Creepy - Nothing Helps

Episode Date: November 18, 2024

Written by: Squidmanescape***Story link: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Nothing_HelpsContent is available under CC BY-SA***The Shadow Man***Written by: Rhyan Pike and Narrated by: Cole Burkhardt***Content Warning: Gun Violence***CoulrophiliaWritten by: Tom Johnstone and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***Content warning: Clown***My house is empty. But my friend insists someone is here. ***Written by: Quincy Lee and Narrated by: Heather Thomas***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.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. Nothing helps.

Written by Squidman Escape. I'm submitting the assignment 10 minutes before the deadline. But I can't say that's a surprise since I only started four hours ago. I had a whole week to do this, but I can only pray the level of work I put in will be all right. Feels like I always put things off until the last minute. Oh, I've tried to stop. Believe me. I've changed my environment, planned out my day, even planned out my year.

Medication? I've taken three kinds, and none of them ever worked. I had an epiphany one day when my dad was yelling at me to stop making excuses. The matter what I change, I always end up doing everything at the last minute. So I moved out and started lying. to my parents that I wasn't procrastinating anymore. To be honest, it's barely working. I can manage my master's degree and a job at the same time,

but that still means I have a bunch of close calls and adrenaline-filled nights. Just thinking about my situation stresses me out. Even with all the lies, life's pretty good at this point. I remind myself in an attempt to calm down. I wash my clothes every week and check my mail every two weeks, and that's diligent enough. I should check my email. The mailbox is overflowing, but that's normal. I get mail from a bunch of people who used to live in this apartment.

I really should send these letters to them. Once I'm back in my house, I stuffed the other people's mail into an overflowing drawer. I'll send all that mail out eventually. I'm left with only three letters. The first is about my electric bill, which I forgot to pay. But I think it doesn't matter since I set up automatic payments. Am I wrong? I should look through the other letters before I check this one.

The second letter is from my bank, warning me about paying off my credit card on time. I make enough money to pay, but I keep forgetting. Should I check if I can set up an auto payment from my checking account to my credit. credit card? Then again, maybe I shouldn't do that at all, in case there's any fraudulent transactions. I groan. After reading two letters, I already have three important things to do. And instead of doing any of them, I'm reading the final letter. The envelope is a folded sheet of lined paper held together by tape and staples. Thick and square. Looks like an arts and crafts project I made for fun when I was 10.

The return address on the envelope is just attention CO, without even a street name. I open the envelope and unfold the letter, which is also on a line sheet of paper. I can tell an adult wrote it from the cramped impeccable handwriting. Do you have problems with procrastination? Tried everything and it hasn't helped?

Follow this odd ritual, and you'll end up completely change. You will be capable of focusing on the most important things, no matter what life throws at you. First, you have to call the number, 3 pound 3, 054-26 pound 4. The pound signs are not optional. If you're not meant to access this letter, this number will lead you to a message like, your call cannot be completed as dialed. However, if you are supposed to receive this letter, then calling this number will mean you have to

finished the ritual three weeks after your first call. My interest peaked. So I dial the number and wait to certain tone plays. Hello? The man on the phone sounds cartoonishly cheerful. Hi, I'm calling about the procrastination letter. Is it? You know, real?

You're darn tooting it's real. A real opportunity to help you. I'm so glad you called. I'm coming over right now. Wait, you are? As soon as the words leave my mouth, I hear a knock at the door. When I open it, a short portly man in a bowler hat grabs my hand and shakes it. It's a pleasure to meet you in person.

He releases my hand and takes off his hat. So, I bet you're wondering about the fee at this point. Fee? Kiddo, did you just call immediately after reading the phone number? Yeah, that was a bad idea, huh? It all depends on you, Buckaroo. You've made a humongous decision, which you would have known if you'd read the letter. Once you call the number, you're obligated to pay the fee if you back out.

Oh, okay. I can't help but feel like I've made a terrible decision. This is a top dollar decision you've made, actually. You didn't hesitate for a second. That's good, good. Hesitation is your main problem, I bet, because it leads to your procrastinating. That said, I figure you should actually read the letter, right, kiddo? Literally the next paragraph is, but remember, do not call the number until you're 100% sure of this.

Read the entire letter before making the decision. I sigh and keep reading. Once you've called the number, you have a little. only one job. You need to mail a letter back to the sender, Attention CO. The letter needs to contain every grievance you have with your current situation. Every opportunity you've missed, every dream you've given up, every part of you that needs to be expunged. Anything you don't mention won't be considered a problem so it won't be changed afterwards. The letter also needs to have at least an entire day's work put into it, meaning 24 hours of work.

You have three weeks, so if you work on the letter for an hour and ten minutes every day, you'll end up satisfying this condition easily. Keep in mind that you can't get someone else to write the letter for you. Trust us, we'll know. We'll also know how long you spent on it, and don't kid yourself. No matter how much you write in eight hours, that's not 24. If you succeed, you'll find yourself able and willing to, one, figure out the most important thing in a given situation.

Two, make plans to get these things done in a timely manner. Three, make the best use of your ample free time to de-stress. All this, and you won't have to pay anything at all. The work you put into your response will be enough for a lifetime of ease. If you fail to do this, you have to pay a fee which depends on the agent. Good luck. please direct any questions to the agent who takes your call. If the agent is not physically present, call this phone number to reach them.

Attention, CO. I look up at the beaming man. Can you tell me about the fee I have to pay? His grin just gets larger. Well, you seem like such a hard-working young fellow that I definitely won't take anything you've worked for. and I won't do anything to you that wouldn't have happened anyways. This is staring to feel like some kind of scam, because it just seems too good to be true.

Admittedly, working on the letter for 24 hours total sounded harrowing, but it's still doable. And at the end, I get a free, 100% effective cure to my procrastination. The thing is, well, this just seems too easy for the payoff to actually oh, naturally. It's not supposed to seem difficult. What's that supposed to mean? Well, kiddo, if it's so easy to win, then do it. I double dog dare you.

Why is he so sure that I'll fail? The longer he stays here, the more his perpetual smile and patronizing pet names make me feel like he knows I'm going to fail. I want him out of the apartment, but before I can open my mouth, he bows deeply and backs out through the door. Good luck, kiddo. I'm coming back in three weeks. He puts his hat back on and slams the door shut. I decide to start immediately, bringing out a line sheet of paper and a pencil. But when I think about the opportunities I missed, I come up blank. Sure, every day seems stressful, but I don't think procrastinating has really caused me to miss any opportunities.

With nothing else to do, I decide to write about how stressed I am every day. That should work, right? I write a single sentence. Every day I'm so stressed because of how much I procrastinate. Before I give up, I'm able to think of any way. to elaborate on that. I decided to watch a YouTube video about procrastination called Eliminate Procrastination Motivational Speech to get into the headspace as someone who loves to complain about procrastination,

but I can barely watch beyond the half-minute mark because I start thinking about the school work I could be doing and job opportunities I could be looking for instead of writing this letter. The video is right. I shouldn't put important stuff off until tomorrow. So I start looking for job opportunities, reasoning that I can always work on the letter some other time. I end up doing other things over the next seven days. Some of it's good, like trying to hunt for a new job, working on important homework and projects, including improving my awful draft for my master's degree, and cooking and cleaning so I stay alive and healthy.

Sadly, most of my time is just spent looking at my phone and enjoying my hands. I needless to say I completely forget about the letter until the next time I happen to sit down at my desk at 7 p.m. two weeks before the deadline. Once I see it, all the guilt comes rushing back. I set a timer to know how long I've spent on it and start writing. For exactly two hours, I write about all the things I could have done. Getting more internships, getting better grades, talking to more people, becoming better at the job I want to do. I frantically write down everything I've been trying to forget about since even before

I gave up on efficiency. But letting all these grievances out takes a toll. I start crying and my tears and snot drip onto the paper. I try to ignore it, but eventually I stopped the timer, get up, and get a tissue. That marks the end of my productivity. Once I return and try to continue, all I can see are the problems with what I wrote. Are they really going to accept a letter covered in snot? If I copy all this down to another piece of paper, will that count as additional work? No, that can't be right.

Otherwise, I could just keep copying the same paragraph over and over to different pages and get to 24 hours. But once I think of that, I realize that there must be some level of quality control. Otherwise, people could just send a letter consisting of the same paragraph written over and over again. Is that a bad thing? Is that considered okay? It has to be considered a bad thing.

Also, the sentences in the letter seem pretty disjointed. Even though it's not the same as copying the letter, it's plausible that rewriting the letter with better grammar is what I'm supposed to do. part of working on the letter. But it's also plausible that it would be considered rewriting part of the paragraph. How am I supposed to write the letter? Our good grammar and structure is something they want? Or are our originality and spur the moment thinking better?

I look warily at my phone, completely afraid to talk to the agent. Is he even going to help me? He seems so sure I'm going to fail. I get up and walk around, feeling like I'm about to throw up. After a lot of hand-ringing and groaning, I end up calling 3-0-5-4-2-6-pound-4 again. By the second ring, I hear his voice on the phone. Hey there. He doesn't sound unhinged over the phone, and it's almost like I'm calling my parents.

I'm so glad you called. It sure is a difficult thing to get started sometimes. Do you want to tell me what you need? I can't remember my questions anymore. Can you just wait a minute? I'm a... No problem. I can wait on the phone for as long as you like. First step can be hard, since you realize everything you missed before.

So it's important to ask questions no matter how long it takes. He sounds way less condescending, which gives me the hope I need to actually remember what I was trying to say. I don't know how the quality control works for this letter. Can I just change the grammar and repeat myself? Well, good question. You can write whatever you want in the letter. You can cover it with snot and tears if you end up crying. You can cover it with food if you're hungry, and we won't mind. Also, you can write the same paragraph over and over again, and that still counts his work on the letter. If you decide to write, All play and no work makes me a dull boy nine thousand times,

that's perfectly fine. You can even send previous letters alongside the final letter to add to your total. We're not going to turn away any hard work. Thank you. Thank you so much. No problem. Is that your only question? Wait, I say on a whim. It feels like something's missing. And after 30 seconds, of awkward silence it comes to me. You never directly told me what you want as payment. I want to know what it is, because otherwise...

Because I... I stopped talking, not quite sure why I want to know. Oh, sorry. I should have clarified. So, I'll say as clearly as possible this time. Luck, kid. That's what I want. What?

How are you going to get luck? I don't think I'm that lucky. Wow, look at the time, kiddo. I don't think you have time to whine. You're a real champ, and we both know that. So why don't you just test the luck that you don't have and actually write something? I can hear him smiling more and more over the phone. It finally occurs to me that he might do it as a threat display.

Yes, I'll do it. I'm sorry for not thinking. Buckaroo, you don't even know how sorry you should be. He hangs up on that note, and I decided to start writing. Even though it could have been a joke, I start writing, All plan no work makes me a dull boy as I'm all over a conversation. I never thought of myself as being lucky. But there are a lot of ways that things go wrong in my life.

I could end up getting scammed or extremely sick or... No. I can't really think of anything else. I don't know what he's on about. I write well into the night, somehow alternating between actual grievances and all play in no work until it's 5 a.m.

and I've been writing for 10 hours. Now that I've turned like this, I see the drawer of other people's mail too. I realize I've never actually sent mail to an address. So it would make sense to practice using that mail I've never sent. I start looking at how to send letters, which turns into watching YouTube videos, and eventually I remember I have to work on other assignments for my master's degree. I look at the letter, and I can't help but think that two weeks is a long time.

If I manage to keep up this level of work on two other days, I can easily finish the letter. Now I can go to sleep and deal with this some other day. I'm staring at the letter again. I have five days to finish it. I haven't worked on it since 5 a.m. that day. And I have more deadlines than just this one coming up. Thankfully I have some spare time to make a schedule. As I set up a schedule for the next five days,

I'm surprised by how empty my average day really is. Most of it's just watching YouTube videos. and if I just spend less time watching them and more time actually working on things, I can probably end up finishing this letter easily while still finishing everything I need to do for class. I spend four straight hours working on the letter, bring my total up to 14 hours. I flopped into bed and smile, knowing that if I keep to my schedule,

I'll have spent 34 hours on the letter by the deadline. All I have to do is stick to the schedule for five, five days. Of course I didn't stick to the schedule. It's the day before the deadline and I've spent the other three days not getting anything important done. Throwing caution to the wind, I ignore literally everything else to focus on my letter. I start at noon and for hours on end, I feverish right about how sorry I am for not working on the letter, how desperate I am to have a solution. I eat instant noodles for lunch and dinner. I spent some time in the bathroom where I can't really focus on the letter, but my hard work pays off overall. By 11 p.m., there may be 50 pages of

incomprehensible scribbling in the letter. When I add up the time from all the timers, it comes at 24 hours and 34 minutes. The best part is I still have time before midnight to work on something important. So of course I spent time watching videos on my phone. Why should I do even more today when I've got tomorrow as well? Then I get a phone call from 3 pound 3054 to 6 pound 4. I can hear him smiling through the phone. I noticed you didn't mail the letter. In all the commotion, I forgot I actually had to mail the letter. Thank God I still have another day. I'll do it tomorrow. The deadline's passed, kid.

But, no, no. Okay, I lied a little just now. You thought you had until tonight, maybe 11.59 p.m. today? But you actually had until 12.30 a.m. today. It's already been three weeks since I saw you last. I can't speak. I feel like I can't breathe. Also, you left the timer running two weeks ago when you called me, and he spent more than 30 minutes trying.

So you didn't even write for 24 hours anyway. I draw a single, shuddering breath. Good night. I'm coming to pick up my payment at 11.30. He hangs up, and I start to cry. But then I stop. I don't need to worry about him, do I? All he's going to take is my luck.

And I'll be just fine without that. After all, I've dealt with a series of unfortunate events right now. If I'm constantly dealing with them, I'll just adapt. Even though it's hard not to feel uneasy, I managed to fall asleep. The whole ritual turned out to be a bust, which means it went from an understandable time investment to procrastinating on editing my draft. This is why I can't plan properly. it's not obvious what turns out to actually be worthwhile.

Because of how down I am, I can't bring myself to start editing my assignment until 7 p.m. My fingers fly over the keyboard as the hours pass by, but it all comes to a rude halt when there's a knock on the door. And even though I don't move to unlock it, I hear it swing open. I turn around slowly and lock eyes with my agent, his chin right above my shoulder. He whispers, The game wasn't rigged.

If anything, it was rigged in your favor. For the first time I see his smile reaching up to his eyes. He's genuinely happy with this outcome, and it makes me angry. I muster up all the confidence I have and declare. I realize something.

I'm not all that lucky, and if I really need luck that badly, then this is just a chance to prove to myself that I can... The man bursts into laughter. When he finally stops laughing, I try to continue my sentence, but he shoves his entire hand into my mouth. Kiddo, I know when you're lying. You can't really pretend this is what you wanted to happen. But let's see you try. He pulls his hand out of my mouth and pats me on the head with it. I fall to my knees spitting and dry heaving,

but I can't get the bitter, chalky taste out of my mouth. When I stare up at him, he gently smiles and continues his spiel. Don't worry too much about the fee sport. You've accomplished a whole lot, and I don't want to take anything you don't deserve. But your luck, kid it's something else. That's how you stay alive. That's how you've accomplished everything.

On a rare occasion where the world doesn't bend to your favor, you bend your will so it does, completely ignoring that it should be the norm, not the exception, for you to suffer. You should be out on the street homeless with your work ethic. You can't even keep a schedule, right? Do you think you work hard? and that's why you can assure a schedule?

Look at your reality distortion field. You're just in time accomplishments. You're a little helper when everything comes crashing down time and time again. That's something money can't buy. It's something you don't deserve. It's something I deserve. I open my mouth to object, but he shoves his hand in there again. This time he shoves his arm deeper and deeper down my throat, pushing my head and tell him

looking straight upwards. I gag and desperately try to punch him, slap him, do something to get him to stop. But nothing works. And when he finally pulls his hand out, it feels like he's yanked something out of my heart too. Pleasure doing business with you. He slowly walks out, locking the door behind him. as I weep on the floor. I stare into space, wondering how to react.

Should I scream or cry or... After two minutes, I realize I'm just procrastinating. And I can't help but laugh. I guess I was right all along, huh? No matter what help people give me, I can never improve. So, living like this is fine. Maybe one day I can convince myself. For now, it's time to actually do the work I was assigned.

With my eyes on the clock, I hit send 30 minutes after the deadline. I may have only added it for four hours, but at least I managed to get it in. I hope I don't get docked points. I've been fired from my job. I'm failing my classes. My electrical bill needs to be paid. My credit card doesn't work, and my parents are. parents won't talk to me anymore. I get off the phone with a moving company and scream into my pillow.

I missed the deadline for the third time and they're not going to move my furniture out or something. How did I even stay alive before this? I don't know how anything works at all. I should have realized how lucky I really was. Everything just worked out for me back then. And I kept ignoring the voice in the back of my head that told me it all coming. crashing down. Now that voice is right, and it's all my fault. I try to counter the negativity with a lot of positive affirmations. There's nothing wrong with this. My parents will forgive me. It's not like trying harder would have magically change the outcome. There's always tomorrow. I have a whole life left to improve on this. I can get better. I can get better. I can get better.

Nothing helps. Creepy presents. Colerophilia. Written by Tom Johnstone and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. Laughter can sometimes be close to screaming, can't it? I never found clowns particularly funny. Even as a child. Not that I can remember anyway.

But I've never found them frightening either. Or at least I didn't until I saw them. one staring back at me from the bathroom mirror. You may think I'm speaking metaphorically, that I looked at myself one morning and saw the absurdity and failure of my life, or something like that. There may be something in that, but I mean an actual clown, my face, all done up in the white paint, the red nose and mouth, the hat, the wig, the lot. It's a lot easier now, of course when I see him there. Now I've stopped being afraid. Now I've grown to love my inner and outer clown. But the first time it happened, it terrified me. It was the day of my wedding anniversary.

I'd promised not to be back home late, but things had gotten so stressful at work that I'd forgotten. As soon as I remembered, I managed to escape from the office before Bullman could collar me for overtime. I had to buy Kelly a present, so I rushed to the shops. Nothing seemed right. And the way that I always do whenever I have trouble finding a present, I began wandering aimlessly through the North Lane, down that glorified Twitton that calls itself Kensington Gardens. A street's so narrow, it's jam-packed. with cheek-by-gill shoppers on a Saturday afternoon.

But a bit quieter on a Wednesday just after five, when this was. Before I knew it, I was shambling around Snoopers' Paradise, perusing the stalls. They've got everything in there from pinstripe suits and smoking jackets to books, ornaments, electric guitars, and all secondhand, of course. There was bound to be some piece she would like. I was leaping in a trance through a rack of black and white signed photos of old film and TV stars and I vaguely remembered from my youth when I saw him. This one was not signed, and the man didn't look like any movie star I'd ever seen.

He was standing there, staring sardonically, but unselfconsciously at the camera. In front of a French cafe whose prices advertise in francs, betrayed that it was from before the Nauties. He was dressed in a black top and leggings, with a white face crowned by a black fedora, reminding me of more melancholy and sinister version of Marcel Marcion. He looked as if he was caught off guard by the camera, but nevertheless maintained an air of self-possession.

His eyes were infinitely old, yet had the directness of the very young. He looked like a man who had lost everything but gained a world. But it was more than that. I felt a strange sense of being seen for what I was. As if he was saying, I know you. You're like me. The sound of a voice announcing that they were now closing broke through my days.

Kelly didn't stay to hear my excuses. She had already put on her glad rags and coat. Her silent rage had a strange effect on me. I felt nervous laughter welling up within me, pulling the corners of my mouth upwards as if they were on strings. I felt a mix of anxiety and regret. She told me she had cancelled the babysitter and was going out for cocktails with the girls instead. I was left to stay with the kids.

But it's our anniversary, I pleaded. She scoffed and rolled her eyes. She feigned surprise that I had remembered our anniversary, then told me that I had done this too many times. I was just about to say how I'd left work early especially. I'd dodged the overtime, and I'd lost track of time. That was all. It wasn't fair. But she'd already left, pointedly slamming the door.

I took the photo out of my pocket, and instead of switching on the, the TV, sat staring at it for almost an hour as the kids played up before it was time for me to go up and shout at them to brush their teeth and go to sleep. As I did so, I thought about my life, about acting the class clown at school to keep bullies off my back, about how my colleagues abruptly stopped laughing whenever I walked into the break room. And the sad clown stared back. From time to time that evening, I tried ringing Kelly up to try and get back in her good books. But the phone just went to answer phone. She must be having a great time with her girlfriends.

I could imagine them rallying around and consoling her, taking turns to fuss over her and hug her, and say what an insensitive creep I was. They'd soon have her laughing at dirty jokes, pointing out the attractive waiter at Borman, and saying he was giving her the eye. Their imagined cackling echoed in my head. I felt as if it was aimed at me.

Eventually I fell off and two a doves on the sofa and woke up stiff and cold to see her standing over me in her skimpy red dress, swaying a little after her cocktail night, but with a playful gleam in her dark eyes. Seeing her look so glamorous, I felt like such a slob and a letdown, slouching there in my rumpled clothes as she offered herself to me.

Giffrapped. She smiled at me, her eyes seemingly asking me if I liked what I saw. She was mistaking my day stared for slack-jawed lust. But a combination of self-loathing and being still half-sleep made it almost impossible for me to respond to her flirtation in kind. I felt unworthy of her. Besides, all I could think of when I saw her garishly bright red lipstick and rogue cheeks and blue eye shadow was a clown.

She sighed annoyed and then motioned for me to come to bed. Her obvious disappointment at my failure to make her feel desirable, tempered by pity for my sorry state. She was examining the photo I'd let slip from my fingers when I nodded off. She looked at the picture and asked why I had a photo of an old French cafe. But where's I began? She looked at me quizzically. Nothing, I said. She already thought I was an idiot.

I didn't want her to think I was crazy in the bargain. I didn't want to tell her about the sad clown who was there before, but now had disappeared from the photo. The next day I awoke with a start, determined to do better. I didn't want Kelly to feel sorry for me. I wanted her to want me again, to be the man she deserved. With the pang of nervousness, I remember today was a day of my staff appraisal. Maybe I would at last get the promotion I'd been waiting for,

the reason why I've been taking all the overtime I could get, at considerable cost to my job. marriage. I made for the bathroom like a man on a mission, but I gasped when I saw the man in the mirror. The lips were outlined with a ghastly exaggerated red smile. The eyes framed by baby blue semicircles, the nose of red sphere, all on a corpse white background. I was plastered in clown makeup, crazily smudged by contact with my pillow. Instinctively, I put my hand to my face to check if this was real. I felt the stiff, chalky texture of dried paint on my face, not stopping to ask myself

how I had ended up with a clown face on in my sleep. I began frantically washing it off, rubbing the soap and water into my skin like a punishment, until my eyes stung and my face felt raw. Once I was satisfied, I was back to normal. I got dressed and sped out of the house. All this extra faffing about had made me late, and I could see my bus already at my stop. I ran down the hill watching the indicator flashing towards the curb.

I knew that once the driver started signaling to the right, the bus would begin pulling away. and I would be too late to catch it. The pavement was glistening wet with a heavy rain, and my shoes felt too big for my feet. I glanced down to see oversized flapping shoes with zanily multicolored laces, before the world went spinning,

as I literally tripped over my own feet, landing in a puddle as the bus disappeared from around the corner. A hand grabbed mine, helping me to my feet, which now wore my unusual, sensible, dark brown office footwear. I looked at my rescuer, saw the plain white face, the black hat, top and leggings from the side clown from the photo. I broke free from his grasp, ran to the next stop where the bus again pulled away just as I got close. I looked back and he wasn't there anymore. But I should have known, I couldn't really escape

him. Bowman didn't really seem bothered that I was late, which was unlike him. It put me on edge, as did his unusually gentle demeanor. Like with Kelly last night, I could feel a weird mirth rising within me as a response to my nerves. Again, as if invisible fingers were pulling strings to draw the corner of my mouth upward into his silly grin. He suggested we move into his office and do my appraisal right away, to get it over with. I followed him into his partitioned office, ignoring the suppressed sniggers I thought I could hear from my smirking colleagues in the bigger open plan area. They would be laughing on the other sides of their faces

when I came back again as an assistant manager. And then they'd all be under me and treat me with more respect. I tried my hardest to suppress my secret smile at this, maintaining a look of the utmost seriousness. My forced frown was almost painful against the urge to burst into hysterical tittering. I thought of shaking Bulman's hand

then decided against it. Remembering my shoes earlier, what if the sad clown had planted an electric shock buzzer in my palm? Instead, I began nervously fidgeting with my tie as he began to close the Venetian blinds. Why was he doing that? To give us some privacy from the nosy gossips outside, of course. He leaned in closer, and his eyes narrowed.

Concern evident on his face as he was. He scrutinized me. He asked if I was okay, and if I was wearing makeup. I'm fine, I said, smoothing down my rumple tie and wondering if there were still traces of the clown makeup on me. Then I saw his eyes crinkle up as a jet of water spurted into his face, from what momentarily seemed to be a giant, spotty red bowtie. Oh, I'm sorry, I said.

my voice sounding more sardonic than intended. As he wiped his face down with a tissue from his desk, his expression considerably less sympathetic than it had been before. I looked down and saw that my tie was just my boring old gray work tie again. I must have been patting it down so frantically that the water that soaked into my tie from the puddle shot out and splashed my manager in the face. Or that's what I told myself at the time. I know better now.

When he handed me the piece of paper and I saw what was on it, I thought it was a practical joke. Like the sad clown putting makeup on my sleeping face, or oversized shoes on my feet. Or a buzzer in my hand, or water-shooting bowtie on my chest. That's why I started laughing. Non-stop like a grinning sailor dummy in a glass case

in an old-fashioned amusement arcade. I didn't stop laughing at the scrap of paper, my reward for working late and almost destroying my marriage, until the security guards came and dragged me into the street, dumping my box full of trinkets from my cubicle at my feet. As I stood at the bus stop, box in one hand, P-45 and the other, I stared at the name on the document and suddenly it struck me. Oliver Charles Keaton This was what the sad clown had been trying to tell me He looked a bit like Buster Keaton himself With his mournful stare

My pratfall running for the bus was straight out of Charlie Chaplin And Oliver Hardy always used to fiddle with his tie When buttering up hostile authority figures Out of the corner of my eye I could see the sad clown, kewing at the bus stop in his white paint and black fedora. He wasn't laughing. It seemed like he was the one person who didn't say me as a joke.

You're just like me. This was who I was. This was my destiny. That was why my parents had named me, Oliver Charles Keaton. I tried to put a brave, face on my redundancy. I'd have more time to spend with the family now. I could rebuild my relationship with Kelly and be a better dad. I'd have to find a new source of income, of course. Her wage couldn't keep us all for long. But maybe. This could be the making of me. I could try

something new. That must be what the sad clown was trying to tell me. So I set myself up for a new vocation, as self-employed children's entertainer. I learned to juggle with the help of YouTube videos. I spit my redundancy money on a costume and makeup and godily painted van. Having young kids meant I had a ready-made practice audience. It was great for them to have a fun dad who dressed up as a clown instead of the burnt-out office drone who had no time or energy to play with them. But it did lead to some friction with Kelly. Like the time I woke up at 3 a.m. to show them my juggling routine. She just wasn't amused by that.

But I knew she'd see the sense in the end once the money came rolling in. One night got my first gig. I used the money to pay for us to spend the night at a fancy hotel. There'd be no canceling the babysitter this time. Her mom agreed to stay the night, at the home looking after the boys. I told them to be on their best behavior, or I wouldn't show them my latest. stacked. So here we are. In the hotel room, Kelly's lying on the bed in her sexy negligee, giving me her best come-hither look. But I feel unworthy of her in my drab, ordinary clothes.

So I go into the on-sweet bathroom, saying I'm going to have a shower slip into something more comfortable. Kelly calls to me, telling me not to be too long, she may be. She may be may lose interest if I'm in there for ages. I can't hurry this, though. It's quite time-consuming to put on, but it will be worth it to see the look on her face. I hear it call to me ask what's taking so long. I don't see what the rush is. We've got all night, haven't we?

If she can dress up and take time over her makeup, so can I. And my costume is just as sexy as hers and sway. even if it's just a silly, baggy yellow jumpsuit with bright red pom-poms. But the thing that takes time is getting the red smile around the mouth and blue half-moons framing the eyes exactly right. Fitting the nose on and blending the white foundation to match the bald wig with the tufts of bright orange hair sprouting from the top of the sides. Bullmen always used to say,

while boasting of his sexual exports, that the way into a woman's bed was to make her laugh. I can see why. Puts them at ease if they know you have a sense of humor. But when I jump out of the bathroom with a cry of, Tadda! She doesn't greet me with gales of laughter. Instead, a volley of screams tears into the night.

Tearing into hysterical sobs as she buries her face in her hands. Unable to bear the sight of what I've changed into I know she'll come around in the end Screaming can be so close to laughter though Can't it? Creepy presents The Shadow Man Written by Ryan Pike

And narrated by Cole Burkart I don't know what is real anymore The only thing I do know is that the man in the black suit took my reason to live. I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start back at the beginning. My name is Alex.

I'm a security consultant by trade. Well, I was until my life fell apart. I lost my job due to medical concerns that affected my ability to perform my duties. Recently, I started having what I can only describe as sleep attacks. I would be going about my day in a usual fashion, then suddenly awake from sleep that I didn't know I was in. These episodes began fairly benign. Well, benign by standards now. The first of these sleep attacks came while I was watching television or reading a book,

The plot of what I was reading or watching would suddenly change and become much more obscure, and then I would awake with a jolt. With time, the sleep attack started happening during much more dangerous times. Sometimes I would be waiting at a red light, then awake to my car bumping into the vehicle in front of me because I let my foot off the brake. Other times, I would be sitting. in a crowded room, only to suddenly hear the room go silent and realize that I lost an hour of time and was sitting alone in a now empty room. Where these sleep attacks started to become

really weird is when I was typing a report at work and suffered one of those sleep attacks. When I became aware of the lost time, I looked at my computer clock and realized 20 minutes had passed. My report was coherent until the point that that sleep attack set in. Then the text became entirely unintelligible. What is really creepy, though, is that the autotrect on my computer changed some of this gibberish into proper words. As I stand over the text, the words that appeared seem to have an ominous undertone. Abyss follows, hide, dark. darkness, suit, shadow, eyes, and so on.

I chalked it up to strange coincidence, but other times I would dream in this unwelcome sleep, and the dreams would be unnerving. I wote once from a dream of a dark forest with white colored creatures that watch you from the tree tops. Another time, I dreamed of being in a hotel room with a white, my wife, Anna, when the room caught fire. I led her out of the building, and we turned around to see a man in a black suit burning in the room we just left. I told Anna about my dreams, and she told me they may just be a reflection of stresses in my life. This seemed reasonable enough that I

let it go without much fuss. With Anna's urging, I put an appointment with my doctor to discuss these sleep episodes. The doctor, hearing my description of what had been happening, believed me to have some form of narcolepsy or hypersomnia. As a result, he prescribed me a medication to help me stay awake. For two weeks, things were great. I was doing great at my job. Things were going great with Anna, and I felt like life was really turning around. Then, everything changed. My mind could only logically blame it on the medication, but I began having headaches randomly throughout the day. At first, these were accompanied by a sense of unease for no discernible reason. This didn't last long, though, since I quickly found out what my body was trying to tell me. During these

headache periods, I began noticing a man in a blatch suit and a fedora cap out of the corner of my eye. The man was never doing anything threatening, and as soon as I would turn my head towards him, he would disappear. What was disturbing is that some of these times would be while I was at home, and noticed him standing in the corner of my bedroom, or I was driving, and noticed him sitting in the batch seat of my car. I asked my doctor if this was normal, and he replied that some people may experience hallucinations, but this is uncommon, and maybe I should seek some counseling to address any underlying anxiety. Feeling like my concerns were written off and ignored, I went about my life, doing my best to ignore the man in the suit.

As time went on, the headaches persisted, and the man was there, every time. Eventually, the man in the suit began appearing in my dreams at night. Every time I would dream that that man was in my house. I would yell at him to get out and he would tip his hat and casually walk out the door. Unfortunately, although this was a repeated dream, the dream was always at night and I could never see the man's face. Thinking that the doctor may be right and this may be some underlying anxiety, I decided I was going to find a way. to confront the man. In the top drawer of my end table,

I placed a police quality flashlight and my trusty Smith and Wesson 9mm. I figured that by making a point to prepare myself in the waiting world, maybe these precautions would carry over into my dreams. Unfortunately, I got a chance to test this theory nearly immediately. That night, I laid in bed next to Anna

and quickly fell asleep. Like so many times before, I awoke to the sounds of someone walking around in my house. Sure enough, I opened the nightstand drawer and my flashlight and pistol were waiting for me. I exited my bedroom and looked across the open floor plan to see the man in the suit standing in my kitchen. I yelled at him, What do you want from me? The man gave no reply, so I dripped my pistol and clipped the flashlight on in his direction. The beam of light hit the man directly, but something strange happened.

It was like shining light into a black hole. The rest of the room lit up, but the man's form seemed to swallow the light of the flashlight, and he remained in pitch black. The man for the first time spoke to me in a raspy hiss that made every hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Me not welcome? This is my house. You are not welcome. Here, get the fuck out of my house, I replied.

The man began walking slowly towards me, not saying another word. This is your last chance to leave, I yelled. The man kept coming, so I fired two rounds into the man's chest. He trembled to the floor and disappeared behind my couch. I ran from the doorway of my bedroom to where the man had fallen, but when I illuminated the floor behind the couch, there was nothing there. No body, no blood, nothing. I looked up to see the man standing in the doorway of my bedroom.

Again came the hissing voice. Your trespassing comes for the price. The man then pointed a hand at me, and everything went black. When I awoke, I was in my bed, and the sunlight filtered through the curtains. What time is it? I checked the alarm clock next to the bed and saw the time it was 9 a.m. I noticed that Anna was not beside me. I figured she had woken up and gone to make breakfast.

While didn't dress, I decided to check my handgun and found that two bullets were missing from the magazine. My pulse froze. I exited the bedroom, but Anna was nowhere to be found. Trying to stay calm, I figured Anna would leave me a note, if she went to the store or got called into work or any other emergency. Looking at the counter, I saw a sheet of paper, but the handwriting was entirely unfamiliar. Written upon the paper, in bold, black, decorative lettering, were these words.

The price of trespassing set by you, apparently, is death. I granted you mercy and allowed your life to remain, but your wife is mine. but your wife is mine now, and will forever walk my woods. If you ever return to my realm, your life and hers will be forfeit. By the way, I have something of yours. Next to the paper, set two nine-millimeter hollow-point bullets, expanded as though they had penetrated flesh. Creepy presents.

The Shadow Man, written by Ryan Pike, and narrated by Cole Burkart. Creepy presents, My house is empty, but my friend insists someone is here. Written by Quincy Lee, and narrated by Heather Thomas. They say seeing is believing, but if I'd followed that advice, I'd be dead now. It was a deaf-blind friend who first told me there was someone in the house with me. I scoffed. I didn't believe him. I looked out across the wide, open, empty living room.

I looked upstairs in the den and spare bedroom, and out at the patio, and in the kitchen. It was just the two of us. But my friend Will, insisted. While he was sitting on the base of the stairs, tracing his fingers along the ornate sculpted banister, I went upstairs to grab something from the den. He felt another set of footsteps on the stairs after mine, following me up, he told me afterward, in sign language, when we sat down at the table for tea.

Then he asked me who else was here. I chuckled my fingers tickling his leg in laughter, and told him he must have imagined it. But he claimed he could smell them. When I asked him to describe the smell, he said it smelled bad. a sort of garbage smell, someone who needed a bath or hung out in the trash. Maybe my trash needed to go out, I said, and insisted it was just us.

He asked me, was I sure? He and I were supposed to be working on the script for a game we were developing together, but he interrupted my suggestions to exclaim, did I smell it? I didn't smell a thing, nor did I see anyone in the living room with us. Does your nose actually work, or is it just a decoration on your face? He asked me, exasperated. When I dropped him off back at his apartment later after we'd finish our work together, as he was getting out of the car,

he warned me again that there is definitely another person hiding somewhere in my home. His hands described the feel to me, two fingers of his right hand walking up my arm toward my shoulder, two fingers of his left, following behind, softer. Then he tapped his hand along my arm, showing me the feel of the vibration. First heavier, more solid, my steps. And then lighter, but still palpable,

the second set of steps following mine and vibrating the wooden stairs. I patted his arm in affirmation and told him I'd search the house when I got home. Be careful, he warned me, his signing emphatically slow, and gave my arm a final squeeze before tapping his way to the front of his building with his white cane. As soon as I got home, I searched the house, but I couldn't imagine where an intruder might conceal themselves. It was a cozy house, two levels with a small square footage. The rent was suspiciously low, but I chalked that up to the lack of AC, creaky pipes, and the age of the place.

I looked under the sink, in the closets, in the cupboards, in the spare bedroom. I even bought a camera and set it up, but all I captured overnight was myself sleepwalking. I vaguely remembered waking on the staircase and returning to bed. Other than that, the motion capture didn't turn on. According to the video, I was alone in my house. Still, the next morning I couldn't stop thinking about what he'd said. It's said that if you lose one sense, your others become sharper to compensate.

But what if the reverse is also true? Was my reliance on my eyes causing my brain to shut out my other senses? What if I tried closing my eyes? It seemed silly. Even so, on a whim, that evening I went around the house wearing a blindfold. I was feeling my way through the kitchen, filling a glass with water from the sink when I heard. Felt?

The presence of someone. I couldn't pinpoint why. I just had the sense of not being alone. The hairs on my neck rose, and suddenly I was absolutely certain someone was coming up behind me. I snatched off my blindfold. Just me. Still the feeling lingered for a moment,

those goosebumps persisting on my arms. I put the blindfold back on and putted around in the kitchen for a while. It was then I noticed the smell. Like rotten meat, like unwashed flesh, spoiled and awful and... It was so faint. Just wafting occasionally. The hairs on the nape of my neck stood up. I went upstairs trying to follow the smell,

but I lost it almost immediately when I went into my den. I came back downstairs, my fingers lightly tracing the wall. Thud, thud, thud. I stopped because I felt footsteps behind me. Felt the soft reverberation on the wooden staircase, just a beat after my own. It was just like Will had described to me. Someone was here, right behind me.

I felt cold breath on my ear. I tore off the blindfold and whirled around. The staircase was empty. That night as I lay in bed, I had trouble drifting to sleep. I was afraid of what might happen overnight. And sure enough, I woke up on the stairs, sleepwalking. But instead of returning to bed, I tried to keep myself in that dreamy state, and I held my eyes closed.

My arm was cold. It took me a moment to realize that someone was holding my hand, a touch of icy fingers drawing me forward, those dead fingers leading me up the stairs. Every instinct told me to tear my hand away and run, but I let the dead hand guide me up until I was on the landing. The rotten smell made my eyes water as the door to the spare bedroom opened. An overwhelming sense of dread made it hard to breathe as the hand guided me across the room.

Then my fingers touched the cool handle to the balcony door and pushed the door open, fresh air gusting around me. I yanked back, terror shooting. through me and rushed for the light switch. I was alone again. I'm now looking for a new place to live. Will is right. I'm not alone.

And my life is in danger every night I stay here. I've got to get out as soon as I can. But my budget is tight and housing is scarce in this area. So until I find a place, I've installed a bolt on the balcony doors and moved a heavy bookcase in front of them. and I've locked that spare bedroom. You see, I did some research and found out that the tenant who lived here before me died by hanging himself from the balcony of the upstairs bedroom.

Before him, there was an old woman who lived here with her daughter, and the daughter was also found hanging. In fact, I don't know how many people before me have died here, seemingly by taking their own lives. The house has not reported to be haunted because no one has ever seen a ghost here. But every day, I feel someone in the house with me, their footsteps treading just behind mine. And every night, those dead fingers take my hand and try to lead me out to the balcony. 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 and YouTube.

All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Share-A-Lite licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production. team and the story's author.