Creepy - One in a Million & I Asked for New Parents and Got Them

Episode Date: July 3, 2025

One in a Million***Written by: Corrie Haldane and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***I Asked for New Parents and Got Them***Written by: Michael Squid and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***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. One in a million.

Written by Corey Aldane and narrated by Daniel Hewitt. As I follow Jake down the narrow trail, I can practically feel the blisters growing with every step. My brand new hiking boots rub against my feet, and I regret not breaking them in before our date. In other circumstances, I might consider this being my biggest problem. But here, among the looming trees and strange forest sounds, it's the least of my concerns. Because out here, there are bugs everywhere.

I hate bugs. I hate the way they look, with their antennas and their extra legs and eyeballs. I hate the unpredictable way they move, with a sinister scuttling that makes it seem like they're up to no good. But most of all, I hate feeling outnumbered. Jake turns back and smiles at me. I love that smile. The way it makes his eyes crinkle up at the corners and reveals his dimples.

He assures me it's not much farther. And bugs or no bugs? I'd follow that man just about anywhere. I smile back. We've eaten lunch at work together every day. But it took him weeks to finally ask me out. When he suggested a hike in a picnic, I was so excited about spending time with him outside of the office,

I immediately agreed. That smile of his had the power to wipe every thought and worry right out of my head. A dull wine buzzes near my ear and I wave my hands around my head. Thankfully Jake doesn't catch me showing my crazy city girl side. I should have put on more bug spray. Hell, I should have brought the whole damn bottle. Jake stepped ahead, arms spread wide, and silent triumph as he took in the view.

The expression on his face said it all. See, didn't I tell you? Despite my aversion to the great outdoors, I have to admit that it really is beautiful here. We've stepped out from among the trees into the meadow dotted with wildflowers. A narrow creek ribbons through the grass in the distance, sparkling in the afternoon sunshine.

Jake led us across the field, stopping a few feet from the water's edge. He sets down the picnic basket, shrugs off his backpack, and pulls out a plaid blanket. He spreads it out on the ground with a flourish and gestures for me to sit. I hesitate, wondering what sort of creepy crawlies lurk in the grass. But Jake smiles at me again and my stomach does a funny little flip-flop. It's the next best thing to a pep talk. I step on to the blanket and lower myself into the dead center.

Jake kicks off his shoes, grabs the basket and sits. close beside me. I catch the scent of him, a delicious blend of shampoo and clean sun-warmed laundry. I catch him staring at me. My face grows hot and I look away. Jake must notice my embarrassment because he starts making small talk. Work, hobbies, stuff we've talked about a million times before. My words flow so easily in the office lunchroom, but they're nowhere to be found today. It's partially due to first eight jitters, but mostly it's because of the bugs. They're everywhere. He must have picked up on the discomfort because he asked if something was wrong.

Um, no, I replied. It's just, you know, the bugs. With a light smack to his forehead, he rummaged through the basket and pulled out a yellow candle. After lighting it, the subtle scent of citronella drifted into the air, mingling with the pine and grass. You've thought of everything, I say. Jake grinned saying he used to be a Boy Scout. I find this unexpected revelation both comforting and oddly endearing. Guess I picked the right guy to wander into the woods with, I say, hoping it's true.

Jake smiled, reaching for the basket. He told me to stick with him he had everything covered. He starts pulling out the food. Fruit, a baguette, and a charcuttery tray heaped with cheeses, cured meats, and crackers. Then he hands me a Coke and a plate and instructs me to dig in. Conversation flows more easily while we eat. As the meal winds down, Jake plucks a small purple flower out of the grass and hands it to me.

It looks like a tiny heart. I shiver when our fingers touch. But then a wasp buzzes in to sample Jake's soda. I squeal an alarm. Jake recognizes the source of my panic and takes my hand. Calm and steady trying to reassure me, he whispered to me that it doesn't want to hurt me. And if I just ignore it, it will ignore me.

Ignore it? I could no more ignore a crazed gunman or a grizzly bear. I watch, mesmerized, as it creeps along the lip of the Coke can. Jake sees how fixated I am, and the easy grin on his face slips a little. He seems to realize this isn't just a passing flinch. With a sigh, he waves at the wasp. casually at first. The wasp takes flight, but hovers nearby,

unwilling to give up its sugary prize. Jake swats at it more forcefully and the wasp retaliates, darting in and landing on Jake's forearm. Jake slaps at the wasp and yells in pain finally driving it off. An angry red welt blooms on his arm. I gasp. Oh, God. Are you okay? Jake shrugs it off, his voice cooler now.

the earlier warmth drained by pain and irritation. Hoping to rekindle the spark between us, I take his hand. Thanks for saving me. Jake shrugs and pulls away mumbling that it isn't a big deal. No, it is, I say. But before I can go on, to tell him I'm sorry for being so silly, I spot an aunt hustling across the blanket like it's got every right to be there. My mouth goes dry.

No need to panic. It's just an aunt, I tell myself, just one teeny, tiny, helpless aunt. But it isn't just one. A second aunt appears, not far from the first. I managed to hold it together, though, until the third one shows up. That one crawls on my leg. I jumped to my feet brushing frantically at my clothes. Jake looks up at me, a frown slowly forming as irritation takes over his features.

His eyes narrow with exaggerated disbelief, and though he doesn't say it out loud, the sarcasm is written all over his face. He's done humoring me. It's clear that he's lost patience with me, but at this point, I don't even care. There's a whole parade of ants now, dozens of them. I open my mouth, but the words won't come out.

So, I just point. Jake flicks the corner of the blanket, sending the ants flying off into the grass, and then looks around. His eyes scanned the area landing on a mound of churned earth nearby. A few steps later, he kicks at it and stomps it flat, dust rising around his shoes. Satisfied, he looks back at me, as if that should fix everything. Do you really think that's a good idea? I asked.

I read somewhere that ants out number people by a million to one. You probably shouldn't start something with them. Jake snorts asking me if I think, they're going to gang up on him and take their revenge. I don't say it, but that's exactly what I think. Ants operate as a superorganism. They communicate using pheromones and work collectively against threats. Threats like us.

I shudder. Maybe we should just head home, I say. Jake says nothing, but he kneels beside the picnic basket and begins to pack the remains of our meal with tight jerky movements. I watch him, wondering if I should help. But the sight of yet another aunt distracts me. When two more charge across the blanket and another climbs up my hiking boot, I decide Jake's on his own.

I shake my leg to dislodge it. Jake glances up at me, rolls his eyes, and then pointedly turns his back. Looks like I'm on my own, too. So much for the Boy Scout promise. A battalion of ants has now invaded our picnic area while Jake, oblivious, continues packing. I back away from the writhing mass of insects. that have assembled behind him. There are hundreds, thousands.

Their numbers swell between one breath and the next. I'm frozen in place as they gather, but when they surge forward, swarming over Jake, I break free of the paralysis and run. Back into the trees and down the path I run, blindly, mindlessly. My only thought is to get away. Eventually my aching legs and lungs force me to slow,

and then stop. But even as I gasp for breath, I scan the dusty ground for signs of ants. Are they coming for me, too? I can't stop brushing at my arms, my legs, my back. I rake my fingernails across my face and scalp, weeping. I can't see any bugs, but I can feel their tiny legs crawling all over me. As the light begins to fade, a new worry takes hold. Afternoon has given way to evening, and eventually night will fall.

How can I watch for ants in the dark? The last thing I want to do is go back to the picnic spot. But I don't really have a choice. Jake has the car keys. It's the only way out. I race against Twilight, finally finding my way back to the meadow. Heart pounding, I force myself across the field. I find Jake right where I left him, on the blanket by the river.

He lies motionless, besides the overturned picnic basket. There's no sign of it. of the ants. And Jake looks so peaceful I can almost believe he's only sleeping. Jake? He lies perfectly still. Not still. Dead. Dizzy with fear, I realize that I'll probably be next unless I can get out of here. But to do that, I need the car keys, and those are in Jake's pocket. I crouch beside him, take a deep breath and reach out a shaking heart. hand. Stealing myself, I poke a finger into his pocket. An aunt crawls across the back of my hand. I shake it off and scrawl backwards, unable to take my eyes off of Jake's face. In the fading light,

his skin appears to be rippling, like the surface of the river behind him. And then an aunt crawls out of his nose and across his cheek. Before my mind can make any sense of this, a second ant emerges, and then one crawls out of his mouth. Soon, a steady stream of ants pour out from between his lips covering his face and neck. That's when I start screaming. And I scream until the world goes away. I wake up an unknowable amount of time later in a well-lit room. White walls, white sheets on the bed, white tile floor.

I'm dressed in white, too. A pair of loose cotton pants and a matching top. I can't quite remember why, but the white is important. The white is good. There's a sharp knock at the door, then a man enters my room. He's wearing white as well. He addresses me by name and asks how I'm feeling today. A thousand images flood my mind, filling the holes in my memory.

I've been here for months. A hiker had found me wandering in the forest, dirty and dazed. Dr. Peterson has been working with me every day. her sense. Jake had died because of the wasp sting, the doctor insisted. An allergic reaction, nothing more. But I know the truth. It was the ants. They'd smothered him from the inside. I can't tell the doctor that, though. Not if I want him to believe I'm getting better. I'm good, doctor. I force my mouth into what I hope is a passable smile. Dr. Peterson's expression softened. He always looked so pleased when I played the part well.

He said I'd been making progress, said I was ready for the next stage. I nod, eager to please. Dr. Peterson has the nicest smile. He steps out into the hall, returning a second later with a wicker picnic basket. He's saying something about exposure therapy. But the rest of his words are drowned out by the roaring rush of blood in my ears. An aunt crawls out of the basket, up the doctor's wrist, and under the cuff of his white coat. Creepy presents.

I asked for new parents and got them. Written by Michael Squid and narrated by J.V. Hemp and Van Sant. In the two-bedroom apartment I called home, the screaming and shattered dishes never seemed to stop. Maybe for a few hours when Dad would glare at. at my mom, whisper some seething comment that made her wilt where she stood, and then storm out the slammed front door off to the local bar. My mom would sneer and aim her pent-up misery at me, muttering about how she wished she'd scraped me out with a coat hanger or drowned me in the toilet during my first breath. They both hammered it in. I was nothing good except a tax deduction.

Dad would return about three in the morning after the bars had closed, and it would start again. The yelling, the stomping, and slamming, the slaps, tears, and shattered throne glasses. I began reading to escape from it, getting lost in the words on the page. The books painted places I wished to fall into, along with my pattering tears. Everything seems so wonderful. in each world I read about. But after a crash from a throne remote, the shattering of dishes, or a closed hand across a cheek with a meaty slap, I'd be ripped back into my miserable childhood. When the school began decorating for the holidays, we had an activity where we wrote Santa

with a single request. It couldn't be a material possession of any sort, but a change we'd hope to see. Mine came out through my shaky pencil on that lined paper before I'd even had a chance to think it. I'd blinked and read it with surprise, just as the paper was plucked from the cold desk. New parents, in small, lowercase writing. The last thing I believed in was Santa, God being a close second, so I was I was to. I gave it no thoughts until the weekend. Friday night, my dad told me to pack some clothing as we were heading to the mountains in the morning. I woke early as the mist rolled down in blankets from the rain. It was a dreary day, and I wanted to just hide in my room and read, but the glare I

got when I showed hesitation from my father spoke volume. He'd flashed those glossy red eyes at me, and then squeezed my wrist hard until I feared it would snap as he muttered. Don't make me repeat myself. I stuffed my ripped backpack with a few articles of clothing and brought it into the backseat of the rusty station wagon, which stank of cigarettes and bourbon. My mom held her head low, her dark hair covering her red hair. purple puffy eye. The engine roared, and my dad flipped through the radio stations, punching the scan button with a fat, hairy finger, until country guitars twanged through the fuzzy signal, and we were off. We drove in silence, my mom's head frozen at an angle to view the world

rolling by outside, unable to even face either of us. My dad changed. My dad changed. Unsmoked, hot boxing the car with nauseating tangy puffs that burned my eyes. I tried to suppress my cough, but one escaped, and his thick neck swelled as he turned, his red-pocked face staring intently at me as his nostril twitched and lifted the corner of his lip with anger. I quickly looked down at my book, ignoring the car sickness which multiplied from the buzz of nicotine. Dad finally turned back to view the oncoming traffic past the rainy windshield. My stomach rose as the car leaned back from the steep incline, and soon, autumn color peaked out of the

haze. Lovely gradients of fiery reds and yellows decorated the valley. It was stunning. It looked like something out of the fantasy novel I was reading. I tried to ignore the clink of shells in the box under the driver's seat. My dad had brought his pistol and his ammo. I knew pistols weren't for hunting deer, after listening to the drunken threat so many nights. I knew they were for hunting people. Remember this place, Barb? After speaking the vows, you so lovingly.

kept. My dad asked in a question, slathered with sarcasm that cut the thick silence. She just ignored him and lit a smoke. The small cabin came closer into view as we turned, a little log building with dark stained wood and dusty windows. Loose shingles jutted out, missing in places like lost teeth. A dark, fence of rotted wood sagged and leaned around the perimeter. The car slowed to a halt in the wet leaves, and we stepped out into the mud as my father led us to the cabin door. He knocked a few times, then looked over the shoulder of his corduroy jacket, before forcefully ramming the door a few times with it till it gave in with a thud.

He stepped inside, and my mother followed, then I. I knew we had no right to be there, even at that age, but I didn't care. I even liked the idea of something different. I hated being home, and even though the cast of our fucked-up family sitcom was the same, the change of scenery was welcome. The cabin had a tiny room, all to myself, and I unpacked the few articles of clothing, I had with me, as well as a book I was reading, and my thrift store toy. I heard my parents talking and even laughing through my closed door.

Later, we ate some canned pasta we found in the cupboard. I twirled the slimy meal with a fork as my father smiled and asked me what I'd been reading. He nodded his head, clearly not listening to the answer. focusing on the pressure he applied to squeeze my mother's hand until she squeaked a pained yelp. I ignored this as I'd learned to. I'd only confronted him once before, and my mother then slapped me so hard she knocked me out cold.

I awoke my father throwing me through the glass pain of a sliding door. A bruise wrist and dislocated shoulder kept me out of school for a week, so nobody would be the wiser. It was a week spent with them, a week without escape from it. I never made that mistake again. I hurriedly forced down the soggy canned pasta with an averted gaze,

letting my dark bangs obstruct the view of their sadistic games, and I returned to my designated room as soon as I was dismissed. Out the small room's window, the peaking sun sank pink in a pool of amber behind the trees. I watched with teary eyes until the magma on the horizon dimmed, and the sky grew cold and blue. I kept thinking about the carton of bullets under his seat. I had an unshakable feeling. I wasn't ever leaving those woods.

The thought was interrupted by coarse shouting and vile insults spewing out just beyond the door. The silence between slaps and curses was even worse than usual, because they were something new. Long pauses of deliberation, of plotting, just waiting for some final push of a particular button. I covered my head with the pillow and eventually was able to fall asleep. I woke to the cold glow of moonlight on the wall as I heard the rustling of leaves, way too close to the window to the left of the bed. I gripped the scratchy blanket with small fingers and slowed my breathing to listen. I'd learned of bears and cougars, and the creatures from my book had filled my imagination with larger threats as well. Crunching twigs and rustling leaves told of movement.

I pulled the dusty wool blanket up to my nose, as the snap of branches sounded, and a large shadow entered the rectangle of moonlight projected on the wall. Someone, or something, had stopped. and was staring in. My blood chilled as I pictured the homeowner, back from a hunting trip and carrying a rifle, finding someone in his bed. Maybe it was a bear, smelling the easy prey just beyond the thin pane of glass.

I swallowed, and my heart beat fast as I watched the shadow. Eventually, it passed the window and rounded the house. I lay there for what felt like an eternity until I heard the thumping, heavy footsteps of my father with his muttered insults. A sliver of yellow light appeared under the bedroom door, and I heard his pissing in the toilet and mumbling. Then a door banged open. Who the fuck's there? My father slurred, and the pissing stopped immediately. Footsteps pounded along with the click of steel.

I heard two deafening gunshots, then the clinking of empty shells on the floor. I covered myself fully and tried to vanish in the mattress when a deep guttural scream bellowed out, followed by a cracking, loud and crisp. The snapping moved through the cabin, farther away, until it was outside the walls and deep into the woods. My mom's voice called out, spitting curses before her voice twisted high into a howling shriek. The loud crack started again, similar to thick branches snapping. But I knew as my skin raised from chills, it was the sound of breaking bone. Soon, everything was silent.

I lay there shivering, and I didn't move until the square of moonlight on the wooden wall transitioned into a glowing yellow from the rising sun. I smelled the eggs cooking before I heard the sizzling pan from under the door. I lifted my head from the pillow slowly, and then nearly had a heart attack as the wrapping on the door startled me. My mind raced through it all again and again, wondering if it was some feverish dream. I sat up in the small bed stunned, until curiosity led my feet over to twist the doorknob open and look into the sunlit cabin. My mother sat at the table, a large, strange grin fixed on her face. My father stood hunched over the stovetop. His broad shoulders to me as he flipped omelets in the skillet.

Garlic, onion, and rosemary filled the cabin. It smelled amazing. But my father never cooked before. Not ever. My mother extended an arm to the chair for me to sit. And I felt every hair on my neck stand when I realized her black eye was gone. It wasn't makeup like she'd apply lip. liberally after those drunken fights, it was simply gone, not even the slightest bit puffy.

I walked over slowly and slid into the chair, peering over the edge of the table at the steaming omelet. My father turned from the stove to face me, a broad, toothy smile on his smooth face. Too many teeth were in that slanted smile. His leaning jaw clicked into place as if it had just learned where it should hinge. My stomach twisted, but I sat down in the wooden chair, shaky and slow. We ate a meal like a normal family, or nearly normal. I ignored it when my father's hand would splay at the wrist by mistake in a fanning distorted mass before observing mine and then trying again properly at the base of the knuckles. I ignored it when my mother's neck folded down in a sharp angle with a muffled crunch before fixing itself into an upright position.

It was like they were learning, getting used to new, equipment. My gaze kept drifting to the long scratches on the floor, and the single fingernails stuck in the splintered woods path, to the red droplets spattered on the beams, and the two spent shell casings nestled between the floorboards. I turned my head to view the open front door, A red handprint smeared on the wooden frame. Through the doorway, a trail of fallen leaves had parted to reveal drag marks, leading to the lip of the ravine. I knew what was down there, waiting for the animals to pick apart the exposed meat and spread the bones to bleach in the sun. I knew.

But I just turned to the two smiling parents. whose skin sagged a bit too loose and smiled back. 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-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 story's author.