Creepy - New Property

Episode Date: June 10, 2024

Just a job...***Written by: No One of Consequence***Bonus Episode: "Mother of the Year" Written by: Soaring Siren and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Content warning: Suicide/Cyber Bullying***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***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.

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That said, we got some questions about what exactly we would like to improve chances of acceptances. Fair enough. Like in the past, 2,500 words is ideal. But honestly, it just comes down to the story at the end of the day. If we end up with a dozen stories we love around 1,000 words and around 4,000 words, we'll still produce them. First person is also preferred, but not required. However, remember that we do like to do stories told directly from the narrator's point of view as if they were telling the story to a friend or at a bar or a campfire. So be mindful about how much back and forth dialogue you put into the story.

Read it out loud. If it doesn't sound like the way you would tell a story to a friend, it probably isn't what we're looking for on the podcast. And finally, generally speaking, gender neutral is ideal because it allows for easier scheduling. But we are fine with male, female, or neutral. We'll make it work. 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, not simply fabrications, is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents new property

written by known of consequence my GPS completely cuts out when my cell signal dies as I drive through the old rusty gate I've been a bitch to get open since no one had been out here in ages I know shit rolls downhill and being at the bottom sucks but

there's a whole new level of suck I started at the real estate agency three months ago and so far I regret this career choice. Granted, it wasn't my first choice, but how often the first choices work out? Never, in my experience. Since day one, I've been given every shit job there is to do for the agency.

I've run errands, rushed across town to get documents signed, even stayed at houses to the late hours of the evening getting them ready for open houses. This project, however, is not like anything I've done before. My understanding is that some rich guy up north recently kicked the bucket. His entire estate is being divided up among the surviving relatives. The state's massive with several land holdings all over the country. This one's a further south, and no one knew it existed. It makes sense, considering no one's lived here in more than 50 years.

The agency I worked for has been contracted to evaluate the property and assign a dollar value. The first step is to get eyes on it. Everyone else at the agency is busy with various listings, so the boss gave me a camera of excellent quality, a company credit card, and a physical map. I was warned that cell service was spotty at best, but being given an actual map told me it was going to be worse than that. The map has a square marked on it, insisting about 750 acres, according to the estate lawyer.

The old records indicate there's a house on the property somewhere. There's nothing specified about its exact location. There's probably one other reason I was chosen to come out here. Unlike all my coworkers, I own a Jeep. It's the only vehicle among all those at the office that stands a chance of traversing this property. property. There isn't a single truck or four by four aside from mine, which says a lot about my coworkers. The grass is nearly as tall as the hood of my Jeep, and there isn't even a hint of what might have been a road. There are bushes scattered around, clusters of trees here and there,

and a few stand-alones in the immediate area. The trees get considerably denser after several 100 yards. Part of me wants a skirt fence line for as long as I can to get a sense of the property. But if I do that, I'm afraid I'll be out here all damn day before I find anything. I continue forward at a painfully slow pace. I'm hesitant to go more than five miles an hour. Grass is so tall and dense that I can't possibly see if there's an obstacle on the ground in front of me. If anything happens in my Jeep, my boss is going to pay for the day. damages one way or another. It takes nearly five minutes for me to get to the denser trees.

As I approach, I see two large trees standing wide enough apart for two vehicles to sit comfortably between them. In my youth, I used to work for some wealthy landowners that were close by my family's ranch. Few of those places of massive houses set away from their front gate and you strategically place trees to create a driveway. It's not until them directly between the two trees that I see what I was hoping to find. The lack of maintenance makes it hard to see. But I can kind of see what they originally did.

I'm probably the only person at the office that could see it. The other would just see trees, but the spacing tells all. If it wasn't for the trees growing new limbs lower to the ground, I'd have a straight line of sight. Starting about 10 feet up, there's an arching pattern to the thicker tree limbs. Whoever designed the driveway turned the trees on either side of the road to a canopy, creating a covered driveway. Unfortunately, since it's been uninhabited for half a century, nature has blocked the way again.

Unless my desire to be right is making me see something that's not there, the house should be down that way. sadly there is no way in hell my Jeep is going to make it through that hell i'd have trouble getting through that on anything with wheels the only way i can do it is on foot there's no telling how long it'll be before i get to the end parking my jeep between those two trees i grab my backpack and begin the arduous journey through fifty years is a long time for the landscape to reclaim what man designed, and it's not easy to get through. I'm just glad there isn't a lot of underbrush.

If there was, I'd never get through this. These kinds of driveways could be short, or they could go up to 100 yards. It honestly depends on how far the people who put it in place wanted the house to be from the front gate. After 20 minutes, I still haven't made it far enough to see a house. carrying around a full-sized shotgun is making my passage a little difficult, but I was raised to be better safe than sorry.

There's a number of dangerous snakes that attack from the trees as much as there are on the ground. Ducking under low branches, climbing over fallen limbs, there's barely any space it isn't occupied by some sort of obstacle. Within a few minutes I confirmed my earlier suspicion, Under the dead leaves in dirt, I can feel something hard on the ground. Brushing the surface aside, I find hard stones underneath it all. They're old and covered by at least half an inch of earth, but they're flat and laid out in a uniform pattern. This was an old, expensive driveway.

The heat's oppressive, and the air is humid. A horrible combination for anyone that spends more of their time inside than out. I kind of wish my boss has sent one of those others with me just so I could see how badly they'd fare out here. My ranch-style background prepared me for this kind of thing, but even I'm covered in sweat. Propped up against a dead tree leading against a larger still-living one, I break out a bottle of water for my pack. Downing half the contents in one go, I look around. The density of these woods is very intense.

I can't see my Jeep from here at all with as thick as it is. I suddenly feel cut off and isolated. For a moment, I was starting to enjoy this. Being out of the office is nice when you get to take leisurely jaunt through the trees. This stopped being that a while ago. As I continue on, my mind starts to wander. So I'm not even thinking about how isolated I am. With as dense as all this is, is it even worth it for me to trek to the house?

It would take weeks and considerable cost to clear out this driveway. And that's just to get to a house that may or may not be there. If it is still standing, I can't imagine how much it would cost to bring the place up to code. It'd be easier to demolish what's there and rebuild. Does anyone even want to do that? None of my speculation changes what I'm doing out here. Before even a single decision can be made, the land has to be assessed and evaluated. I remind myself once again that I'm simply here to confirm whether there's a structure out here and what else exists on the land.

Seeing the end of this unusable driveway is my goal for the day. Once I'm done here, I can go back to the office, show my boss's pictures. make my suggestions and go from there. Seriously, this is one long-ass driveway. Whoever designed this place really didn't want anyone to be here that didn't belong. Kind of reminds me of my parents. You can't see much of their property from the road because all the trees and vegetation along the fence. Provides a lot of privacy, but makes it a pain in the ass to inspect and maintain the fences.

I should know. used to be one of my primary responsibilities. After what seems like forever, I finally start seeing a break through the dense trees. There's a clearing coming up, and I start picking up the pace. The urge to be out of this claustrophobic density grips me like a vice. I start moving faster than safe. My leg catches on something I don't see and I go tumbling.

I lose my grip on the shotgun and it goes off, thundering in the side. silence. I lay on the ground, looking up into a bright, cloudy sky. I finally made it out of the woods. It's just lucky that I didn't accidentally shoot myself. It happened to an uncle of mine once, but I think you've been drinking on a hunting trip. Rolling over, I finally see the reason I'm here. From the ground, it looms high over me, as tall as the trees. For a two-story structure, it's huge. It was white once upon a time, with columns covering the entire outside that looks like they came from ancient Greece. Dirt covers everything. Vines wrap around the columns and creep up the walls. Nature has tried to reclaim this too, but it looks sturdy. I can't believe it. Not only is it still standing, but it's withstanding the test of time.

It's an old plantation house. I've never seen one in real life. There's a wrap-round porch on both floors that looks like it might go all the way around. Every window I can see looks to be completely intact. Granted, they're caked in dirt, so I can't be sure. Getting to my feet, I find my shotgun popped up against the side of a tree. Thankfully, the barrel is pointing straight up, and a branch of a barrow. Above it took the brunt of the buckshot.

Now I'm glad I came out here by myself. Having someone witnessed my blunder would have not only been embarrassing, but potentially dangerous. Racking in a new shell, I put the safety on and hang the weapon on my shoulder by the sling. I dig the expensive camera from the office out of my backpack and start snapping pictures. There was a pool going on at the office whether there'd be anything left to the structure out here. since I'm the newbie, I wasn't allowed to get in on it. Even standing, this place looks massive. Just from the outside, it looks like each floor of this place is 15 feet tall. I can't even begin to guess what the square footage of the house is, but it looks like the front is about

100 yards wide. I can only imagine how many rooms are inside. The grass around the house isn't nearly as tall as it was at the beginning of the property. I walk around the structure, taking a ton of pictures. The trees don't come within 50 yards of the house, and there are no bushes. Each side of the house has a set of double doors save for one, but none are as large as the front. This place must have been amazing in its prime. Rounding back to the front, I walk up to the porch and stand before the double doors.

Reaching for the dirt and crested knob, I give it a twist and put. Of course it doesn't budge, and I didn't expect it to. Hoping I won't have to break a window to get in, I shove against the door with my shoulder. The door creaks open on old rusty hinges. The inside is bathed in complete darkness. My skin crawls as I imagine all the creatures it could be inside. I immediately wish I'd brought a shotgun with a flashlight on it and purchased some rock salt rounds instead of buckshot. Yeah, I watch too much TV.

But the inside has a major creep factor going on. It's easy to imagine a place like this crawling with ghosts. Turn it on the flash. I take a couple of pictures of the entryway. And the brief flashes only make it creepier. Being into my backpack again, I pull out a flashlight. Turning it on, I sweep it across the floor, noting an unbroken layer at Dubekier.

and no insects any kind. That's a relief at least. If there were animals living in here, I'd see their tracks in the dust. I slowly start investigating the inside, taking enough pictures that I start to get a headache from the flashes. The air is musty and stale, but thankfully I can't smell the distinct musk of animals. Somehow this place seems to be well preserved, despite the dust. The walls are bare any decoration.

There are light fixtures on every wall that look like old sconces. The bulbs in them are just as old as everything else. Not expecting them to work, I flip every light switch I come across. Sure enough, they don't work, which is kind of sad. I'd really like to see the chandeliers in this place light up. The entryway is spacious and holds dual-sweeping staircases that lead opposite sides of the upstairs. but is joined by a balcony running along the backside of the room. There are at least two hallways up there leading to what I assume are bedrooms.

You don't know the stairs look stable. I decided to start with the downstairs first. I find what I assume is a dining room. That's only because it has the largest table I've ever seen in it. You can easily fit five people on each side, making it designed for a dozen. There aren't any chairs, but I suppose the only reason the table is still here is because it would have been a bitch to transport. I wonder why these people abandon the property. Progressing further into the room, I find a counter on the back wall with a large indoor window, but the shutters are closed.

Next to it's a swinging door, and to my surprise, it actually swings open easily. In the center of the room is a large island, and two of the walls are lined with. kitchen counters. There are three doors in this room aside from the one I just came through. One leads to the outside, the only side of the house that didn't have double doors. The door directly next to the longest counter seems to be locked. Logic tells me that this is probably a pantry, while my curiosity has me wanting to open it. If I remember correctly how far the side door had been from the back wall, there's a considerable

space beyond this store. It's not important for my assessment, but for some reason I'm compelled to know what's on the other side of this door. For a brief moment, I consider unslinging my shotgun and blasting the door open, but I don't.

I somehow think my boss, or maybe the property owner, will get upset about me busting up a door, even if it ultimately gets torn down in the end. Seriously, I can't imagine someone's spending the money to restore this place. At the same time, I can't imagine tearing down such a well-preserved plantation house as this. And it would be a shame. Placing all my stuff on the counter, I lay the flashlight so the lights directly on the door.

With both hands on the knob, I twist the round orb and shove with my shoulder. The wood makes a series of creaks as I try to force it open. but it doesn't want to give it up. I'd throw my shoulder into a once, twice, even a third. Normally I'd give up at this point, but my determination seems abnormally charged by this mystery. Giving the door one more hard shove, something finally gives, and I fall into the space beyond.

I land hard on the floor, kicking up a cloud of dust, Taking a sharp breath in, something floods my mouth and throat, causing me to cough up a storm. Oh, God, taste of it reminds me of mildewed grass trapped under piles of cut grass after a rainy week. It's so bad that I gag and throw up. My head is pounding, and I feel like my lungs have been violated. This is worse than the only time I tried to smoke a seat. cigarette in high school. I threw up then too. But even that wasn't this bad. Ugh. It feels like something slithered its way inside me and won't leave no matter how hard

it cough. Yeah, I should have left this damn door alone. Why have my curiosity been so strong for this anyway? After a few minutes, I finally stopped trying to hack up a lung. I eventually pick up the flashlight and look into the pitch black room. As I suspected, it's just a pantry. Granted, it's big enough to make my room growing up seem small. The shelves are bare but could easily hold enough food to feed an army for a month. Aside from the puddle I created, there's something more than dust on the ground. I honestly can't tell what it is, but parts of the crystalline substance kept,

the light. My mind again goes to that spooky TV show I used to watch because I'd swear it looks like the floor is covered in salt and some other stuff. Then again, it's an old pantry, and they likely kept all kinds of spices in here. Feeling like crap and very disappointed, I pick up my stuff and continue my search. Going through the last door, I find myself back out in the hall. It leads to the back of the sweeping staircase and further back into the house. Some of the doors won't open, but I find lots of small rooms. There's no furniture or anything in any of them, so it's hard to tell what they were for. At the back of the house, I come to another door. This one's different from all the others. Instead of swinging, they appear to slide open,

disappearing into the walls. Gripping the handle on one side, I try to slide it open. But the damn thing won't budge. You can't really put your shoulder into this one. So I try the other side. It doesn't move either. This is probably the fourth or fifth door that hasn't wanted to open in this section of the house.

But this one disappoints me. I'm willing to bet there's something really interesting on the other side. Now, after what happened with the pantry, I haven't wanted to force any other doors. Checking the camera's memory, I see I've only taken up a fraction of the memory card space, even though I've taken nearly 200 pictures.

I loop around to the other side of the house and find another extremely large room. Wood floor in here seems oddly well preserved, and once I brush some of the dust out of the way with my shoe, I find the floor still has a bit of shine to it. I think this was a ballroom. Back in the entryway, I moved to the right staircase. Given the first few steps of test, I press hard on the stairs, listening for any cracks.

It makes some noise, but not anything that makes me think it's going to collapse with me on it. I want more than anything to grab onto the railing as I climb, but the amount of dust keeps me from doing it. so. Still, I take each step very slowly all the way to the top. Halfway up the stairs, I feel a scratch at the back of my throat and start coughing again. The taste comes back to me, but it's worse this time. I don't outright throw up again, but I do end up spitting a lot of flam out. I'm probably going to have to go to the doctor after this. Maybe they can do something to clear this shit out of my lungs, making me feel weird, like my head is filled with fuzz.

Still, I continue on. The landing at the top creaks a little under my feet, but again, not so loud as to make me think the floor is going to give out on me. It amazes me that there's no evidence of water leaks from the roof or around any of the windows. They didn't really knew how to build a house in the old days. Makes me wish modern builders were held up to the same standard. However, if they were, houses would probably be a hell of a lot more expensive. They're plenty of expensive as it is. Even my crappy apartment costs more than I'd like for the low quality.

The rooms up here are as bare as the ones below, but they're much bigger. Each one is a walk-in closet that could hold a king-sized bed. I'd love to have a closet like this, even though I don't want enough clothes to fill it. There must be a dozen large bedrooms up here, and I haven't come across the master bedroom yet. Unless there isn't one, and they're all the same. That doesn't seem right. I once again find myself in the back right corner of the house, standing in front of yet another unusual door. It's only a single.

This one seems to slide into the wall. wall too. I find this very odd, but go ahead and grip the handle. I put a lot of strength into my pull to slide it open. A little too much. The door slides open rather easily and I jammed my hand between the wall and the handle. I shake my hand out trying to dispel the pain radiating from it. Flexing the digits, I find that they all move. I'll have a bruise, but thankfully nothing's broken. That would make getting back out of here a lot harder considering the state of the driveway. Shining the light into the room, I'm overwhelmed with confusion as I try to understand what I'm seeing. There's a railing inside the room, maybe three feet wide. But on the other side of it,

it's an open space. There's no floor beyond the rail. My overactive imagination immediately tells me that this room holds the mouth of a bottomless pit. But I shut that down quickly. I'm too old to think something that asinine. Stepping inside, I see this room is similar to the entryway. An open space between the ground floor and roof. Sweeping the light around the vast room, I notice the walls don't look right either. It takes turning to the walls on either side of the door I came through to understand.

The walls are nothing. nothing more than elaborately carved wood panels and shelves. Shelds and shelves as far as the eye can see. On the other side of the room, clear across the open space is a tightly wound spiral staircase. It's made a metal and looks like you would clank while someone walks down it. In fact, thinking that makes me remember a scene from a Harrison Ford movie. When he was an archaeologist looking for his father, he climbed to a seat. similar staircase and found that giant X on the floor. It's a freaking library.

Looking down to the ground floor, I can see an old chair with a small table next to it. As far as I can tell, all the shelves are empty. But that small table looks like it might have something on it. Slowly I make my way round to the walkway, dating several pictures. Even though there's plenty of space for it, this room doesn't have a chandelier. Once I get to the spiral staircase, I give it a hard rattle. The metal does make some noise, but like the rest of the house, it seems stable. This time I do grip the railing despite the dust and slowly descend.

My nerves are as rattled as the steps are, and I find myself coughing again. But I make it down to the floor without incident. Snapping more pictures, I move to the chair and give it a test too. I'm surprised to find it in such good condition, and even dare to take a seat. It creaks as much as the stairs at the front of the house did, and like them, the chair holds steady. I find this very surprising, and in a good way. I could use a rest. On the side table is an old book.

I don't mean just because it's been sitting here for 50-some-odd years. No. It was old before the house and property were abandoned. The brown leather book looks like it could easily fall apart, but is surprisingly well preserved. The heavy book is solid in my hands, covered in dust, but doesn't crumble. With the flashlight in one hand and the book in my lap, I open it. I expect the old leather to creak like everything else in the house does, but it's silent as it opens. It opens toward the back.

What's inside surprises me. The pages are completely blank. I flip toward the front, and it becomes clear what this is. The handwritten words reveal a journal. As much as I want to start at the beginning, I find the last entries instead. This might actually give me some insight as to why the property was abandoned. My blood grows cold as I read the cursive handwriting. I don't know what else to do.

My wife seems to be possessed by some kind of entity. One of the maids, Chloe, is a practitioner of voodoo or some such thing. I often have trouble understanding her with the accent she has. But she seems to have a better comprehension of what's happening. Several weeks ago, my Sander went on a walk in the woods north of our lands. She often takes such walks, but normally sticks to the lands to the east and west. I don't know why she ventured to the north, and I may never know. The family that lives that way is not friendly to any of us and has refused any social invitation that has been presented to them.

When Sandra came back, she complained of a headache and difficulty breathing. I had a doctor come to the house, and he said she was suffering from some kind of allergic reaction. He prescribed her some medication, but it ultimately did nothing. In the days that followed, she got sicker. Her complaints of the horrible taste in her mouth, like mildew started to decrease, but only because she became more violent. Sandra began lashing out. She would have violent outburst, such viciousness that she was never capable of before. The staff were the first to experience this, but quickly escalated. Soon she started leaving her

room to target the children. For some reason, I was left for last. By that time, I managed to to arrange for the children to stay with my brother in the north. My neck still throbs from where she pit me. Things got so bad that we had to lock Sandra in the kitchen pantry. Chloe claims this is no allergic reaction, but an invasion of sorts. She knows of things that live in the wilderness that are rare and turn people into monsters.

Last I saw of my Sandra, her skin had started to take on a scaly texture. a putrid tone but a man of faith but I'm starting to believe Chloe's claims Sandra Bear so I'm willing to do anything

to accomplish this Chloe has made a potion or a spell some kind of concoction in a leather pouch that she claims will force out the evil inside Sandra but there's a catch once the evil has been expelled

we must flee this place Chloe can lock it away in safety for time But eventually the evil will be able to reach out beyond her protections And compel someone to free it If that happens We'll have to go through this all over again I've already made arrangements for us to join my brother in the north Tonight

We attempt to free Sandra from the evil that is inside her For the first time in my life Cough again as I read those last words There's nothing more in the journal. My mouth is flooded with a taste of mildew again, and I curse. Slamming the book closed, my head grows hot with anger, and I throw it across the room. It doesn't hit one of the bookshelves, but one of the windows. The silence in the air is replaced with a shattering of old glass and natural light floods the abandoned library.

I don't know anyone that practices voodoo. and I'm pretty sure my medical coverage doesn't include possession. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents, Mother of the Year, written by soaring siren, and narrated by Daniel Hewitt. My daughter committed suicide two years ago. Two, painstaking, heartbreaking, dark years ago.

Even though it was only two years ago, There are still some feelings that I'll never forget. The anger, the pain, the never-ending, nagging feeling that I could have done something differently. My boyfriend, Lance, never speaks much about her. He didn't want kids. So dating someone who had a child was foreign to him. I really don't think he ever wanted to really bring the suicide up. Ever.

Can't say I blame him, though. What could he possibly say that could soothe the aching pain in my heart? From the day it happened, up until two years later, he still never mentioned it. I didn't think anything of it. I just chalked it up to the fact that he probably didn't want to upset me. Harlow was a sweetheart. She wasn't the prettiest girl in class,

but she made up for it with her brains. She had accumulated so many accolades in the short 16 years she was on this earth. She had heart. She was kind, caring. She would have taken the shirt off her back for someone in need. She was going to do great things and go to great places. She had a certain aura about her that just made her so lovable. She didn't have many friends.

Just a couple she would hang out with on a daily basis. She wasn't one for drama. She kept to herself 90% of the time. Which is why it was so hard to believe that anyone would ever want to bully her to begin with. She mainly kept to herself, went to school, and came home. Repeat. Why would anyone want to harm her? Then I think about today's society. With the constant need. need to fit in, the plethora of ads telling girls that they aren't good enough in their own skin. Society has created its own new version of the mean girls we all know and grew up with. Girls are still as mean as ever, maybe even meaner, with no remorse for their actions or words. They have no idea what words behind a screen can do to a young girl. My young girl! keyboard fucking warriors, my girl, my baby.

Here one day and gone the next. It may seem like a quick thing, here than gone. But what everyone doesn't realize is the amount of time she endured all the name-calling, bullying, and shit they threw at her. Looking at it that way, she was a warrior. she held out for such a long time. She was so strong. She held on with all of her might until she just couldn't anymore.

When that day came, I couldn't help but think about what exactly it was that finally snapped inside of her to make her final decision. The decision that not existing at all was the best outcome. I don't know exactly when the bullying began. I just know that at one point,

she would come home from school and just wither away in her room. Eyes glued to her laptop, waiting for the next asshole to say something demeaning to her. At the dinner table, she'd vent. She'd cry to me and Lance, screaming out that she didn't understand why people were so cruel. Lance sat quietly as I tried to console her. Teens are just mean, babe.

Don't let it get to you. Just one more year. And then the rest of your life begins. That was the only thing I could say to her. I already knew nothing I said would make her feel better anyway. It was high school bullshit. Teens being completely out of pocket and not caring how it made anyone else feel. Ah, to be in high school again.

You couldn't fucking pay. me. Kids are cruel. That's just a fact. And this generation have gotten worse and worse. Harlow's father and I split up when she was two. He couldn't be bothered to stick around. I don't think he ever wanted to be a dad to begin with. I mean, who could blame him. We were only 23 and 24 at the time. We had decent jobs. But I could tell that the relationship, was on its way out, even before I got pregnant. I confirmed it when I found him sleeping with his assistant in our bed the day after my birthday. From that point on, it was just the two of us, Harlow and I against the world.

Everything was easier then, like it should have been. Then she turned 14 and began to live her own life. I'll admit, I had gotten a little lonely. but I was so happy that she was finally living for herself and thriving. Then I met Lance, my beautifully charming, Lance. My God, if I only knew then how much I'd love him now. I had been working late. Harlow was spending the night with my parents,

to avoid having to wake her up at whatever time of the night it was when I finally left. It was myself and one other co-worker. Margo, who were the last ones there? Margo and her husband had recently divorced, and he moved out, so she often stayed at work late. Both of us wanted to avoid the eerie vacancies of our homes, so we decided to go out for a drink. We stumbled across this little hole-in-the-wall pub a few blocks over

and decided to pop in for a quick one. We go inside. I order my vodka cranberry and give the entire pub a quick glance over. There he was. standing at the opposite end of the bar. I saw him. He was the most beautiful thing I'd laid my eyes on in a long time. He was a captivating figure,

standing at a modest height that belayed the immense presence he commanded, with a lean and muscular build that speaks to his dedication to physical fitness. His hair was a dark shade of brown, neatly styled and gorgeously groomed. His piercing blue eyes seemed to see right through you. almost leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable. He carried himself with an air of confidence and authority, every movement deliberate and purposeful.

His voice was deep and resonant, with a commanding tone that demanded attention. There was a subtle hint of arrogance in his demeanor, a confidence born of knowing his worth and capabilities. His wardrobe was tailored to perfection, with every detail carefully chosen, to convey his impeccable taste and sense of style. In his sharp suit, he exuded an aura of sophistication and refinement

that set him apart from the crowd. I wanted so badly to know him. He was a complex and enigmatic figure who defied easy categorization. And yet, there was something undeniably magnetic about him, a raw and primal energy that drew me in and refused to let go. In his presence, I felt alive and exhilarated, captivated by the mystery and allure of this man. I stared.

I didn't even notice I was doing it. But he did. He walks over to me with that cocky smile I now know and love and commands me in his sweet, gravelly voice, to at least let him buy me a drink and tell him my name before I just stare at him all night. I swear, right there in that moment, I lost myself in him.

I forgot all about Margo. At that moment, it was just he and I who existed in that pub. We drank, we talked, we shared our goals. There were a few moments where he was quiet, though. Almost like he didn't know what to say. Or maybe he actually had nothing to say. Eventually, I'd strike up some more conversation. I don't know what it was about this man, but I was hooked.

I wanted to do every and anything in my power to get to know who he was. My heart broke a little when he said he didn't want children. I almost debated on telling him about mine. Of course I did, though. I couldn't leave out my best friend. She was all I knew. Ever since her dad and I split, it was just the two of us. I told Lance everything.

I have no clue where the word vomit came from, but I spewed and spewed and spewed until I looked up and saw his gaze. I couldn't tell if he was intrigued or utterly horrified that I just dumped all of my baggage out onto the pub table. And shockingly, Lance was okay with it. He didn't want kids of his own. I didn't want any more kids. It was something we could work past.

He told me how admirable I was for being a single mom. Even though it was tragic, I couldn't just vacation alone whenever I wanted. We went on a few more dates. We spent a couple of nights together. And before I knew it, I was knees deep. I loved this man so much. I painted a picture-perfect life with him. It honestly would have put Picasso to shame, but I digress.

The point of the matter is, I craved him like a fiend craved his next fix. Like the moon craved the night, and the sun craved the day. To put it lightly, I'd do anything for this man. We've been together for four years now. Time has flown and everything has been amazing. I mean, besides the account, occasional arguing because he says he doesn't want to marry someone with a child. It never made sense because he had known already for years now that I had a daughter.

It wasn't an everyday fight. It was just every so often. And even though it was a cause of conflict sometimes, he still treated her as if she was his child, too. He didn't yell at her. Shit, he barely even spoke to her half the time. He is a quiet man after all. Back to Harlow. She was 16 and in her junior year of high school. She was actually taking the necessary steps to prepare for college.

My girl wanted to be a marine biologist, which was always so strange to me because I faint at the smallest sight of blood. I guess she didn't inherit that trait from me. And thankfully so, since she wanted to dissect aquatic creatures. She was a straight-A student. then I could proudly say she inherited from me. As soon as she got an assignment, she was on top of it. She would freak out if she even got a B for fuck's sake.

It was like her entire world was crumbling. Part of me also wonders if that's the reason why she got bullied so much. Were people jealous that my girl was so smart? That she took her schoolwork seriously? Who knows? Anyway, let's rewind back to when I mentioned my... feelings about Harlow. I'll never forget. The feelings that stay with me throughout my days. The feelings that reside in my heart just as much as they do in my mind. The feelings that I haven't

been able to shake for two years. And I probably won't shake them two more years from now either. I don't think they'll ever go away. First off, I will never forget how I felt when I found out she was being bullied online. Something primal coursed through my veins that I have never felt before. My daughter had been my entire life

before I met Lance. This was my moment. This was my time to shine. Only I didn't shine, did I? Secondly, I'll never forget how I felt when I had to speak publicly about cyberbullying.

It was wrong, and we all knew it was. but that didn't stop it from happening to people's children every single day. I stood there at the podium, speaking to hundreds, maybe even thousands of teenagers and their parents, my hands sweating profusely. Lastly, I'll never forget how I felt when the police came to my house to seize her laptop as evidence.

It wasn't a murder, but they still needed to see what was said, which was understandable. They walked around her room, looking at everything they could. Then they made their way around the rest of the house. But I will never forget the way my heart dropped when they almost grabbed my laptop instead. My hands once again sweating profusely, the very laptop that I had used to create all those fake social media accounts,

to further push my daughter off the edge, the ones that stored all the ungues, kind, and quite frankly downright fucked up words that I had portrayed to my kin. The one that held my deepest, darkest secret. The one that proved my motherly instincts weren't so motherly after all. My years' worth of hard work. I loved my daughter, I did. She was my whole world at one time.

But now, Lance has taken over that spot. At least now we don't have any more issues with our relationship. I cannot wait to marry this man. You know, now that I don't have a child anymore. 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 creepypod on social media,

YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative common share-a-like 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 production team and the stories author.