. I did not wish to place my hand inside for fear being bitten by what it crawled in there.

Instead, I pressed my ear gently against the wall to listen for any movement. It was subtle, but it was most certainly there. An unseen animal slowly sliding its body along the cavity of the rear wall towards the house. Bill whispered, asking what I could hear. But just as a scuttling sound reached the corner, a loud booming noise thrashed from inside the wall. I fell backwards onto the floor and looked up once again to see our penchant on his face.

The booming continued, followed by scratching noises and further distant knocks and bangs, and a distant sound, one which spread a chill through the air. A door slammed from within. Bill gasped. It's in the house. Grabbing our torches once more, shaking the dread from our minds as best. could we raced out of the garage to the house. Bill's hand shook

as he unlocked the front door. The hall light was on and the ground covered in a white powder as I had left it. Yet there in the flower were a set of distinct tracks. Times paralleled one another.

As if something had slithered over the ground led from the bathroom down the hall and into the lounge. From our vantage point it was clear. fear that the living room door was open. The masking tape seal broken. The house lay eerily quiet. And I'm ashamed to say that we debated for a moment whether we should enter at all. Bill had described the thumping and scratching sounds to me, but I had no idea how

ferocious they were, how anchored, how violent they sounded until I heard them for myself in the garage. and while the house was now silent, the impact of those noises was fresh in my mind. Following several minutes of debate, anxiety, and a few nervous jokes, we decided that we should go in, closing the door behind us to ensure that the animal would not escape simply to reenter the property at a later date. The way I felt cold, although I ascribe this merely to the heating having been off, despite it being a warm summer night, I looked to my right. and could see that the bathroom door was closed, yet the elongated tracks on the floor of the hall appeared to lead away from it.

The door slowly, and peered inside. Flicking the light switch on, the room appeared empty, yet the shower curtain obscured my view of the bath. I sat my torch down in the sink and put my finger to my mouth, intimating that Bill should remain silent, pointing to the shower curtain and revealing my belief. Something was in the bath. My miming must have appeared comical at the time, but Bill nodded in an acknowledgment. I would pull the shower curtain back and he would strike out at what was there with his torch should he need to. Slowly I moved to the side of the curtain, wrapping my hands around its edge.

For a moment I felt something stir in the bath. As a potent sense of dread once again rattled my nerves. Then I tugged the curtain with force, so riding rats festering in the bath, their bodies wriggling around, pulsing in unison. But I saw nothing so dramatic. It appeared that my nerves were getting the better of me. The bath was empty. Suddenly, a wild thawed verberated through the house, but there was no doubt that it had come from the living room.

We exited the bathroom and began to reluctantly move down the hallway. Each step felt like a prison sentence, and I could hear not just my own anxious breath, but the nervousness of Bill's very demeanor. We stepped cautiously down the hallway, careful not to disturb the elongated tracks which slid through the flower on the ground in front of us, hesitating twice at the sound of a creaking floorboard coming from the living room. As we progressed, I could not help but find myself drawn to the front door, glimpsing it over my shoulder. I calmed myself, persuading my own neuroses that paranoia was the cause,

yet still, I felt something was there, obscured from view yet watchful. reaching the lounge door which lay wide open, the taped seals torn into, we peered in, it could see very little. The room was dark, as we left most of the lights off in the house to entice the nocturnal animal out into the open. I cannot speak for Bill at that moment, but as I stood, peering into the darkness of that room, glancing sporadically back towards the doorway. the air felt stifled somehow, and I had to inhale deeper than usual to stem a feeling of anxious breathlessness.

Reaching his hand around the wall, Bill turned the light on and with a sigh of relieved disappointment, saw that their room lay empty. A couch and armchair, table, television, put no creature anywhere to be seen. My eyes once more turned to the end of the hallway. into the front door, and for a brief second, I imagined that an outline of something sat there. Bill entered the living room, yet I stayed transfixed, almost waiting for something to appear. Of course, I recognized this to be nonsense. What I failed to notice was the living room door slowly and quietly closing between us. as I turned my attention back to Bill standing in the room

and the door shut, leaving me in the hallway. While I found the sight a little alarming, doors closed under the pressure of air currents and drafts all the time. But as I touched the handle to enter into the room where my neighbor now stood, Bill let out a terrifying yell. I pushed and pulled and turned the handle of the door. With each effort I was buried, the door itself, feeling jammed somehow.

I called out asking for Bill to respond, but all he could muster was, Something's in here! Get me out! I thrust my shoulder against the door time after time, but it would not give in to my efforts. A chill whispered through the hallway, and I suddenly felt that perhaps I would have been safer on the other side of that door. The light above me flickered twice and then nothing that he could have breathed. I told him to remain calm, that I would go and find something to break the door in with,

which must have jam due to a broken handle, and I was a little unsure of that explanation. He protested, begging me not to leave him locked in that room with whatever he believed was in there with him, but I assured him that I would be gone less than a minute. I joked that he was in a better situation than myself having a torch, and I had idiotically left mine in the bathroom. I tell that my friend was wrecked by fear hoping for nothing else but escape. As I turned to make my way to the front door, a chill blue through the air. Whether imagined or not, I cannot tell.

But as my eyes struggled in vain to penetrate the dark, I became aware that I was no longer alone in the hallway. I could barely see, nor be sure of what I perceived. But the end of the hall facing me. there appeared to be a large black mass crouched in front of the door. I closed my eyes, by breathing erratic, and opened them once more. Yet I could not be sure. There was so little light that there could have been nothing.

Yet every fiber of my being told me that something large lay curled up blocking my exit from the house. Then a scream. Bill pounding and scratching and kicking at the living room door. His yells tore through me. They portrayed utter terror in a man who sounded feral, trapped. I tried to communicate with him, but he cried and shrieked like a child facing nightmares in the dark. My heart raised at the sound of my friend's obvious tear.

Yet I too was now in the grip of fear. I was certain that something was moving down the hallway towards me. It was as if I could almost see it, but not quite. But I could hear something which chilled me to my core. More terrifying and even Bill's lunatic screams. The sound of a living thing shuffling towards me, accompanied by an intermittent, high-pitched noise which almost sounded alive. Closer and closer it drew towards me that black mass.

A shuffle, movement, a creek of the floorboards. I let out a scream and absent. of thought darted across the hallway into another room, slamming the door shut behind me, pushing the dresser against it. Bill's screams intensified, and I felt paralyzed between my own fear and the wish to help him. But as I waited for the black mass in the hallway to follow me, something had opened the living room door and went inside. Then a yell, a scream, followed by the pounding of footsteps, the front of opening and Bill shouting my name from outside, he may have escaped, but I was not alone. Something moved once more in the hallway,

but how it built past it. Yet there was, manifest, shifting its weight, creaking the old floor ports as it did so. Loud thuds, bangs, and scratches now echoed throughout the house, an unseen force rampant and angered. Then a sound, be sure. But to me it was as if something was pushing against the door from the other side. My heart raised. But just as I looked around for a makeshift weapon to defend myself with, a garden chair came hurtling through the window. It was Bill.

He reached out his hand and shouted, commanding me desperately to get out of there. We both staggered away from the house onto the road. And by then several neighbors had joined us, disgruntled at having their sleep disturbed yet fueled by an opportunity for gossip. When they asked what had happened, all we could do was shake our heads and disbelief and be happy to be outside. The night's sky, blam it less above, and the street, solid beneath our feet. The next day we entered the house, along with some of my friends from the poker game a few nights before, safety and numbers.

But for the smashed window, there was a little out of place. I took a few pictures of the long-line tracks on the floor while retrieving my torch from the bathroom and attempted to document each room as best I could. I must admit that I was hesitant to go back inside at first. But the place felt different during the day. Warm.

Even happy. Bill was acutely more reluctant, especially when it came to entering the living room he had been trapped in the night before. He could not bring himself to describe what had happened in detail, but claimed that in the dark he stumbled over something on the floor, falling and dazing himself in the process.

Whether this was true or not, I can never know. Perhaps you could not face what he saw lying there on the ground and needed a rational explanation. A head injury was as good as any. Imagination, concussion, or the unknown. Its origin did not really matter when the experience of, finding a corpse, rotten, discolored, and bloated, lying inexplicably on his living room floor was a memory he would always have to contend with. And it was a memory that Bill was determined

never to add to. He put the house up for sale immediately and went to live with his brother until a new home could be found. I did offer my spare room. They simply laughed and said that sleeping even in the same street as that house was an inconceivable notion to him. I rarely saw him after that. Living next door made Bill a friend, and living further away once more a stranger. Several weeks passed, but that night, both of us trapped in that house remained prevalent in my thoughts and I felt compelled to investigate a little further. A rational explanation could easily be given.

There was one. and it was one I preferred to cling to. But I felt curious about the history of the place. The makeshift detective in me once more went to work. I will not bore you with my methods. But after reading an article in the local newspaper archives about the house, I was led to a retired social worker by the name of Charlotte L, who seemed eager to speak on the subject,

still enraged by the entire episode after all those years. You see, 11 years previous, a man by the name of Thomas Kelly died in that house. He was 73 years old and was a full-time career for his son Joseph, himself in his 40s, who suffered from severe learning difficulties and was wheelchair-bound. They had no other family to help, no friends to rely upon, and as Thomas grew more elderly and frail, the toll of doing everything for his son became a parent, clothing him each day, cleaning him, feeding him, taking him to the twice.

and most importantly stopping him from coming to harm. An unimaginable weight of stress to be placed upon anyone's shoulders. Charlotte was her social worker and did everything she could to make life easier for Mr. Kelly and his son. However, not long after she retired, she discovered that social benefits been severely reduced for the Kelly's due to draconian financial cuts by the government at that time. Instead of a care worker coming in to help her on the house a few tens of the time, a week. They were now left with one solitary visit a month. Disgusted by this news, Charlotte decided to see Thomas and his son to make sure they were handling everything. There was

perhaps not a great deal she could do, but even someone to talk to would make a difference. She just wanted to help, not as a social worker, but as a friend. She was very fond of both of them. Thomas had been dead for weeks. He had died of a heart attack and was found decomposing on the floor. Joseph, with no understanding of death, no concept of phoning for help, simply stayed by his father's side. He was found next to the body, slumped over in his wheelchair. He had died of thirst.

Charlotte had alerted the police when Thomas did not answer the door. She thumped and banged, hoping that they simply did not hear her. But the house lay silent. I was upset by the tragic account. But she spoke fondly of them, of Thomas as a kind and loving father, of Joseph as a sweet boy with a charming nature, and in an unusual way,

as she did so my anxiety about that terrifying night in Bill's house diminished, we placed only by remorse and anger at the thought of a family, forgotten, and lost. We spoke on the phone for almost an hour, and when I told her the strange events which had taken place in the house, she was not surprised. She simply said that wherever one was, the other always stayed nearby. I cannot verify what I saw that night. For in essence, I saw nothing. nor can I vouch for what Bill claimed to have stumbled across in his living room.

It would be simple for me to speak of knocking and scratching, of wheels turning, even occasionally squeaking over the wooden floor. I'm simply not that superstitious and cannot discount a mixture of paranoia, anxiety, and a large rodent crawling across the house at night as an explanation. At times it is certainly a more reasonable one to me. and it is not unusual to find a tragic story attached to a house for all homes are touched by death and indeed all death is tragic

yet the end of that conversation still bothers me to this day the words spoken lodged in my mind enough perhaps to give me doubt of such a cold unimaginative and realistic conclusion When I described the knocking and banging to Charlotte, she simply said, I'm not surprised. Joseph used to thump on the walls if he woke up at night. Thomas will quickly answer with a few knocks of his own from the bedroom through the wall,

letting the boy know his dad was always nearby. That little routine was Joseph's second favorite thing in the world. What was his favorite? I asked. Why, chocolate, of course. 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. Email us.

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