Creepy - Peel & Cookbook Stories from the Road

Episode Date: August 13, 2026

Peel***Written by: Hope Despair and Narrated by: Heather Thomas***Content warning: bullying, coercive behavior***Cookbook Stories from the Road***Written by: A.M. Symes and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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. Hey, y'all.

I'm sure you just got done listening to some George Strait or Randy Travis or the Judds or a commercial from a local tractor dealer. And I promise I'll get you right back to that as soon as I can. Because I'm like half a step out the door anyway. I'm going to take a few days

and head up to North Shore. Maybe check out the witch tree or the devil's kettle or some abandoned mental institutions. Plus I got to grab some pie from the rustic in. I know everyone says Betty's pies, but I hear that the raspberry cream is way to go, and honestly trying to convince me to try some pie

is even easier than lowering me into a white panel van with the promises of some grainy grindhouse VHS movie. Most people wouldn't be proud of that, but I feel sorry for those people. So anyway, let's just jump right into the stories so I can get out of here and eat pie until I question my life choices. First up, from writer,

Hope, Despair, and narrated by Heather Thomas. Creepy Presents. Peel. I lost my eyebrows on a Thursday. I distinctly remember because I had previously scheduled a Friday night date. I canceled it that morning

due to the two unfortunate circumstances suffered by my forehead. To clarify, I didn't exactly lose my eyebrows. They weren't lost. They were stuck to two strips of wax resting at the bottom of the trash can on the salon floor. No, they were taken, ripped from my face by my boss and the salon's HBIC, Harriet. To add some context to my lament, I'm an esthetician at a locally renowned salon and spa. Aesthetic skincare is pretty much the stratum basal layer of dermatology, and, unfortunately, my passion.

I wax and peel and extract like nobody's business. I would never dream of violating someone's appearance with my services. But then again, I am not Harriet. Harriet had had it out for me since day one, when I'd showed up five minutes late because of a traffic accident blocking my access to the salon and spa. As I burst through the door, panting from my parking lot sprint inside, I heard an exaggerated scoff coming from behind the front desk. I then received the bitchiest stare I had ever made eye contact with in my life.

She leered at me like I was a disobedient child. We open at 8.30, dear. Not 8.35. I apologized. In turn, she informed me that any excuses would not be tolerated. Consequently, I spent the majority of... my first day scrubbing wax off the floor with gougon in the hair removal room. As unfriendly as my initial impression of Harriet proved to be,

it never could have prepared me for the type of animosity she soon showered me with. Harriet was best friends with literally everyone else at the salon, so I had to navigate her icy waters all on my own. In front of my coworkers, she never so much as sneered in my direction. but whenever I passed her in the solitary hallway or bumped into her in the restroom, it was always a different story. She constantly called me into her office to perform demeaning tasks, such as emptying her personal waste basket,

or even waxing her nostrils for a salon demonstration. The crazy thing is, she usually had a word of encouragement for my colleagues, all of whom absolutely adored her. As for me, I was forever being picked apart by her criticism, none of which was constructive. Her micromanagement had taken on a nervous response in my brain that I can accurately liken to nothing other than a silently ticking time bomb. I had come to expect this sort of behavior from a superior ever since I'd entered the workforce, but I'd never suffered in silence the way I did around Harriet. until the brow incident, that is.

The incident took place last week, on Thursday, as I previously stated. My colleague, Stacey, and I were in between clients and hanging out at the front desk chit-chatting about this and that. Stacey was bemoaning the state of her eyebrows. She badly wanted to get a wax done but didn't have time to make an appointment with how busy we'd been. I heartily agreed, referring to my own. own bushy brows as an unruly pair of squirrel tales. Harriet, walking casually by, must have overheard.

She approached us predatorially with her fake patronizing demeanor, which of course went totally over Stacy's head. Smirking, she gushed over how thick and gorgeous Stacy's brows were. She described them as though they were actual people in the room with us, politely declining to roll my eyes. I instead turned to Stacy and informed her that I would be thrilled to give her a wax with the half an hour of downtime I had at the moment. Harriet interrupted, without missing a beat, proclaiming that she hadn't done any kind of hair removal in a while and was chomping at the bit to get back in the waxing room. Stacey cheerfully, if not naively, piped up with only pure praise for Harriet's outstanding waxing abilities. Harriet blushed and

waved her hand in dismissal as Stacey applauded her. She then proceeded to say she would be delighted to perform an eyebrow wax on Stacey and I, both right now. I cringed in disbelief and fear as Stacey egged me on and sang Harriet's praises. Finally, I consented to her coaxing and gave my willing consent to be Harriet's dummy for the next 30 minutes. Harriet's own resting bitch face gave me enough confidence in her ability to remain professional, regardless of how much she hated me on a personal level. Harriet usured us into the service room with gusto I had not yet seen from her. After Stacy had been taken care of, I laid down on the waxing table reluctantly. Harriet gently cleaned and powdered my brows. Her professionalism almost had me doubting why I had

ever misunderstood her. Right up until she ripped the first wax strip from off my face. A terrible dread consumed me. Rather than panicking, I took a deep breath and reassured myself that someone at Harriet's level of experience could never make a mistake, which I'm certain she most intentionally did not. For when she handed me the mirror to take a look at my freshly waxed face, I nearly cried out, not with joy at my new look, but complete and utter terror at the results of my post-appellation.

And in that small square mirror, an identity crisis took place. My eyebrows were thin pencil lines on the sparse abyss that was now my forehead. Harriet had obliterated the once thick, luscious caterpillars crawling on the upper end of my face and replaced them with tapeworms. I gasped in shock at my Y2K skinny, heroin-cheek-esque appearance. Harriet beamed at Stacey and asked her if she didn't think they looked much better now. Stacey nodded her approval, an arrested look of panic slightly smothering her smiling features. Yes, so good, she hesitantly offered.

I grimaced complacently at Harriet. It. Thanks. I managed to get out through my gritted teeth. She sashayed out of the room with a condescending sweep of her lacy, floor-length duster. I turned and faced Stacy head-on, murder in my eyes. In that moment, everything I'd held back for months came shooting out of my mouth before I could stop myself and get a grip. I exploded. How dare she! My voice quivered. How fucking dare she! Stacey cast me a disparaging look.

She tried to assure me that Harriet didn't mean it. She was just a little bit older and not up to date when it came to the eyebrow trends of today. She would certainly never try to upset me on purpose. The fuck she wouldn't, I responded angrily. That shady bitch has had. Had it out for me since day one! I walked away, muttering under my breath, and marched straight down to Harriet's office.

I yanked open the door to find her buried in her faux fur chair, clacking her sharply manicured nails across the keyboard of her MacBook. She didn't bother to acknowledge me over her boxy, cheetah-print fashion glasses as I entered the room. I slammed the door shut with the force that shook the room and prompted her to look up from her screen. Harriet? I began in a low tone, restraining myself from raising my voice. I need to speak with you.

I had walked in with every intention of confronting her, but my courage weakened considerably as I tried to hold my ground with her cold, disapproving eyes. I lost all resolve in an instant as she shrugged flippantly in the direction of the chair in front of her desk, prompting me to be seated. I wanted to give my notice. I'll be leaving in two weeks. My rent, utility bill, and car payment let out a collective scream of pain from the recesses of my bank account. And then I lied convincingly under my sticky, freshly waxed forehead.

I've found a new position in a spa out of town, I said, forcing a. a smile that made me look like a constipated egg. A smooth, albeit intestinally distressed, humpty-dumpty. What was I thinking? I needed this job. Unfortunately, I had been driven beyond the brink of reason at this point. It was too late to turn back now. Harriet smiled wickedly and gave her blessings.

As I stood up to leave, she surprised me by asking me for one last favor. In a terribly affected manner, she requested that I perform a service on her at some point before I finished my time here. She wanted an anti-aging chemical peel. In a post-panic state of deep confusion, I agreed and immediately quitted the room to set up an appointment for her with myself. I never questioned why she'd want me to give her a chemical peel. I was conditioned to assume she wanted a final chance to assert dominance by shaming me and barking orders so I'd be sure to feel extra incompetent before I left. In the meantime, I was too consumed with the anxiety of finding a new job and starting over,

to give it much thought. Two weeks flew by with the speed of time you don't want to end for fear of what comes next. Oddly enough, Stacey wasn't at work at all for the 14-day duration. When I asked Harriet if she knew what happened, she simply scoffed and informed. formed me that in the real world, sometimes employees just quit showing up. And if they had the audacity to fuck her over like that, she didn't give a shit what became of them. I found this quite enlightening, but given the fact Stacey had been a big fan of Harriet's, I didn't see much of a motive for her departure.

Not that it was any of my business. I attempted to focus on keeping my head down as the days well. on. On my last day at the salon and spa, I took great care in setting up for Harriet's appointment with me. I wanted everything to be perfect. If she found one thing to criticize about the peel, which, let's be realistic, she most definitely would. It wouldn't be for my lack of attention to detail. I chose a strong retinol peel and prepped my supplies meticulously. I was ready ten minutes ahead of schedule. Harriet, of course, stood impatiently outside the door to the facial room for a good half hour beforehand, puttering around and peeking inside incessantly.

When I greeted her and called her inside, she approached and sourly asked why I'd speak to her so loudly and what was intended to be a calm and relaxing environment. I smiled and apologized I did need her for a reference on my resume, unfortunately. It was time to play nice, and then get the heck out of Dodge. Harriet kept making little harum-fing noises as she positioned the sheets over herself on the treatment table. I rolled my eyes inwardly and slightly turned up the soothing nature sounds playing on the speaker. Pulling a spa headband around her heavily hairsprayed dew,

I could feel the disdain emanating off her temples. She made sure to narrow her eyes with malice at me before closing them. The facial steamer began issuing a steady cloud of moisture as I painted cleanser onto Harriet's face. Her facial muscles progressively relaxed while I massaged her skin into a healthy glow. It radiated with all the attributes of a ripe pink piglet being plumped up for the future squealing of bacon in a frying pan.

Harriet melted at the relaxing movements of my hands. After preparing her skin, I opened the retinol peel and carefully applied the first layer. Her epidermis was basically begging for the rejuvenation of retinol. Harriet's skin was tough and could tolerate quite a few layers of the product. Per protocol, I let the peel do its work for a couple minutes in between each layer. chemical peels cause slight discomfort and tingling as they process, and I could sense Harriet beginning to twinge by the fifth application. Okay, last one, I promised,

as I bent over her with a piece of saturated gauze in my hand and firmly pressed it down over her mouth. Those evil eyes flew wide open, and muffled exclamations of anger sounded through my palm. I held her against the table, she squirmed. The chloroform impaired her quickly, and her struggles eventually ceased. I worked with renewed passion as I neutralized the peel. I wouldn't have wanted to disfigure the skin. Next, I grabbed a derma-planning blade from the drawer across the room and returned to my now

silent employer's side. Cradling Harriet's limp head in one hand, I deftly slid my guillotine, sharp blade across her neck with the other. A rich red stream ran down her chest, and I took to mapping her face. When I was satisfied with my measurements, I angled the blade just under her hairline and cut deeply along my pattern of markings. Once finished, I began to cautiously peel back the face. I hate it above all faces. Blood and tissue oozed from beneath the detach. Blood and tissue oozed from beneath the detached flesh. I accomplished this task fairly quickly. It took me considerably less time than it had taken with Stacy's face.

Harriet's was a lot slimyer due to the combined flow of blood and Botox. The leathery cutout was almost slipping off by its completion. I recalled the gratification of slicing away Stacy's mug after she'd encouraged Harriet to vandalize mine. I held up my goopy pelt and chuckled. remembering how I'd once thought I would have never disfigured a client's appearance. Thankfully, I hadn't disfigured another person. This was merely a corpse that had had a little cosmetic work done.

Admiring my work, I planned what I'd do with my night after I disposed of Harriet's faceless body. A glass of wine, some trash TV, and another collagen-renewing face mask. just a relaxing Thursday night in. And next, from writer AM Sims and narrated by Rissa Montanez. Creepy Presents, Cookbook Stories from the Road. Here lies the final audio recording known to have been recorded by missing person, Alexis Bellasio, a podcast food influencer missing since last month. The recording gives insight into Alexis' final known whereabouts.

Despite not being formally named in the audio, local law enforcement believed the town in reference to be in northern Wisconsin, somewhere along Lake Superior South Side. Alexis has not been seen or heard from since this recording was uploaded to their podcast. If you have any information regarding Alexis's whereabouts, events leading up to their disappearance, or further details that can be shared about the unnamed town they reference, please contact local authorities immediately. Hello, and welcome to Cookbook Stories from the Road.

This is yours truly Alexis Bellasio, and thank you so much for listening to my podcast. You all are wonderful. my dears, for making me the number one New England foodie podcast as I travel across the USA in search of the finest foods. If you haven't already, please like and subscribe. This week is super special. I mean, every week is special with me. Am I right?

But this week, I'm coming to you, not from my typical upscale restaurant within one of our many metropolitan cities, but from a small town in Wisconsin. This town is so small. small, in fact, that it was not listed on any of my maps beyond highlighting an intersection of two county roads near a cemetery. Ooh! Seriously, Google Maps wouldn't even take me here! I had to actually write a paper map to find the crossroads. Hello? I'm sure you're asking why I've taken my cookbook story so far off my typical road search, and the answer is a rumor. Yes, a rumor. A rumor of the most amazing cheese my taste buds will ever delight in.

Naturally, I scoffed when one of my adoring fans sent me an email, contesting last week's story of the best cheese west of New York City coming from a delightful creamery in Oregon. I wrote back to the emailer and explained that they had no business telling me, me, what is to be classified as good food. But the fan insisted I alter my route home to upstate New York and stop in this town so small it doesn't have a name, Wisconsin. Curiosity and pride led me to this diner, my dears.

Curiosity to a town with no name. Curiosity to a diner with no name. And pride in being told what I should know. You know me. My ego knows no bounds. I drove the open road back across these great plains, turned north in rural Minnesota, and popped across the state line where

by following the crudely drawn map from this so-called cheese master who beckoned me, and then I found myself at an intersection shared with a cemetery, an abandoned schoolhouse, an empty lot, and a diner one could only fantasize came from the mind of some super old horror writer from like the 90s. I retrieved the fans' email, which, along with the map, contained a recipe for barata, cheese, and headed inside the diner that was easily three times as old as I am. I locked my jacket behind despite the chilly temperatures. This diner's decrepit disposition did not instill great confidence that I could keep the greasy smell from its leather.

So I'm going to share the recipe with you now, my dears, because you'll hopefully notice an assuming typo in a list of ingredients. Or maybe it isn't a typo. Who knows what these small town folks? Wait, make that no-name town folks. put in their food. Recipe 4. Barada cheese. No-name diner. 2.5 pounds of mozzarella curd, diced small.

1.5 cups of heavy cream. 1 cup of ricotta. 1 3rd cup of whey. 4 tablespoons of unsalted butter. 5 quarts of water. 1 tablespoon arsenic. Half a cup of kosher salt. Finish this sentence.

If you're going to eat cheese, you have to eat. Tough, right? But if you're looking for a signature cheese experience, a tantalizing experience, if you're looking for an ecstasy that will make even a palate as refined as mine quiver with delight, then look for brata cheese. Once you become enamored with,

with barata cheese, there's no going back. You'll be wrapped up in the stories of fromages and begin to identify with them like you would a lover in silken sheets. The unique process from which barata is created is what makes me eager to cruise through this diner's vat of pasteurized dairy and way. For those uncultured in the art of cheese, barata is divine. Mozzarella, diced into a little. Mozzarella, diced into a petite squares, heavy cream whipped, ricotta crumbled and slightly dry. These ingredients are stretched, pressed, diced, mixed, heated, and iced to create a cheese worthy of its artisan heritage. In the diner that, like the town, doesn't have a name, I shared a long counter with two old-timers

and a waitress who looked as if she was born to work in a haunted house. A much older woman, and ran the kitchen, watching me through the ordering window, and I couldn't help but feel like she was not welcoming at all. Hmm. Small towns typically have this disposition towards me, I've found. They are intimidated by my presence. When I asked where everyone was from, the older of the old-timers smirked and pointed to the cemetery across the street.

As I said, small towns don't appreciate me when the way to be. The waitress refilled the men's coffees? They both ordered barata and fresh bread. When it was clear the waitress wasn't going to serve me, I interrupted her chattering with the old-timers and told her I was also there for the barata. Then I asked her to explain to me why the barata is supposedly so magnificent at her little diner. After rudely laughing at me, the younger of the old-timers responded that he and his comrades always spend their day back with the air suckers, enjoying the best food on earth. Mm-hmm.

You heard me, right? Mm-hmm. He said, back with the air suckers. Not cryptic at all. But don't worry, I'm not easily deterred from getting the answers that I want. But why not order mozzarella sticks or cheese curds? Something more in tune with your Wisconsin heritage, I persisted. Why, Barada?

The man shrugged and sipped his Folger's coffee and told me, It's just bitter. His friends simply nodded in agreement. I told the waitress I wanted the same. I explained I had driven hours out of my way at the behest of an adoring fan so I could taste this supposed delicious cheese. She actually rolled her eyes at me before barking my order through the order window. The old woman behind the kitchen window popped her head out and smiled at me.

Well, not so much a smile but stretched her lips across her teeth in an attempt to imitate a smile. I took out the copy of the barata recipe. The waitress snatched the paper away from me, and before I could react, she handed it to the old woman. The old woman checked the paper and unleashed a brow so furrowed and nose so wrinkled, You think I had confessed to being a fan of Velveeta cheese. You want this burata? I make you this burrata, she said before disappearing into the bowels of the kitchen. And so, after three Johnny Cash songs finished playing on the jukebox, a plate slid in front of me. A blob of white sat in the center of an Elvis plate and ten discut pieces of fresh bread surrounded it.

Seriously, someone needs to tell these people Elvis is dead and that they should buy dinnerware not from Goodwill. I want to repatrianize you, the old woman yelled from the kitchen. What even does that mean? I called back, but she gave no answer. The old timers laughed and told me to eat up. My senses were offended on so many levels up to this point, but fear not, listeners. this story has a happy ending. Despite the smell of the grease, despite the plastic chairs,

despite Elvis twerking at me from the ancient plastic plate, and despite the plastic silverware, the cheese. Oh, my God. You don't have to be from Wisconsin to appreciate cheese. But with the first bite, I couldn't help but think something so scrumptious as this barata was being wasted on such unsophisticated tonies. When I removed the asphidal leaves and cut through the thin pasta fil-upacred shell,

buttery and creamy pana, containing scraps of mozzarella oozed out. The flavor was decadent and bold. The texture, lips macking. I'm partial to enjoying barata with prosciutto, fresh tomatoes with olive oil, and with spaghetti, but none were offered to me. I doubt this diner has heard of olive oil. They seem more like the industrial-sized can of canola oil type. Hmm. There was a slight tingling sensation on my lips as I slurped up the juices, but I assumed that this was leftover soap residue on Elvis from an ancient dishwasher I figured the diner used.

That aside, and despite my years of first, formidable training, I almost admitted aloud to the folks that this was in fact the best cheese to ever dance across my palate. But their disdain and clear looks of mockery made me hold my tongue, if not to keep it wrapped around the succulent dairy godliness in my mouth for a moment longer. Interrupting my orgasmic experience with the cheese, the older of the old-timers said my tagline. Finish this sentence. If you're going to eat cheese, you have to eat. Finally, they were admitting they knew who I was. With a mouthful of drops of heaven, I replied. The answer is no name Wisconsin Diner Barada. Yes, while absolutely rare, I can admit when I am wrong.

And I was wrong about the best cheese from Oregon. The best cheese is, annoyingly, from Wisconsin. I hummed the entire time, savoring the bursting flavors as I slid through my mouth. All things being equal, I prefer to enjoy my fresh bread and cheese without the twisting sensation that leaves my stomach in tight cramps moments after finishing my meal. It's a side effect of the Midwest Willwater, I'm sure. The old cook, who confessed to being the writer who shared her special barata recipe, assured me a pleasant satisfaction. I collect the souls of those lost to me through food, she said.

I am still unsure what she means. If it means convincing even the highest of food critics such as myself that her barata is not to be mocked, then she has succeeded admirably. But I didn't ask for clarification, my dears, because a gathering of other old-timers had formed in the parking lot of the cemetery as I finished my meal. Their lack of style and dead glares may be long gone before I needed to interact any further with these small-town folks. So I am signing off for now. I want to upload this episode before making the rest of my drive home, and I better to it quickly.

Despite the best cheese, dare I say, in the northern hemisphere, my stomach is beginning to spasm, and the tingling sensations running up my arms are bothersome. Perhaps I need a quick nap in my car to alleviate these pains. Anyway, adios, my dears. This is Alexis Palacio, bidding you, adieu. 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 Shera-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 stories author.