Creepy - Scaredy Cats & Orange

Episode Date: November 3, 2022

Scaredy Cats***Written by: nonymousTyping1 and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Orange***Written by: Jacquoline***Tickets for the "Creepy" live show can be purchased at: https://bit.ly/BloodyFM***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***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 are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of biocations of biopsyons. Silence and explicit language.

Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. Scareddy Cats. Written by anonymous typing one. And narrated by Danielle Hewitt. I am 20 years old, but I was adopted in the 1950s. No, this isn't a diary or a letter. I'm writing this on the 11th of September 2020.

The Queen of England died three days ago. I was adopted on June 22nd of 1951. I don't remember the home I was in before they adopted me. I just remember the house. It was like one of those big spooky mansions you would hear of in those old horror stories. Everything was broken, creaky, and bleak. A cobweb in every corner of every room. But it was a place to call home. My mother was a call home. My mother was a cold woman, like a witch, but with rules. Lots of rules. But they were strange. I never truly realized why there were so many, or why they were so strange until I ran away. She had cats. We never met them. Just heard them scuttering around at night and during the day. Their soft meows echoing through the cracks in the walls.

She told us all that they were, and what she called scaredy cats, and would run away at the sight of humans. Rule one. Never leave your bedroom door unlocked past 11 p.m. It's an invitation. I never knew what she meant by invitation. I never unlocked my door unless it was meal time or TV time. Each night between 11.30 and 12 a.m.,

we would hear three knocks. Rule two. Rule two. When you hear three knocks, don't answer. Just turn out the light. I'd turn out the lights, and each time a little huff would come from outside the door,

and the sound of what I thought were footsteps would move away. Although some nights, there would be a single knock. Rule three. If you hear one knock, You have ten seconds. Hide under your bed or in the closet. Keep your eyes closed. Once you hear the door lock, you're safe.

A single knock. I swiftly sprung out of bed and made my way under my bed. Closing my eyes and holding my breath. Until it struck me. Why couldn't we look? What was it? Curiosity struck me and I slowly opened my right eye. and then my left.

My hand smacked over my mouth to stop myself from screaming. Rule four. Do not go outside. All the windows were boarded up, doors locked. There was no way we could look outside apart from whatever they put on TV or the papers. Only person allowed outside was Mother. We would be locked inside the TV room. One time my little brother Tommy wandered off, and never came back.

Rule 5. Do not wander off. Bedtime. It takes us all a long time to get to bed. We can't leave Mother's side. We all walk behind her as we crouch, tiptoe and shuffle through the narrow hallways as quiet as mice. She told us it was so we wouldn't scare the cats. Cats attack when they're scared. They don't act like the cats we see during TV time.

Rule 6. Don't unlock the doors during TV time. Felix the cat was on. It was our favorite as kids. It would drown out the constant scratching at the doors when we all sat down to watch. Rule 7. If you see one of the cats, run and hide. Don't tell the others what you saw. I quivered underneath my bed at the sight of the cat. It was unlike any cat. I had seen before. It was large, six feet tall and crawled on all fours. I couldn't see its face, but I could see the drool pool on the wooden floor beneath its long bony legs. It began to walk, or should I say crawl, away towards the door. I closed my eyes and sighed in relief. That was until I opened my eyes again. Then all I felt was fear.

Rule 8. No food in bedrooms. Food must be eaten and finished at the table. The smell will attract them. I came down early one day for breakfast. I saw Mother pouring milk into a glass bottle. I was confused. The milk she was pouring looked new. It was in a plastic sort of jug with a green lid, with the expiration date of November 5, 2012. This new milk sure did last long. Maybe the glass bottles make them last longer. Rule 9. Put leftover food in the cat bowls. Whenever we couldn't finish food, we would always put them in the cat bowls as a little treat for the cats. They never ate it. They didn't like it. They didn't like anything we gave them.

They were never happy. They wanted more. They wanted flesh. Rule 10. Run. Its yellow, beady eye stared back at me, a blue collar dangling from its neck. I froze in fear. I had to run.

I managed to get out and run past it. It screeched behind me and I heard its feet tapping rapidly as it chased after me. I ran as fast as I could away from the cat and through the hallways, till I finally lost it. I wasn't safe here. I needed to run. I began to look around for an exit. The doors and windows were boarded up with wooden nails.

There was no way I could get it open. I looked around, panicked for a way out. That was when I saw it. A vent. It was small, but big enough for me to squeeze through. The chair scraped noisily against the ground as I pulled it across the kitchen floor and lined it up under the vent. I climbed on top of it and grabbed onto the edge of the vent

and attempted to pull myself up. whileing down a couple of times back onto the chair, I was about to attempt again until I heard a soft meow in the jangle of a bell behind me. I slowly turned my head toward the dark hallway behind me, and I saw two yellow, beady eyes looking towards me in the darkness of the hall. It continued to meow, scratching at the walls either side of it.

Each meow was a different pitch and tone, as if it were multiple cats at once. I swung my leg up into the vent, pulling myself up. Its footsteps rapidly coming toward me along with a loud screech. I clambered into the vent and began to crawl through the maze of vents trying to find a way out. I could hear cars, cars like the ones on TV. Breeze hit me and goosebumps grew like little mounds on my skin because of the cold. Or so I thought.

I looked behind me and there it is, running up behind me with an ear-piercing screech. It was hunched and, to fit through the narrow vent, which only made it look more terrifying. I crawled as quickly as I could toward the noise, the sound of cars growing closer, but so did the quick taps of the cat's feet. I could see it, the vent. I crawled towards it, my knees red and torn apart from the friction between my skin and the vent floor. I began to kick at the vent, sweat dripping down my face. I looked backwards toward the creature who was closing in on me.

With all my might, I gave it one final kick and it fell off its hinges, hitting the concrete with a loud thump. I slid out and landed on the pavement with a crack. Excruciating pain shot through my right arm, but I didn't care. I scrambled to my feet and looked at the vent. It stared at me with its devious yellow eyes and backed away slowly with a soft growl and a soft jingle from the bell that hung from its collar. I looked at the house from afar and saw my siblings and mother looking out the large living room window.

They all grinned at me as their eyes flashed yellow for a mere second before they backed off into the darkness. I faced toward the street. Everything was colorful and vibrant. The cars were odd. They were fast. They didn't look anything like the black and white ones I saw on the television. There were pictures that moved along big signs and buildings and people warned them. nice clothes, short skirts, and nothing like the rags I had to wear. Food smelled and looked good,

and it wasn't like the thick gray stuff I always had to eat, just so I wouldn't starve. I ran around like a headless chicken, dirt-coated face, and clothes ragged. I bumped into a strange woman with a friendly face, squinting as a sun beamed towards me from behind her, and I asked, Excuse me, miss. I'm lost. She let out a small little. laugh. You certainly are. You look like something right out of the 50s. I looked at her confused, but it's 1953. Her face fell and her brows furrowed, a concerned look plastered on her face. Ninety-three. Darling, it hasn't been 1953 in 60 years. It's 2012. My eyes bowed. My eyes bowed. I was bulged and I looked around bewildered.

I saw a stray newspaper on the ground and took it in my hands. Looking at the front page, my eyes landed on the date. November 5, 2012. I pulled it away from my face and looked toward the house in which I had escaped. But it wasn't there. It was a pile of wooden planks. I walked towards it, kneeling down in the rubble and running my hands through it. My hand hits a hard object.

It made a sound similar to a worn out bed. I pull on the object, and with a yank it came out. A blue collar. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents. Orange. Written by Jacqueline. I dragged my lanky fingers across the keyboard for the third time. Long line of gibberish to grace the digital document on the computer's illuminated screen.

My once playful blue eyes were now engulfed in a sea of red veins created from lack of sleep. The physical symptoms of a late night, last-minute writer's block were beginning to manifest. I subconsciously prayed to the universe for the novel, my current endeavor to write itself. However, general knowledge implies the works of art do not produce themselves. Halfway through a teen horror, but not quite there yet. I struggled to keep upright as I placed my clammy hands to my face. I took a deep breath, exhaling greasy strands of hair off my forehead. Lifting my head ever so slowly, I rubbed my eyes with my fists and glanced toward the large grandfather clock adjacent to my working space.

To my dismay, it read 1 a.m. I threw myself back into my red velvet armchair, feeling both a sense of defeat and determination. I could not tell at the moment which emotion was more prevalent. I stood up and pushed my tiny desk forward, yawning, I took an exaggerated stretch. Mother Mary, I croaked, half nervously. Is it that time already? The oaken room was dimly lit. A warm gleam emitting from the last few charcoal was aflame in the fireplace,

allowing the room to smell of cedar and ash. The moon protruded through a small closed window on the left. Natural light to grace the top of the computer. The house was a simple two-story cottage out in the middle of a thicket, a place where a writer with anxiety could achieve their best. I began to venture towards a kitchen in search of water. All to be heard was the gritty shuffling of my room. dirty pink slippers.

I slumped as I walked, my baby blew housecoat dragging across the wooden floor. As I reached the kitchen entry way I paused, I stared out in debate as to whether I would remain a creature of the night or turn the floodlights on, per se. Having faith in my abilities to navigate, I opted for choice number one. Sighing, I began to hobble over towards a fridge, being mindful of any large objects they may present themselves. Reaching the fridge I latched on and opened the door. My puffy eyes to be greeted by expired milk and a 40-watt light bulb.

I no longer needed the water to feel alert, but would help as a secondary pick-me-up. I bent down shakily, reached out, and placed my hand on a carton of orange juice. I shot up, bumping my head off the fridge, dropping the carton under the ground. Sticky, thick, orange-loaf. liquid spilled across the wooden floor, seeping deeply into the paneling.

As I placed both hands on top of my head for recovery, my left elbow bumped the fridge door shut, immersing me in darkness once again. Several things began to run through my mind as I continued to panic. I followed my knees into the juice, pants beyond saving with a simple wipe. Feeling my way through the mess, I frantically struggled to grasp for the fridge door handle. After several minutes of slushing, my red, hand coupled with what I was looking for. My heart rate steadied as soon as I met light. Falling reverse under my buttocks,

back landing against the open fridge. I took a moment to catch both my breath and my thoughts. Staring out in front of me, I assessed the damage. Into the floorboards, all over my robes, and even in my hair, I tugged about little strands I had left. Sighing, I connected my chin to my chest. What was that tapping noise?

Why had I panicked so badly? Perhaps it was a simple raven, yes, nothing more than a bird. I stood up, one weak leg at a time, a hand to knee for leverage. Orange was never my color anyways. I laughed under my breath. Closing the fridge door, I carefully skated across the pond of pulp and flick the kitchen light on. Better light than never. I cough lately and looked at the microwave clock. 1.12 a.m. 12 minutes wasted in a not so fruitful incident. Father time slipping through my sticky

fingers. The only thing to truly fear is the American unemployment system. Flicking off the light, I turned and decided the best course of action would be a fresh start. shower, new pajamas and slippers, tapping or not. Exiting the kitchen and passing through my work area headed towards the winding staircase. Tonight the climb seemed a little more eerie than usual. My grip to be a bit more firm on the cold metal banister. Reaching the top, I turned to my left and headed towards a master bedroom with great discomfort. My feet were sobbing, my housecoat reeking of mass-produced citrus beverage.

My hair was starting to solidify from the unnatural sugars found in the juice. Physical feelings contrasting against both the thoughts of tapping and a nearing deadline were causing a feeling beyond frustration. As my eyes met the door, I grabbed a knob without hesitation, anxiously speeding in. I writ myself clean in a hurry of all the foul clothes and swapped out for a new set of pajamas. Unfortunately, both my alternate robe and slippers were nowhere to be found. Feeling some sort of relief I flopped onto my bed in the center of the room. My hair would stay sticky at the moment as I had no energy to use the shower. Arms and legs spread out like a star.

I gazed up at my blank white ceiling, gray from the blackness of the room. Why tonight? I questioned. Looking over towards the left, my eyes immediately noticed something peculiar. My window was ajar. surely I'd close it earlier, yes? Or had I reopened it before I began this journey into failure that is not a book. I froze almost immediately, grasping onto the dark blue polar fleece blanket beneath my body.

Who's there? I shouted in fear. The noise had gotten slightly louder since the first round of clings. It was to be verified that it was coming from the second floor. The sound was solid, not hollow. comparably to a hammer slamming a nail into a fresh piece of hardwood lumber. I've got a gun, you know. I lied under my breath.

And I know muay Thai. My heart rate continued to elevate. After some time of silence, I released my grip and rolled over onto my bare feet. I decided the best course of action would be to locate an object that may act as a potential weapon in case there happened to be a potential threat in the house. For if the police services were called, it would take a minor forty-five minutes to reach the house. A cabin in the woods may be a fantastic spot to write, however, it is not ideal for emergencies. I turned over towards the night table and grabbed my gold antique lamp. Tossing the white lamp shade aside, I gave myself approval for my decent choice of weaponry.

I headed out the bedroom door, lamp in hand, and back down the stairs. Sitting in my red armchair once again I set the lamp to my right side. Pulling my work to ask, and I looked at the grandfather clock. 1.50 a.m. On God's wings and Joseph's good grace, I choked. Once again, I set my fingers to the keyboard. The charcoal in the fireplace had completely faded, leaving nothing but moonlight to see PIN through the window.

How was I to write a novel in this moment with my mind first, I resolutely focused on alternate happenings. I examined ideas of snaking inspiration from well-known authors in order to make deadline. I also contemplated how cold jail cells might be in New York City, based on the rave reviews I had seen online. At this moment, I'm feeling the horror genre is appropriate. I half laughed, looking at the lamp. I removed my right hand from the keyboard and hitched the back of my scalp.

Pulling my hand away frantically, I had forgotten about the remains of the earlier kitchen disaster. I rubbed my hand on my robe trying to remove the fruity adhesive remains with no luck. Was I truly this tired? Would I consider taking this hand to my keyboard? I grunted, placing my head to my left hand and connecting it to my knee. My eyes were half open. I picked up the lamp. My body shaking from head to barren toe.

Gazed still towards my document. There was no bird. No pigeon, raven, or owl could increase its pecking frequency. These taps, these indecent noises, were often the same time apart, so uncanny and disturbing. This time, they seemed to be emitting from the kitchen, no longer from the upstairs. I hugged the lamp tighter to my body, hands compressed so my knuckles were a mixed shade of blue and purple. I slowly turned my gaze towards the darkened kitchen. The taps had stopped, and nothing appeared to be there, or so I could make out.

I peered in the opposite direction. Something seemed afoot. The window was now open. My jaw dropped open, as did the lamp from my hands. As it hit the floor, I bawled my legs up into the chair. When did I open the window? Memories as the evening started to blur. the only prevalent recollections to be the events to be cleaning up sticky milk off the floor and changing out of fruit punch.

I hunched forward and carefully pushed my desk out of the way. Time to attack the kitchen. Bending over and grabbing my lamp, I walked over and switched on the lights with reluctancy. Much to my relief, my eyes were greeted by nothing, except orange juice. I frown in confusion. A moment ago I was certain it was. was milk and fruit punch. Perhaps the colors were becoming a blur because of exhaustion.

Or perhaps the perpetrator had sabotaged the fridge. At that immediate thought, I raised my lamp to my chest once again. Walking backwards out of the kitchen entryway, I flicked the light switch off, turned around, and it quickly returned to my safe haven. My chair. I set my lamp horizontally across my lap as I looked up towards a clock. 303. I clenched my nose as I continued to stare. Waves of alarms set into my body to the point where I could no longer function. Was the last read of the grandfather not 9.56 p.m.? Well, at this time now, failure to complete a novel was truly and undeniably inevitable.

Perhaps it would be easier to start a job search. Yes, perhaps I shall spend these remaining hours looking for, our new publisher. Sitting the lamp on its base upon the table, the thought of surrender gave me somewhat of relief. Either my publisher would kill me, or the brute in the house. Then it struck. The noise became loud and relentless. It hit from every direction coming from the kitchen, inside the walls and up above. It echoed and will not stop. It continued to grow louder and louder by the minute. I quickly placed my jittery hands around my ears trying to protect my ears. drums from the noisy assault. I clenched both my teeth and watery blue eyes in pain. I sunk momentarily into my velvet chair before launching myself into standing, the lamp rolling off my legs.

Moving forward without hesitation, I bumped the desk and knocked it over, spilling it onto the ground. As I jolted towards the stairs, my computer crashed into the floorboards. Running top speed, trying not to trip on my pajamas, I headed toward my bedroom. Perhaps it was momentary toddler thinking. But the bedroom seemed to be the safest place. reaching my sleeping quarters, I ripped the door open and slammed it shut, yanking the knob close to my body. I regretted not getting a lock for the door. Why do country bumpkins need locks on bedroom doors?

Breathing heavily, sweat dripping down my face, I debated what would be best. Deciding under the bed would be best, I turned my hands to my ears, walked over and kneel down, crawling under slowly. I made my way to my belly and placed my head on the ground face first. Everything went dark. I shook my head ferociously from side to side. Eyes now greeted by the morning, son as I sat upright in my chair.

I must have fallen asleep with my eyes open once again. Hunting over, I pulled my computer in closer. There before me sat. The end. 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 Sherrillite 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.