Creepy - Promises We Make In December: Part 4, Chapters 1-3

Episode Date: January 1, 2022

Written by: TW Grim and Narrated by: Joe Stofko***Find our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Welcome to the Bloody Disgusting Network. 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, much simply fabrications, is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of, violence and explicit language.

Listener discretion is advised. The promises we make in December by T.W. Grimm. Part 4, Chapter 1. In my imagination, I was going to take Moses out with a single swing of my father's mighty pickaxe as he stepped into the shed. But this was reality, not a child's revenge. fantasy, and Moses was a cany old warrior who had dealt with far worse characters than a small and frightened young boy. He started to step into the shed to bait me and then nimbly jumped back,

yanked the door shut as I leaped out of the shadows to bury the pickaxe in his heart. I tried to stop in mid-swing, but the head of the axe was too heavy, and I stumbled headlong into the door. In the same instant, Moses shoved it open and sent me reeling across the shed. I fell on my ass on the floor, and Moses flicked on the light switch, making me squint in the sudden glare of the naked light bulb overhead. My head was ringing from the brisk impact with unyielding wood, and my vision went blurry with the tears in my eyes. I figured you'd try something. They always try something if you don't tie him up. Moses had a gun in his hand, a large, shiny revolver with a long barrel and a silver-plated grip. He squinted at me in puzzlement and pointed with the gun

at the mining tool in my hands. Are you holding a fucking pickax? Where the hell did you get that? I weased, my dad, and was seized by a coughing fit, that left me red-faced and shaking. It was cold in the shed, but I was starting to sweat. Moses watched in amusement as I struggled to my feet and hoisted my weapon over my shoulder, swaying slightly as I fought to stand up straight. I spat out a wad of gelid mucus and whispered,

"'Fuck you, I'm not dying out here!' Moses raised an eyebrow, then cracked a cheerless grin, and gave me a slight nod. You got a lot of fighting, you, kid. I'll give you that. You got more heart than most. It's too bad I got to do this. Moses closed the door behind him.

He paused, looking thoughtful. Then dropped his gun to his side and said, What the hell, fuck it. Why not? Tell you what, kid. I'll give you one free swing with that rock tapper there. How's that sound?

Let me have it, little man. and give me your best shot. Moses beckoned me with his free hand, his mouth twisted into a cruel smile, and a thin, trembling war cry ripped out of my chest. I ran at him, still wailing, and Moses reached up to deflect the blow. But I didn't swing for his head or body this time.

Instead, I swung the pickaxe in a swift, savage downward arc that drove the pointed end right through his, foot and into the plywood beneath. Thunk! Moses's face twisted in agony. He roared, You little fuck! And tried to jerk his foot away from the searing pain. The foot didn't budge, and he lost his balance falling heavily onto his back and dropping the gun in the process. It spun away across the floor and skidded into the narrow space beneath my father's sagging old workbench. I scrambled after it, and Moses rolled onto his size to seize hold of my foot. I tumbled onto my face, and he dragged me closer, shrieking profanities as he reached for my neck.

I started lashing out with my other leg in a series of desperate mule kicks, and I felt his nose crunch beneath my heel. His grip on my foot loosened for an instant, and I pulled free, leaving him with nothing but a sock clutched in his hand. I crawled on all fours to the workbench and jammed my arm underneath, scraping my skin braw against the splintered wood as I groped blindly for the gun. Behind me, Moses shrieked,

I'll kill you, cock-sucker. I'll rip your fucking throat out. He grabbed onto his lower leg and yanked the point of the axe out of the plywood with a convulsive, heaved, screaming like a train whistle the entire time. He tried to pull the head of the pickaxe out of his foot and roared, Oh, fucking hell that hurts!

Then rolled over onto his stomach and started to wriggle towards me like a snake, dragging the pickaxe behind him as he pulled himself across the floor on his gut. The biker's nose was leaning at a strange angle, gushing blood all over his mouth and into his, beard in a steady stream. He bared his bloody teeth at me like an animal. Kill you, he panted. Oh, I am gonna fucking kill you. My fingertips grazed something cold and angular. I grabbed a gun and spun around to face him, brandishing the heavy firearm in front of me in a clumsy, two-handed grip. I cocked back the hammer with both thumbs. Moses stopped crawling and

blinked at the revolver in my hands, his rage crumbling into open-mouth dismay. I'd never fired a gun before, but my target was only a few feet away, an easy shot. Even with my arms trembling the way they were, there was no way I could miss. You sure you can do this? Moses gasped, because if you pull the trigger boy, there's no going back. I struggled to find an answer to that. Finally, I let out a shuddering breath and said, There's no other way. I have to. Moses considered this, his breath rasping in and out of his massive chest in large white plumes.

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and said, Do what you got to do then, little man. I pulled the trigger. The gun bucked powerfully in, my hand, kicking back and almost nailing me in the face. A fine spray of red ejected from the back of the biker's shaggy skull, and Moses folded into himself on the floor, fingers scratching meaninglessly at the plywood as the light faded from his eyes. I gaped at the body for a few moments, my ears ringing painfully, and then I stumbled

over to the opposite corner of the shed to paint the wall with the water of the water of the splash of vomit. After I stopped dry heaving, I was gripped by a ferocious bout of shivering, and the fever sweat turned to beads of ice against my skin. I wanted my bed more than anything in the world. I wanted to hide under the blankets and sleep for an eternity, but I couldn't, not just yet, because Dan was still out there, and Dan had to be dealt with. There's not a lot of. There's not a No other way, I repeated to myself, and the words made me shudder. They were full of a dark and potent magic, a grim incantation against an odious curse. They were powerful words. They represented freedom.

I heard a rattle as the doorknob started to turn, and my lips skinned back from my teeth into something between a grin and a grimace. It was time for a reckoning. Vengeance is cold and sour work, as cheerless as hot dogs and canned beans on Thanksgiving Day, as bitter as the heart of a child whom fate has abandoned to a world without mercy. Vengeance is a canker in your soul that eats away at everything that is good inside you, leaving behind a dark void that swarms with the restless ghosts of the past. But it's good, too. It's so fucking good.

The door burst open and Dan came charging in, a bottle of rum swishing in hand, and an indignant expression on his face. He said, Jesus Christ, what the hell's going on out? He trailed off, then sputtered. What the fuck? He gaped like a fish at the blood and mayhem around him.

For the first time, since he'd rudely swaggered into my life back in March, Dan was at a loss for words. His head swibbled mechanically to look over at me. I pointed the gun at him and cocked the hammer. How? Dan groaned. How in hell? None of your business, I snapped.

You're done. You won't hurt us ever again. You won't do that, he whispered. You don't have the guts. I pointed over to where my... Moses lace fralled on the floor. There was no need to say anything else. Dan dropped the bottle and spun around to bolt for the open door. I squeezed off a shot, and a hole burst open in the back of his leather jacket, high up on his left shoulder blade. He cried out in pain and stumbled out into the darkness, cursing me in a high, ragged wine. I squeezed off another shot and gave chase

into the snow, one foot completely bare, and the other clad only in a wet sock. The raw, biting air immediately began to freeze my piss-soaked pants against my leg and crotch. The sensation was awful, but I welcomed it nonetheless, because it meant that I was alive. I looked around wildly and spotted Dan struggling down the driveway to his car, walking with an odd hunch shouldered gait as he lurched and slipped around in his cowboy boots. I ran after him and fired two more shots. Dan dropped where he stood. He curled up on his side like a dying bug and lay still,

the driving snow rapidly covering him in a luminous white shroud. I approached cautiously and prodded him with the gun. He didn't move. I pressed the barrel into his bullet wound. There was no response. I put the barrel to the back of his head and debated pulling the trigger, but I couldn't quite bring myself to do it. I was shivering violently, and my feet had already gone from screaming in the cold

to having almost no sensation at all. It was done. Dan was no more, and now all I wanted was to crawl into the safety and warmth of my bed There might be repercussions later, but that was later. In the meantime, I would hide in my room and sleep like the dead. I clumped up to the front door on my numb frozen feet and tumbled into the warmth on the other side. I pressed my face into the damp, coarse fabric of the front entrance carpet, and started to sob. I had hated Dan Tully for a long time, but I had never concheworthed.

wanted him dead. I just wanted him out of our lives. Up until that night, I never once wished harm on another living being, and now I was a murderer. Moses had said, if you pull that trigger, there's no going back. And he was right. Justified or not, when you take another life, you destroy a piece of yourself as well, and you will never be whole again. I snuffled up my tears and turned to swing the door closed. I caught a blur of movement from the corner of my eye, and in the next instant I found myself face down on the floor with the back of my head throbbing and stars exploding in front of my eyes.

The hard square heel of a cowboy boot pressed down on my forearm, and I squealed. Dan growled, "'Let go of the piece, or I'll break it.' He ground his heel against my arm in a twisting motion, and I let go of the gun. Dan snatched it up and rolled me over with a sharp kick. Turn over. Look at me. My brain was pounding and buzzing from the blow to the back of my head. I squinted up at Dan's pale, ghostly face, and groaned.

He was standing over me in that odd humphed. on-shouldered posture, his left arm curled up uselessly against his chest, and his hair dripping with melting snow. He said, You can't shoot for shit. You should have pulled the trigger when you had the gun to my head, but you didn't have the balls. You're a piss ant. I pulled myself up into a sitting position and grinned in pain. It was time for the unfiltered truth. The only way I could hurt him at that point, I said, You're a coward.

You pick on people who can't fight back. But you're afraid of anyone stronger than you. You're the piss ant, not me. You're nothing. Uncertainty crossed over Dan's face. He drawled, It's the way of the world, kid. Dog eat dog.

He pointed the revolver at my head. I'm going to have to take care of your mom now, too. What do you think about that? I shook my head at him. He basked in my panic. Loose ends and loose lips, Johnny. I can't risk it. And it's all your fault. I just want to make sure you knew that. Dan pulled the trigger. The hammer fell and nothing happened. He froze for a moment, looking uncertain. Then tried again, producing another dry, flat click and nothing more. It dawned on me that I had fired at Moses once, sent four bullets flying at Dan, and the sixth had plowed through Donny's skull earlier in the day.

I saw the realization sweep across Dan's face, and I tensed to run. He clenched his teeth and snarled. Nothing's going right today, I swear to God. I rolled into a clumsy backward somersault and sprinted for the kitchen, screeching the entire way at the agonizing pins and needle sensation of the blood flow returning to my frozen feet. Dan was hot on my heels, brandishing the revolver like a club and roaring incoherently. I scampered into the laundry room and whirled to close the door, wrapping Dan hard in the face as I slammed it shut. Dan fell heavily on the other side and bellowed in rage. I snatched the rubber doorstops. off the shelf and jammed it under the door. Dan started kicking the door a split second later,

then threw himself against it like a battering ram. He was slobbering and screeching wordlessly in a thick, rasping voice that made my hair stand on end. The last tattered remnants of his humanity had fallen aside, and now the real Dan Tully was in charge. The rabid wolf hiding inside the handsome bad boy disguise that had so cleverly fooled my lonely widowed young mother. The real Dan was a dark, roiling cloud of homicidal fury, an agent of chaos and discord. He was the monster that waits in the shadows, the unspeakable horror that lurks beneath your bed. Dan had to die. He was beyond redemption. Truthfully, though, I think if there had been another way to stop him, I still would have chosen death. Vengeance is bitter to the last drop. It truly is.

But it's good, too. The door was slowly screeching open beneath the ferocity of his assault. I turned to the shelf and pawed through the jumbled clutter of detergents and chemical cleaners, desperately looking for something I could use as a weapon. Behind me, the door jolted open just enough for Dan to force his head and his good arm into the room. A small knot was developing just above his eyebrow, and his eyes were wild with fury. He tried to bludgeon me with the gun, but he couldn't quite reach,

so he threw it instead, and started bucking wildly to open the gap between the door and the wall. I ducked away from the improvised missile, and answered with a thick blast in the face from a spray bottle filled with a clear, fluid. The smell of bleach filled the air, and Dan recoiled sharply. He choked out, fucking shitbag, and started to cough. His eyes squinted shut, and he yanked himself free of the doorway.

I heard him stumble and gag his way over to the kitchen sink, knocking a stack of dirty plates to shatter on the floor as he flailed blindly for the tap. He screeched, ah, fuck me! and more dishes crashed to the floor. You dirty cocksucker! My eyes! I spied a broom leaning against the washer, but the handle was made of plastic and was too light and flimsy to be of any use. I grabbed my mom's iron on the shelf,

and I gave it an experimental heft in both hands. The iron was solidly built and came to a blunt point at the front end. It would do the job. I pulled the doorstop away and took in a deep trembling breath. I was shaking like a leaf. I slapped myself across the face and hardened my resolve. I'd had a chance to end this nightmare confrontation once already,

but I'd failed. I wasn't going to let that happen again. Dan's fumbling hands finally located the tap. He sputtered out a string of guttural curses beneath the running water. his words bubbling out in ragged snatches as he rinsed the bleach from his eyes and mouth. He was bent over the sink in a vulnerable position with his good arm supporting his weight and his neck twisted so he could hold his face in the water. I tiptoed out of the laundry room and scampered up behind him with my makeshift weapon raised high.

I slammed the pointed end into the side of his neck as hard as I could. hood. There was a loud, fleshy whap, and Dan's skull wrapped smartly off the bottom of the sink. He snorted in a lung full of water and choked on it. I screamed, No more! And I brought the iron down a second time, driving it into his temple, hard enough to send it bouncing out of my hands. There was an audible crunch on impact, and Dan shrieked. He batted me away with a flailing arm and collapsed under the floor. wheezing and blubbering and holding his head. His eyes were still squeezed shut against the caustic burning of the bleach. I was dimly aware that I was disappointed by that, because I wanted him to see it, all of it.

I wanted him to see me as I killed him. Dan started crawling around the kitchen in small circles, searching for me by touch, as blood pattered onto the floor from a deep, ugly-looking, Gash in his temple. He shrilled, You hurt me. Oh, you little bastard, you hurt me. Where are you? You get over here. I skirted around him and pulled a small carving knife from the wooden block on the counter. Dan heard the sh of the stainless steel, sliding past the wood, and he panted, You bring it on then, boy, I'll shove that thing up your ass.

Dan struggled to his feet and staggered in my general direction, peering through slitted, watering eyes as he searched for me with a clasping hand. I circled away and waited until he bumped into the counter, then scooted in close and jabbed him in the lower back. He let out a harsh caw and turned around to deck me. But I ducked under his wild swing and stabbed him just above the groin. Dan wailed and lashed out again with his good arm, managing to give me a glancing blow off the top of my head

that drove me to my knees. I lashed out with the blade and slashed across his right quadriceps, making him howled in pain and lunge back into the corner. He tried to kick me in the head and missed. The sole of his cowboy boots slipped on the smooth floor, and Dan hit the deck, smacking his already battered skull off the edge of the counter with tremendous force on the way down. He tried to sit up, but the effort left him groaning and trembling.

His blood was all over the floor in splotches and splashes. Some of them smeared with a palm print or a skidding heel mark. The kitchen looked like an avatar. What's happening? Dan moaned, and he rolled onto his stomach. "'Jesus Christ, what's happening?' "'I fell on him, the knife poised to kill. "'Dan screamed for mercy, "'but his hysterical pleas fell on deaf ears.

"'I jabbed a knife into the back of his neck "'and pushed it in, leaning into it with all of my weight. "'The blade scraped past his cervical vertebrae "'and sank into his flesh up to the handle. "'Dan gobbled and jolted wildly beneath me, "'his body suddenly a legible, electric with adrenaline, and he bucked me off his back like a rodeo bull. I scooted across the linoleum on my butt and watched, as Dan clambered to his feet, gurgling and clutching at the sharp

metal point that was protruding an inch or so from the front of his neck. He tried to grab the handle and pull the blade out of his throat, but the pain made him whine and collapse against the cupboards. He tried to speak, but his words were lost in a thick. glut of gore. He kept trying to say whatever it was that he wanted to say, choking up splurt after splurt of foamy crimson icor as he slid down and collapsed onto the kitchen floor. I felt a wave of unreality wash over me, and gray spots danced across my vision. I was burning up, but chills were racing up and down my spine. I coughed until there were tears in my eyes. I coughed, until there were tears in my eyes, then spat up a wad of phleg and said,

I don't want to hear it. Just die and let it be done. I sat there and waited for his life to drain away. It didn't take very long. He drowned a death in his own blood. Near the end, Dan's eyes popped wide open, and I saw that the bleach had burned them just as red as a fire engine. I stared into those red unblinking eyes and watched as they glazed over and lost focus. When I was sure that it was over, I pulled the knife out of his neck and wiped my fingerprints off the handle with a paper towel. I soaked into a soft, sodden little ball in the sink and buried it deep in the garbage. In a vague sort of way, I already knew that I was going to lie to the police.

The truth was too dangerous. When my work in the kitchen was done, I wandered into the living room and plunked myself down in front of the Christmas tree. The wind was raging through the open front door, drifting snow into the front hallway, but I still felt like I was burning up. I was floating in between a dream and reality. The blinking lights washed over me, and I was at peace in their glow. I slowly became aware of a presence at the front door, the outline of a large and familiar figure. The door closed and booted feet shuffled into the living room. It was my father. In my dazed and feverish state of mind, I felt no fear or confusion at his appearance. Dad was home for Christmas, and all would be well again.

Dad sat down beside me on the floor, and the blinking lights washed over us, bathing us in shifting ethereal hues of red, green, and gold. He looked exactly as he had on that long ago morning when I secretly watched him get ready for work, except the frown lines were gone, and his eyes were placid. The gaunt, soot-smeared apparition for my nightmare had finally been laid to rest. At long last, my father was free.

Part 4, Chapter 2. I remember that Dad spoke to me long into the night, but I wasn't able to understand anything he said. His words were oddly muffled and indistinct, but they were full of comfort and security nonetheless, and I fell asleep, leaning against his broad, strong shoulders, listening in a numb haze as he soothed me with his whispered murmurings. My mother found me there, curled up on the carpet in front of the tree, at just before 6 a.m. on Christmas Day, and she startled me awake with an ear-piercing scream of anguish. You were covered in blood, she said later,

when enough time had passed for us to finally be able to mention that night. I mean, the kitchen was a mess, And Dan was—and there you were lying on the floor all covered in blood. I thought you were dead. It was like the world had ended. The police pinned the murders of both Moses and Donnie on Dan, although they suspected that Moses had been involved in Donny's death as well. This left one last question.

Who killed Dan? The lead investigators were named Detective Decker and Detective LePont, and they questioned me in as delicately. it a manner as a couple of cynical, hard-nosed veterans like them could manage. It wasn't long before they became highly skeptical of my story. They pressed me relentlessly on the details, but I doggedly stuck to the sparse basics of my story that I had observed Dan and Moses carrying a body into the shed

at shortly after 4 p.m., heard yelling and gunfire, then saw Dan leave the shed by himself. I refused to elaborate on the details of my statement, and I could feel their mounting suspicion pouring off them in waves. Decker grimaced at me and said, Okay, tell us again exactly what happened when Dan left the shed. We're confused about this part of the story. Help us understand, Johnny, okay? He saw me through the window and chased me into the laundry room. I recited mechanically, and LePont's frown deepened.

I put the rubber doorstop under the door, so he couldn't force it open, and I waited until I couldn't hear him outside anymore. When things got quiet, I opened the door, and— And he was already dead, LePont finished. He shared a look with Decker, then turned back to me and leaned in close. I'm going to be frank with you here, buddy. I don't believe that. Dan Tully was involved in a very traumatic struggle before he died.

He had chemical burns on his eyeballs. Someone bludgeoned him with a clothesiron hard enough to crack his skull, and then he was stabbed to death with a knife from your mom's knife set. The kitchen was a disaster, blood and chairs and broken dishes all over the place, and you're telling me that you didn't hear any of this happening? Just on the other side of that door? "'Come on. You're not being truthful. Help us out here, will you?' Mom shook a warning finger at him and bark. Don't you start hectoring my son? He's been through

too much more than you know. We agreed to come down here for an interview, not an interrogation. I put a hand on her arm and softly said, "'It's okay, Mom. Take it easy.' I looked at LePont and shrugged. "'I don't know what to tell you. I mean, I've been—' was scared, and I really don't remember much about that part. I can't help you. There was a third pair of footprints in the house, bootprints, Decker said. We believe they belonged to whoever killed Dan. Was anyone else with them that day, Johnny? Do you remember hearing another voice after you barricaded yourself in the laundry room? I looked at him sharply,

my breath catching in my throat. Another set of footprints? I thought of my father and the rough texture of his work jacket against my face, murmuring to me from a place that was somewhere between a dream and reality. Decker saw my reaction, and he leaned in, even closer, his eyes bright and predatory. "'You can talk to me,' he said. "'You're safe with us. No one can hurt you or your mom, not here.' "'No one but you, I thought, and I gave him a blank look. I don't remember seeing anyone else. I don't know what happened after I locked myself in the laundry room. I'm sorry.

Can I go home soon? Lepaunt blew out an impatient gust of air and lit a cigarette. Decker leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. He looked exhausted, unkempt, and extremely short on patience. We've got three dead bodies, and only one witness, you. You're the only one who can tell what happened that night. why won't you cooperate with us, kid? We can do this all afternoon, buddy.

All afternoon and all night if we have to. It's your choice. Do you want to do the right thing, or? He trailed off beneath the chill of mom's cold, furious stare. Between gritted teeth, she said, I'll say this one last time. If you start interrogating him, I'll get a lawyer in here. I can call one right now if I have to.

Don't badger my son. He's cooperating with you, but he's tired. We're both tired. You have no idea what it's been like for us with these people in our lives. Can we go now? Please. Decker shot her a sour look. You're both afflicted with a very interesting case of amnesia, aren't you?

He can't remember Tully getting stabbed through the neck, and you seem to have forgotten that these scumbags were peddling cocaine out of your house for the better part of a year. What did you think they were in a bowling league together or something? Mom stood up and announced, I think that's enough for today. And she marched me out of the police station without a backward glance. They didn't try to stop us.

Even though the cops didn't believe I was telling them the whole story, I don't think they ever seriously considered me to be the killer either. Given the circumstances, even if the cops could, scrape together enough evidence to put either of us on trial, it's doubtful that any jury would convict a widow of the coal mine disaster for being coerced into an illegal venture, let alone her 11-year-old son. In the end, they decided that human garbage like Dan and company weren't worth any more of their time, and the investigation went cold. The local media soon forgot about us, and we were allowed to fade into obscurity.

I never told Mom about how I sat with Dad in the glow of the tree, drowsing against his shoulder as his gentle word soothed me into slumber. There was no point. It would only confuse her and ultimately reopen psychological wounds that had never properly healed in the first place. I would have dismissed it entirely as the product of a traumatized boy's feverish imagination, but that didn't explain the third set of wet footprints on the floor. They had led from the front door to the living room,

and that's where they ended, just a singular track of wet, dirty footprints that went nowhere, as if the man who had made them had vanished into thin air. Years later, long after I'd left that small house of sour memories behind, I instructed my lawyer to gain access to the case file, I poured over them until I found what I was looking for. An analysis of the mysterious footprints. It was inferred that they had been made by a large man

with a long, heavy-footed stride. The dirty liquid his boots had left behind was tested in a lab. It was found to be comprised mostly of two things. Melted snow and coal dust. Part 4, Chapter 3. My father was a gruff and cynical man, hardened by a lifetime of backbreaking labor and the ever-present threat of poverty, but his heart was pure. I have found fame and fortune in my lifetime, fortune beyond his wildest dreams, but even on my best day, I was never half the man my father was.

I suppose Dan was right, after all. I'm a pissant, weak and fragile, contemptible, and beyond redemption. Whatever steel I had in my spine on the night I drove a pickax through a murderer's foot, as long since corroded, crumbled, and blown away in the wind. I'm an old man at age 41, a bloated and dead-eyed caricature of the person I was meant to become. I remember that during the long and awful ride home from visiting Grandma in the hospital, Mom had said that she hoped I would grow up to be a better person than she was. As it turns out, I didn't grow up to be a better person, and I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry for everything.

How did I fuck it up so badly? I'll never fully understand it. Some people are destined to fail, even if they succeed. Speaking of which, I just got off the phone with my doctor. It was bad news. I have developed an advanced and aggressive cancer of the liver, and it's spreading rapidly.

At this point, I have two choices. I can hire a nursing staff to make my last days a little more comfortable, or I can choose to not hire a nursing staff. I think you know what I'm talking about. I was brave once upon a time, but the booze has made me a coward. I'm scared of the suffering. I can't do it.

I just can't. I'm afraid. It shames me, but it's true. I'm so fucking afraid. I've decided that I'll leave half my estate to Mom, who is still alive and well, and living in Florida. She will probably give most of it away to charity.

I intend to bestow the other half to Marianne, my housekeeper, who has performed her duties throughout the years with kindness and good grace. It's the least I can do for her, given the unending bullshit she's had to put up with in my service. I dearly hope that she'll accept this gift and use it to better the lives of those who are close to her. I think she will. I hope that she will. She deserves it. And with that, my confession is done, and it's time to bid you all farewell. Please don't lament my fate. I don't want or deserve your

pity. What I want you to do is this. I want you to get up from your chair right now, and go to your parents, your children, the love of your life. Go to them. hold them, listen to them, pull them close to your heart, and never, ever let go. I never stopped missing you, Dad. After all these years, I still have that Polaroid of you and mom standing in front of your old pickup truck. You were so young, the both of you, so young and hopeful and proud. I'm looking at it right now, in fact. I keep it on my desk. Thank you. for everything you did for us. Thank you for being a pillar of strength

when I needed you the most. I'll see you soon. For even more from Creepy, 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 used under license and may not be rebroadcast or distributed without the express prior written consent of

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