Creepy - Shapes

Episode Date: February 23, 2026

Shapes***Written by: Joseph Venkavitch***We Have a Good Thing Here***Written by: EM Otero and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***All I Want for Christmas is a Well-Told Lie***Written by: John Bruni and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***Content warning: child abuse***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. Hey, everyone. Let's take a moment to thank and welcome new patrons of the show.

Three Jeffs, C.C., Travis Fair, Ty Gray, A.D. Fletcher, Lily, Srinity, Christine Parkin, and Tim Tanner. If you'd like to see how you can support the show, anger rewards like logo merch and bonus episodes, please check out the donation tiers at patreon.com slash creepypod. and some of you out there who are better at math than I am but I didn't notice that the show hasn't actually been around for 10 years like I said on the last episode

and that it has in fact been nine years listen I could come up with a lot of excuses like how I really don't have any concept of time since 2016 but I think at this point you all know me well enough to know that I'm not the brightest bulb in the pack and we can leave it at that. Frankly, if you need any more proof of how bad I am when it comes to remembering dates and anniversaries,

you can talk to my wife. But the rest of the stuff I said still stands about the episodes and my gratefulness, you all, the listeners, and my crew. So when I say the exact same thing next year about how grateful I am to have been around for 10 years, and it's really been 10 years, it won't be a mistake, and it won't be a repeat of what I just said, and it will be me and not someone trying to be.

to pretend like they're me. I hope. Man, that was a weird thing to say. Anyway, thank you so much for nine years of creepy. And here's to at least one more, so we can hit the 10-year, and I can use the stuff that I posted on Instagram, and I'd pull down right while.

I'm so tired. Anyway, moving on. I've got another clip for you all from what sounds like an emergency siren alert that... Well, here, just listen. At 11.06 this morning, emergency sirens activated across the city without command authorization. No fires were reported. No severe weather warnings were issued. No hostile activity detected.

The sirens sounded for exactly four minutes. We've received notice from an anonymous source that audio analysis shows the system was not broadcasting a warning. It was responding. Modern sirens are designed to activate automatically when they detect certain pressure waves. Traditionally, this is four tornadoes. What they detected today was not wind. The frequency was above human hearing. Instruments picked it up only after the sirens failed. Witnesses report birds leaving the area minutes before activation. Dogs refuse to go outside. Pilots described an empty sky over the city as though something large were present, but invisible. We are advising residents not to rely on sirens going forward. Not because they

are broken, but because whatever triggered them is still airborne. I don't know. Your guess is as good as mine, but I keep coming across these randomly in the archives. I swear, I thought digitizing all these files would have been done by now. And yes, I do acknowledge that, once again, I have terrible math skills, and the fact that I thought it would be possible to get all this done by now. But I don't know. The stuff in these audio recordings is like 180 degrees different than anything else I've come across. Most of what I hear every day is closer to Prairie Home Companion level of delivery.

This stuff is different. Maybe I shouldn't keep playing these, since I really don't know what the point of them existing is. It's probably better to just start focusing on the stories at hand. Speaking of which, first up, seeking a quiet escape after a painful breakup, a man rents an isolated lakeside house, only to find his strange ability to see faces and shadows is growing stronger and more insistent. As the visions escalate from unsettling to impossible, he begins to suspect the house is just haunted. It's waiting for him to do something. From writer Joseph Yankovic, creepy presents, shapes. I needed to get away, away from the accounting department, that tires and bars and restaurants

and the lonely nights in my apartment. Three days would be fine and all I could afford. I'd be just as alone anywhere else, but who knew what a change of scenery might do. So, When I saw the ad for the house about three hours drive away, I jumped at it, even without seeing a picture of it. The price was right. Don't get me wrong. I did have some friends. But what pulled out the stopper and drained away all my enjoying the life I had was when Angie wasn't around anymore. I doubt if the relationship could have been salvaged, but I made sure that when I pointed out a cloud and couldn't stop going the whole route to stop.

describing it. Anger doesn't like middle ground. How does a cloud break up a romance? Simple, at least in my case. It's this. I see things in shapes like clouds and stains, which may seem normal since millions of people see animals or Jesus in clouds or other shapes. My thing is, I don't just see the shapes. I bring them out. from something that's happening, sort of bring them into existence. For instance, in a wet stain on a tree trunk, I saw the face of a woman who had just died in a car accident at that spot. I didn't know her, but her face was there, and it seemed to be telling me something. That might sound exciting, but I wanted nothing to do with it.

Other images have since become more poignant. I swear, at times, I feel close to bringing them out fully formed. It's scary, and I fight hard to stop seeing things. Maybe I've got a ripped dimension portal around me that allows me to pull others into my existence. Not sticking with the image for long is my best offense. I realize our minds are set for just this sort of thing. but not this level.

It's really a survival tactic from back when we were hunting mammoths, maybe further back when we first found meat tasted or chewed better in the fire. We may have hunted, but there were other creatures, not to mention other hominids hunting us. He had to know how to pick out a face, an enemy, in the foliage, from a distance or in fading light. Not to get too technical, but it's called peridolia. We're simply wired to see patterns and meaning, especially in visual information.

Mine probably has a different name. Angie and I engaged in this plenty of times, especially when we're first dating. One of the memories I remember the most. Right from the start, it was obvious. I was much better at it than she was. Not that she complained, finding it exciting. What really impressed was when I saw it. Teddy Roosevelt in a cumulus cloud.

I took a bit of pointing out to get her to see what I saw, and I'm not sure she really did. People might say I was making it up, but be assured, I saw it. Unfortunately, this unique skill didn't make up for my not being a steady date and maybe husband material. Not that I knew that at the time. We were sitting at the beach, not talking much, staring up the clouds. This time without the closeness we'd felt before. Whatever it was, I saw her secret boyfriend in the cloud and understood. How my mind created that?

I don't know. Maybe I'd seen them or something, and that was the incubator. Other glances she made along with small statements might have helped. I pointed it out and said, Who does that look like to you? Her enthusiasm looking at clouds with me, obviously gone, she shrugged. I hesitated, feeling the lethal satisfaction grow because deep down I knew what this meant. Then said, it's Tony Stone.

Her face became tense and she looked scared. Then I added the coup de grace. And look, I added, that's your face next to his. How adorable! I really didn't see her there. Angie didn't need to be overly bright to put it all together. In one motion, she scooped up her towel and bag and trudged up the beach without looking back.

I stayed a while until I saw her angry face in a cloud and waited for it to break up. Shoving the memories aside, I drove past a lake, shadows from trees creeping onto it cast by a late afternoon sun. My garment indicated I am. only had a few miles to go. I found myself feeling relaxed as the pleasant landscape sped past. Ten minutes later, I saw the house, a large rambling affair sitting at the edge of what was the

lake I'd just seen. A car sat near the front door. As I drove up, a man came out of the front door and waved. I nodded and pulled up beside him rolling down my window as I did. He stuck a hand in the window for a handshake, telling me his name was Bert Taylor, and proceeded to go and I went to real estate mode and tell me I was going to love having a quiet weekend here. As I got out of the car, he pulled a key from his pocket and handed it to me. Nobody lives here? I asked. Seems like a nice place. How long has it been empty? Taylor said it recently became available, a couple no longer wanting to reside here.

Could I meet them? I asked. Taylor seemed at a loss for words, but shrugged and said he could try. I was just wondering if the place might be available on a continuing basis, I explained. I thanked him for the info, but I was glad to be rid of him. He seemed happy to move on, too. After a few words about the weather, he shook my hand again, told me to leave the key in the little hanging basket near the door Monday morning and left. I grabbed my toiletry bag and a few extra clothes from the back seat and went to the front door.

It was already unlocked. As I nudged the door further open with my shoulder, I noticed a dusty shape on the poorly clean door glass. I wasn't inclined to make anything out of it, and yet pieces of a form assembled in my head. I wasn't quite sure what it was. But instead of it fully developing, as shapes usually did, this one returned to an inconsequential smudge. I went inside, not giving it another thought.

I expected to find the place a bit run down with old. decor, but found a pleasantly decorated with plenty of light and comfortable furniture. I threw my stuff onto a foyer chair and went into the adjacent living room. I noticed a small bar and went over and poured myself a scotch. Sipping it, I plopped onto a couch and sat there surveying the room, letting any lingering tenseness dissipate. The calmness didn't last. I wasn't exactly plunged into my usual lonesomeness, but a sense of the same. the disquiet did overcome me. I didn't figure it'd be the house seeing how pleasant it was, and yet there was something seeping into me from the surroundings. I gulped the rest of the

scotch and shook off the feeling. I got my things, searched and found what seemed like the master bedroom where I threw my bag and closed on the bed. From the large window leading out to a small porch I looked down at the backyard. The grassy section was short, ending in a line of trees I took to be the property line. Beyond them, I made out a field of tall grass, shrubs, and a few ponds. A solo country setting should have induced a calm feeling, but it didn't. The discomfort I felt came from the house. I decided the best thing to do would be to check out the house, investigate the kitchen, and hopefully find the makings for a fine meal. First, I hung my few clothes and brought the toiletry bag into the bathroom. As I took out my electric razor, pre-shaved,

toothbrush and toothpaste, I noticed a patch of fogginess on the mirror. I wasn't about to get drawn into making something out of it, but the transformation happened too fast. Before I could turn, I began discerning a face. There were definite eyes in the shape of a skull and, my mind now in full creation, a mouth along with ears. I realized I did have this compulsion to make shapes into something recognizable, but usually there's always a bit of determination on my part. This was different. I had no control over this.

The image seemed to force itself on me. I began to worry that my little skill was getting out of hand. But what took me even more by surprise was the expression on the face. Usually the faces I see are more bland, recognizable, but bland. This one had a distinct disposition that after a few moments had me drifting away from it. There was sadness, even pain in it, and a vague quality I couldn't quite put my finger on.

I grabbed a towel wanting to rub it away but stopped wondering about that undecipherable aspect. I hung the towel on the rack, shoving the image away, feeling more than ever I really needed this vacation. Backing out of the bathroom, still staring at the mirror, I left the room and went downstairs. I poured another scotch and carried it into the kitchen. The refrigerator was well stocked, almost to the point where it seemed like people had left in a hurry. I lost a bit of my appetite and settled for a sandwich of roast beef, lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise.

Scotch wouldn't go with it, so I opened up a can of Coke. Sitting at the kitchen table, I tried to get back to a more relaxed manner. It worked a little, but there was still a residue of unease. After I finished eating, I roamed around the large house sipping my scotch. Again, the same feeling of people wanting to leave quickly overcame me. There were things like travel photos, one of a couple in front of a Greek cropolis, objects that had some value and clothes hanging in the closets.

I don't know. Maybe they just needed the money. But the place still felt lived in. As I stood inside another large bedroom, a chill like cold fingers gently touching my arm made me turn quickly. As I did, my hand hit the top of a lamp and my glass tipped sending scotch over the table. I looked around for an open window, but it wasn't that cold outside. No open window anyway.

I returned to the kitchen and got a rag. As I cleaned up the mess, the same wintry touch fell on my skin. I touched the spot and as I did, I glanced at the far end of the room where a light from the hallway mingled with shadows. The combination created a shape and, again, I didn't have time to look away. The light dark pattern coalesced, at least in my mind, into another face. You'd figure that since I didn't know anyone here, the faces would be able to be able to be. all be the same. But that wasn't the case. This one had its own distinct features. I'd even say

older. One thing, though, didn't change from the first one. Same sadness. Although I detected a touch of anger if I was reading my creation correctly. And that seems something I couldn't define before. Only now I thought I did. Pleading. Yeah, that's the subtle emotion I caught. I suppose shadows and light patterns could mean anything, but I tossed that answer away quickly. As it was, I had to wonder why conjured anything, but I couldn't dismiss what was before me. Now that I thought of it, the word conjured didn't seem right. I left the room and returned downstairs at the living room.

I slumped in a chair, no drink this time. The atmosphere completely lost its pleasant sensation from when I first arrived. I thought of calling Taylor but really didn't have anything to say. I'm seeing faces and splotches and shadows. I think you'd start worrying about having the house in my hands. I wanted to continue inspecting the house but felt hesitant, wondering what other mind tricks might start happening. Curiosity won out, however, and I checked to other bedrooms, two bathrooms and a storage area.

Descending the stairs, I saw a door I hadn't opened and went inside. It was one of those dens you see in movies. Richly appointed, bookshelves, fireplace, comfortable other chairs, large desk, and original-looking paintings. I knew this was a place I'd spend many hours if I lived here. Two paintings were of a middle-aged couple. I assumed they were the owners. Neither had a smile, and they stared out from the painting as though thinking of something serious. I had a feeling I wouldn't like them.

By now the house had an entirely different feeling from when I first arrived. The atmosphere felt like I wasn't alone. But I couldn't put a finger on why. Like being in a funeral home. The body is quite dead, and yet it's hovering. over all the niceties and happy memories. The house had grown dark as evening settled in. I went around and turned out lights, hoping that would change the mood.

I did. A little. I saw television in one corner of the living room and started to turn it on, but decided against it. If I didn't like the mood now, I doubted insipid shows or the news would help things. I sat down. Something cold again, waffled. about me. I turned swiftly, ready to jump up, expecting someone to be standing next to me. I saw nothing and managed only a crick in my neck. But I did see something else.

The living room lights went through an archway and illuminated only half the foyer. The other half sat in quasi-darkness. Someone was standing there. Nothing full-bodied, just Well, this had to be the quickest creation I'd ever done, and the most complex. The darkness had a human form. I didn't move. None of my fabrications did, and I was positive there wasn't a real person standing there in the foyer. I went over cautiously, nonetheless. When I got within three or four feet, I distinctly made out of face.

Usually, changing my angle of vision will tear apart what I see or give it a slightly different aspect. I tried, but this didn't. It was there as though bleeding from the dark, and what I noticed most was the face, that same pleading but also the same sadness and that touch of anger. I turned on the foyer light and the image disappeared. I was relieved and couldn't imagine having it still be there in the glaring light, but the mood didn't change.

I felt something behind me. This time I didn't spin around because I was simply scared. Had something stepped from the splotch in the bathroom or trundled out of the bedroom? But I did turn, and nothing was there at first. Then, on the wall behind the lamp, a shadow configured itself again into a face. But this one I recognized. The face from the bathroom. Same expression.

I moved toward the den, having completely lost any sets of calmness this place afforded. I've always conjured images from the unlikeliest places. But this was different. These images weren't playful creations. they were bursting forced as though determined to come into existence. As I reached the den door, the pattern of a throw rug wriggled its way into another face. This one from the bedroom. All the emotional ingredients I'd seen before were there, but as I stared at it, I could see the slightest touch of delight.

Maybe it was in the eyes, but I was sure this face was now happier. Inside the den I sank into a leather chair and just gazed at the wall with the portraits of the two owners. Their faces hadn't changed. Same somber expressions, but this time it mesmerized me. No creations burst forth from any parts of the paintings. That didn't last long. Transfixed, I began seeing shapes formed by reflections of light and shadow streaking over the glass fronts. And in those shapes I began to watch forms evolving.

I didn't need to wait to see what I'd get this time, because I knew what they'd be, and I wasn't wrong. The three faces I'd seen before were there. Faces this time placid as though contented with what I was seeing. I watched, and my thoughts churned. The faces remained placid, waiting for me to come to some conclusion. I could almost sense them wanting to speak. week, something none of my formations ever did.

I even had the impression that this time seeing these faces wasn't the end of it. But then the images faded, and I was left sitting there, feeling unfinished in an odd sort of way. I went back to the living room, checked the other spots where I had seen something, but they remained unformed. I sat down and thought about the figures and the portraits. Something boiled inside me. and I knew that's where the reason for all this lay. Yet I got nowhere, the more I thought about it.

I turned on the TV just to hear another noise. Audible wallpaper, as one person called it, and closed my eyes. I slept. When I opened them again, a few hours had passed. I obviously needed the rest. The TV still blabbered nothing important. Outside night had obscured the world. I still felt tired and decided to go to bed.

I shut the lights and went upstairs. On dressing, I got into bed, shut the light, and stared at what little moonlight managed to invade the room. Everything was quiet. I should have liked that. But I didn't. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. The air in the room felt thick and uncomfortable.

I got out of bed. my tiredness suddenly gone. I walked to the window and stared into the backyard, where moonlight bathed everything in a sheen that didn't penetrate the shadows. I started to turn away, but suddenly saw shapes beyond the trees, two in the meadow and one hovering over the white expanse of white pond. There were plenty of other shapes out there, but what caught my eye with these was how human they seemed.

I peered closer, but nothing changed. changed. Then they disappeared. I continued watching, but not only branches on trees and a shadow passing before the moon moved. Coldness like I'd felt before crawled over my back and along my neck. There was no force, no sense of something solid behind me. I was afraid to turn.

But I had to, if only to erase the sensation. The chill seemed to drift away. I completed my turn and fell back against the window. In the dark beside the bed were forms, the shapes of which made me turn my head and glance at the window toward the meadow. When I turned back, they were still there, bunched together like frightened people using each other for protection. I could barely make out faces,

but there were enough shapes in the moonlight shadows to know they were the same as I'd seen around the house. The shapes were flimsy, but I sensed the wholeness about them and was under no illusion that they weren't there. A figment of my imagination or even my creative shapes. I felt I couldn't move. Then, sending bile up my throat, I heard them, or something. I don't know. Perhaps it just erupted in my mind or was placed there by them.

The words or sounds came first to simple spurts. You saw, waited, and then, help. I stood there, unable to do anything, let alone speak to dark shapes. But I knew deep down I could. Only one word came out of my mouth. Why? The shape shimmered, and I swear they were getting more solid. But that passed and they drifted back into their semi-transparent forms. And then I heard, need the owners. Bring them tomorrow night.

Here, I suppose I heard that, but my heart pounding on my chest and the feeling I was about to collapse made it all exist in a whirl of unreality. My hand grasped the side of the window. My eyes closed, my breathing struggled. I started to speak, but when I opened my eyes, the forms or whatever the hell they were, were gone. I turned on the light, an empty room, but not really. I couldn't see anything, but I knew they were there. Even weirder, I could sense them as thoughts in my head somehow fleshing out their meager words into something meaningful. The main thing I understood was that my ability at seeing things in shapes gave them a conduit to my world.

I brought them here. I opened some kind of door. What I didn't know was why, except that I had to have the owners here tomorrow night. I stood there in the dark, anxiously trying to piece all this together but couldn't come up with anything. I closed the light and went back to bed. I expected to lay there wide-eyed. all night, but surprisingly, I slept very well. I didn't worry at all about seeing dark shapes standing at the foot of the bed. I slept late, and when I got up, I called a realtor

and presented him with my request to meet the owners that night. He was hesitant, annoyed, his main word being, why? I couldn't answer because I didn't have the foggiest notion. He said he'd call back. Before I hung up, I pointed out more urgently that I needed to see them. He probably figured I had a bone to pick about the accommodations. Skipping breakfast, I went into the backyard. The morning, though beautiful, I had the same heaviness I felt last night. I walked through the trees and into the meadow glancing over the tall grass and nearby pond.

I had no idea what I expected to see. certainly not shadows. But I did suspect one thing, and I roamed the field looking not ahead but down, searching for a telltale sign, something out of place in this pristine environment. And I found it. Normally you pay no attention to it,

but after what I'd been through, it fit the bill perfectly, a patch of ground, grass growing with stunted blades, unevenly spaced, and a roughly rectangular shape was about what you'd expect from a buried body. I didn't dig and looked for the second one, which I found ten yards away. I looked at the pond. No guessing needed.

Returning to the house, I waited the phone call, which came an hour later. The realtor's voice was stony, but he said he managed to get the owners to show up. He added, you'd think I wanted them there to shoot them or something. An inkling grew in my mind as I thought about how the shapes in my room last night had almost gained more solid forms. The couple arrived at seven that evening. Didn't give their names, no handshaking. They weren't happy, but more oddly they seemed uncomfortable, almost as though they'd entered a place they never wanted to be in. They gave me the usual.

So, what did you find wrong here? Even that came out half-heartedly. The pieces had fit in my mind. So I found myself no longer wondering what was going on. Just what was going to happen. Upstairs, I said. I led them up to my bedroom. We all stood by the door.

They both looked at me expecting me to do something else. I just twisted the door handle and opened the door, standing back to let them go in. When they entered, the woman, still staring at me, reached a turn on the light. Her hand jerked back, like someone touching a hot stove. At the same moment, the door slammed shut. I tried to reopen it, but it was locked. I yelled to them.

At first I heard nothing, then a groaning sound. I could see the door handle shaking, twisting, and then banging on the door. Sobs filtered out, but they went quiet. Not hearing anything, I yelled. What's going on? There was shuffling, and the door swung open. The couple walked out. Are you all right?

I asked. Neither spoke. At first I was relieved that nothing I imagined. It happened, but then I looked more closely at their faces. Hardly the faces of the people I'd met earlier. I glanced back into the room, half expecting to see shadowy forms. They weren't there. Back in the hall, I told the couple they could leave, but ignoring me, they started walking down the hall to the stairs.

I followed. I followed them to the first floor and then into the cellar. They immediately went to one corner, brought out two shovels, and we returned upstairs. The man took out his cell phone and called the realtor, saying in a dead voice, everything was fine and they were leaving. adding that the young man will be leaving two. They looked deeply at me for a moment, and I began to sense something. Maybe it was my creating brain,

but I saw two conflicting emotions in their eyes. One determined and one frightened. They led me outside. I say led because I didn't feel like I had a choice. We crossed the backyard and went into the meadow. Far off to a corner they saw. stopped and for a moment stood stiffly as though struggling to start something. Their faces became resigned as they started digging.

They dug deep. I wanted to run but couldn't. When they finished, they threw the shovels out of the hole and stood stiffly, the two of them, the edge of the hole up to their chests. They determined look they had was gone. Only the horrible fear remained. Then they laid down. disappearing into the hole.

I felt something invading me. Coldness, and I reached down and grabbed a shovel. My brain said, don't do this. But I'd lost control. I took a shovel full of dirt and walked to the hole. I looked down, and even in the growing darkness, I could see the two faces now showing a terrible fear that tore into me. I thought the woman was about to speak,

but I tossed the dirt in anyway. I had no choice. I threw shovelfuls into the hole until those horrible faces were covered. Mindlessly, I kept it up until the hole was filled and I had thrown grass over it. I stumbled backwards as though something holding me up had let go. A dark form moved toward the hole and as I watched other forms joined it. They all hovered above the grave for a moment. And I swear they were gazing at me.

before they dissolved. But I knew what had to be done. Justice. I didn't completely know the circumstances of the crimes, just the results, and didn't necessarily agree with how it was resolved. But I had no choice. I washed the shovel in the lake,

and I put it back in the cellar. I went back up to the bedroom to get my things. I was now alone. They had given me a bit of an out with their call to the realtor. Someday, I figured this would all become known, but I'd be long gone. I packed up my stuff and began to leave the room. As I left, I spotted dark shapes on the wall.

I looked closely and saw. Well, I started to see what might have been faces, terrified faces. But I turned away. I had no intention of these. dealing with him. When I turned back, they had disappeared. A last strip of daylight lay on the clear wall. After her husband's death, a young widow shocks her grieving family with her dry eyes and quiet contentment. But she insists she's finally getting the love and attention she always wanted. As suspicion and fear close in, the truth emerges. Her husband kept his final promise,

and their marriage didn't end with death. From writer E.M. Otero and narrated by Danielle Hewitt, creepy presents, We have a good thing here. It's only been a few days since they found my husband Ryan's body. And I've run out of vases for the flowers. I have more casseroles, lasagnas and other meals in my fridge than I could ever eat. There is a revolving door of family, friends, and coworkers trampling through our house, intruding into our space, forcing me to keep wearing this melancholic mask,

hoping they don't see the sparkle in my eye. His mother cries on our couch, while his father disassociates on the pictures hung on the wall. Her only son is gone, and I know she hates I haven't shed a tear. I lie, telling them I'm putting on a good front, that I mourn him alone. I know they wouldn't understand. No one would. Movement catches my eye, and I see the shadow of movement atop the stairs. Even my family overstays it's welcome, thinking that I need their support and care.

I know I have to put up with it just for a little while longer. But my sister demanding to stay the night, and insisting on sleeping in our room, nearly sends me over the edge. Her presence is lonelier than the alternative. It's not the warmth I long for. But I can still feel him here. Whether it's the smell of his soap, a creak of the floor, or the phantom sensation of his fingers in my hair. Like recalling a memory of a lover.

It's enough until they are gone. And we can be alone again. I hide my body in robes and long pajamas so my sister doesn't see the marks that my lover has left on me. I know she won't understand. No one here will. She asks if I miss my husband, and I tell her I do,

and at that moment, it's not a lie. Thankfully, the night before the funeral, I convinced Trin needed the night alone, and she reluctantly obliged. She wouldn't understand. No one would. But I have such a good thing going on, and it cannot have.

happen when there are people in the house. Once the twin glow of her tail lights recede, I pick up, starting with throwing all the flowers but my favorite into the trash. After a short while of enjoying my piece, I pick a casserole for my dinner while I wait for the sun to go down. Our relationship was great at first, like most typically are. It was all passion and romance, and we couldn't keep our hands off each other from the day we met. I was never that kind of girl, but there was a magnetism there I couldn't deny. Every part of me wanted every part of him. It wasn't just purely physical. We connected on nearly everything, including the fact we both don't like to go out, party, smoke, or even drink, which was rare to find, especially when we're in our mid-20s.

Within a few months, we were living together, and our families both thought we were crazy. I firmly believed that if you met the right person you would know it, and he was my proof. A cosmic connection, like Cupid's heart-tipped arrow, struck true. Ryan said that he knew from our very first date that he wanted to marry me. It was two years before he proposed, and it was only that long because he felt that you really couldn't love someone until you lived with them, and really knew them. A realist, that one. always saying just because you love someone doesn't mean you're compatible.

I didn't understand it first, but I see it now. It's hard to hide who you truly are from someone when they're around you around the clock. When we got to know each other, we only fell deeper in love. We were married only a couple of months after the engagement. It was a whirlwind, and I don't regret it at all. I loved who we were back then. But that's not who we ended up being at the end. Things change, and people grow.

Sometimes apart. The sun sinks behind the horizon, and that's his cue. I hear my lover's footsteps, and I meet him for our night of bliss. My family makes me wear a veil for the funeral. And while I am the one that usually shirk's tradition, I don't argue. It'll hide my bright eyes and smile. A bereaved widow should act the part. But I've never been good at hiding my facial expressions.

So I will take whatever help I can get. Ryan's mother almost notices a mark on my neck. But I quickly adjust my dress to hide it. Everyone is dour. And despite being the widow, I comfort them. Telling his parents that no mother and father should have to bury a child. I hold his friends and siblings as they, They weep about their loss.

No one asks why I don't shed a tear. That even though everyone is crying, my eyes remain dry. In the past, I had always been an empathetic cryer. It didn't matter why someone was in tears. If I was near them, I was as well. Only now? It's not in me. I tell his and my family that I've cried so much there's nothing left.

And they hug me, holding me close. If they only knew, there is a picture of us together propped up, and I grimace. The picture was of us, posed on a bench with the beach behind us. I remember the vacation well. We spent the whole time fighting. I let out a sigh of relief knowing that it would never happen again. We had been together for five years at that point, and our passion for each other turned into rage when he disagreed.

which happened often since it didn't matter what it was. He would fight over it. I could say it was going to be sunny out, and he would make it into a discussion. The worst part was neither of us could be wrong. I was at much at fault as he was, and we would drag out fights over silly things. I feel a hand on my back, warm, reassuring, and I smile. But when I turn there's no one. there. My smile doesn't waver, and my heart races. I try not to keep checking the time, but the funeral drags on. I can't keep pretending to mourn in front of these people. Wearing that mask of false emotion is exhausting, and I just want it to be over. Everyone is telling

stories about him, some funny, others sweet, and all of them from the heart. I wish I could, but it wouldn't be genuine in the same way their stories are. I almost wished that they had never found him. At least then, people avoided me thinking I murdered him. And I swear, some still do. Maybe it was because I didn't report him missing right away. Or that I never participated in the search party. I couldn't bring myself to.

I am not a good liar or actress. And if I had brought them right to the body, they probably would have arrested me right there. At least his family got closure, and people got off my back, mostly. It's hard to get on with your life when amateur sleuths are watching you, trying to become famous by trying to be the one to solve a murder case. I taunt them, often wearing long black coats, sunglasses, and enormous hats to look mysterious. When they question me, my elusive smile, and tired but bright eyes confuse them.

misdirection at its best. We all watch as Ryan's casket is being lowered into the ground, and we take turns with a shovel, throwing down our scoops of dirt. I smile, knowing that even though he will become warm food soon, I will still be warm at night in my lover's arms. His family overstays their welcome,

and I try to hide my irritation as they stay into the night. His aunt swears our house is haunted, claiming she hears footsteps, and saw someone looking down the stairs at her. I just smile and give simple explanations. I tell her the house is old and creaky, causing the strange sounds, or that it's drafty,

making the candles flicker and doors open and close. She goes upstairs to see who the person was. But when she checks the rooms, she finds no one. I was grateful for that. I don't want them to know my lover is waiting for them leave, but he can hide well. They don't need to ruin the good thing I have here. I try not to rush them out and make it obvious I want them gone, but it gets well into the night before I say I'm ready

for bed. They say a prayer for him before they leave and promise they're going to pray for me. I almost laugh, but I smile and hug everyone one last time before they leave. A door opens and shuts upstairs. And I know, I'm ready to be back in my lover's arms. The week since my husband died have been such bliss that it's hard to play the part of the grieving spouse. I missed the life we had at times, but he became obsessed with having the things neither of us did growing up. His ambition swallowed him whole, and I would go without spending time with him. We paid off our house in five years, had nice luxury cars, and a very generous savings account. We both never wanted children, afraid we would be the same as the parents who neglected us,

and I truly believe that the people we were when he died would have been awful parents. Ryan never hit me, nor I him, but the shouting and screaming over small slights was enough to drive anyone insane. He didn't feel like I understood him, and I didn't feel seen, He wanted to provide, and I wanted to be a priority. Now, I am a priority. Every night from dusk till dawn, while it makes for tiring days, I always have a smile on my face. People talk and wonder what is going on, but I can't tell anyone. I have a good thing, and I know that if I tell anyone, it will be spoiled.

The night Ryan died. I was on the phone with him while he drove. I missed him, and he was on his long commute home. Thunder rolled and I could hear the rain on his car. I confessed to him I couldn't be in a relationship anymore where I wasn't a priority. I needed a husband that would be home with me. When we first got together, we never spent more than absolutely necessary apart. We were best friends, always laughing and smiling together.

He thought the distance would make the heart grow fonder. But whoever came up with that is an asshole. Distance only begets distance. He asked if I wanted a divorce then. I told him no. I still loved him. I just wanted him and for him to want me. He promised he wouldn't leave my side again,

that he was going to call his job tomorrow and quit. I was thrilled. We talked about what we were going to do, and he explained he wanted to start a landscaping business. He had savings and it would be something where he could be home every day at the same time. He got to a dead spot in his commute, and we hung up the phones. I lay down in bed with a smile on my face for the first time in ages. In the night, I felt his fingers run through my hair and his lips on my neck.

It was the passion we had been missing for years now, back with vigor. And in that blissful night, I was complete. We were together again, as we were supposed to be. In the morning he was gone, and his side of the bed was cold, and his pillow had no imprint. I searched the house and found no new clothes in the basket, nor his shoes near the door. His phone wasn't on the charger and his wallet wasn't on the desk.

I thought maybe he had left early again this morning, but that made little sense. When I called his phone, it rang. until I got the voicemail. I waited hours, and then called his job, but they hadn't seen him. The next call was family, then friends, and no one knew where he was. I worried a trench into the floor pacing back and forth when the gentle touch of fingers stroked my back. That's when my life truly started. Two days went by before I called the police, and our spats were common knowledge, so they didn't question why I didn't call right away.

His family thought differently, but their contempt changed a few weeks later when they found his body, only to return after my lack of tears. There was no reason for me to look. I was where I wanted to be, and with the person I wanted to be with. My family understood that grief is different for everyone, and that while I had been emotional in the past,

something like this could really shock someone. They assumed I was stoic in my grief, but I was far from that feeling. They expected me to be down, to be lying in bed depressed with losing him. But in reality, I was soaring. I wasn't alone for the first time in years. His family saw the change, the smile hidden behind a hand. My shining eyes with no tears. They heard rumors of seeing a man in my room through the windows.

And I couldn't understand why people meddled like this. I have a good thing here, and they wanted to ruin it. His mother showed up, knocking on my door, but walking in before being invited. She inspected the pictures of Ryan and me together. She smiled that I still wore my ring. The woman was as blunt as a cudgel and asked me if I was seeing anyone, and I had to lie. I hadn't been a good liar, but this one felt right. She asked about the rumors and my lack of tears, and I explained small towns talk and that I grieve internally.

I thought she was satisfied, but my lover told me of a man outside taking pictures and following me, observing all my moves. This certainly won't do. I considered my options, and I loved this house and the memories I made here. I couldn't leave. But if they were investigating me, I was worried about it. I was worried about it. what they might find. After all, I don't think many would approve of my lover, even if they understood. How being haunted really isn't all that bad. My lover scared the investigator off one night when he tried to sneak pictures of us through a crack in the curtain. I don't know what he did, but it was enough that he never came back again. Only that's when things changed, and even though we thought we would get peace at that point, another showed up at a moment. Another showed up at a

our door. Our secluded bliss interrupted. I opened the door to find a holy man. I told him I didn't want to join the church, and that I didn't appreciate solicitation. He didn't leave, saying that my husband's family had sent him. Father Oran was his name, and he claimed to be an exorcist. I felt the caress of my lover's hand on my lower back as I sat, offering a seat to the pastor. The two of us sat staring at each other for a while and he clutched his crucifix. After explaining that after an investigation went awry, my late husband's family, they ruled out an affair, I felt a grip on my leg and a gentle kiss on my shoulder. Father Orrin also explained how the investigator caught a few alarming photos,

and he placed them on the table in front of me. I looked at them and smiled, for they were of me and my lover in the throes of passion. My smile unsettled the man, and I knew why. It was unorthodox, blasphemous, ungodly, and even downright deviant in his eyes. Most would agree with him. These pictures, taken just a few days ago, were of me and my late husband. Some people, when they pass, go someplace else. whether it's heaven, hell or nirvana is for you to decide.

Others stick around to bitch and moan. They shake chains and throw things, hiss that they can't get to the other side. They make the living world the hell that they can't even get into. Other spirits are stuck in a loop, reliving their last most traumatic moments, like a memory ingrained into a spiritual veil that will constantly repeat the same actions for all of eternity. Then there are the spirits that stay with a purpose to fix something they wronged in life.

These may never end up leaving, unable to figure out how to fix their wrongs, and they grow resentful, hiding people's keys or throwing things across the room. My husband made a promise to me before he died. He would never leave my side, and he meant it. They speak of till death do us part,

but never considered that two hearts could beat as one, and we could share this physical plane. The priest fears for my soul, claiming that I am cavorting with devils and demons. Father Orrin tosses holy water on me, and when my head doesn't spin and spew piece soup at him, he prays. I try to tell him it wasn't like that. There is no evil here. It is beautiful and truly a gift from any God that exists.

We have a second chance. Who else gets that? Father Oran doesn't listen, and instead continues his prayer, holding his crucifix towards me. I shouted him to stop, not knowing if his exorcism would really get rid of my lover. We have a second chance at happiness, and I won't let this man tear it from me. I stand screaming for him to get out. At that moment, the lights dim, and as the priest looks around, fear carved into his face, the table lifts off the ground.

plates levitate from the sink and globules of soapy water drift away in the air. He makes the sign of the cross and continues to recite an invocation to the Archangel Michael. I feel his phantom arms hold me. The windows fly open and gusts of violent wind rip around the house. Father Orrin stops chanting, holding his robes and clutching his crucifix. The lights flicker, turning bright when I tell the priest. You need to leave. And the door slams open.

The furniture drops to the floor and globs of water drop onto his robe. We have a good thing here. The door slams shut, and I feel what I can't see. The day renders my husband translucent, and I whisper, We need to wait till night, honey. He kisses my neck, and rather than feeling his lips brush against my skin, it's more like a cool breeze shifting the air, the type of sensation that people might find startling when in a haunted house.

But I know it's simply the tenderness of my lover. They call me a witch when I walk out on the streets, a devil-worshipper, and a necromancer. I never knew such a pious man could be such a gossip. But I grit and I bear it, hoping that it would blow over in time. Someone nails crosses to my house. people pray for me on the local news

and kids dare each other to knock on my door at night it's okay though because for once I am happy and so is my husband he follows me my invisible shadow as I walk through town his spectral touch diverting thrown rocks

and warns me of people lying in a wait whether they want to dump holy water on me or worse I can't be sure I hear their whispers in the story and read about their outrage in the paper. There are petitions, prayers, and everything you can imagine. But it doesn't matter to me. As difficult as they make it, I am happy.

They don't stop, though. The townies throw things at the house and at me. My tires get slashed, windows get broken, and people cross the street when they see me walking. The phone constantly runs. either from prank callers or people leaving horrible messages. It becomes exhausting, and even Ryan's touch can't soothe the pain. Then on a cool night, something jostles me awake.

And my husband hovers over me, opaque and ethereal, like solid smoke. I smell the fire before the air turns thick and it stings my eyes. His hands try to guide me out of the room, but I lay back in bed. I welcome the flames at this point. It would be easy if the world left us alone. But it can't. They hate what they don't understand. Why can't they let us be happy, I wonder?

But his arms wrap around me again. And as the flames burn everything around me, his spectral form takes hold of me. I can't live like this anymore. I said to him, and my lungs struggled to suck in oxygen. You think we can be together? sharing a plane of existence, and never, ever having to be alone again. He smiles at me and cradles my face. I feel tears run down my cheek only for the moisture to evaporate from the heat.

We hold each other tightly, and as the flames lick my skin, burning flesh from bone, I know I made the right decision. I wouldn't change a thing. We are in our arms. Our one heart now ash, but our souls are free. The world turns dark, like the setting of the sun on a starless night. Two lights streak through the abyss. So close, they might as well be one.

And finally, an abused nine-year-old clings to his belief in Santa as the only force keeping his darkest thoughts in check, until one brutal night pushes him to act. When Christmas morning still brings gifts despite what he's done, he realizes the most devastating truth of all. From writer John Bruny and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. Creepy presents. All I want for Christmas is a well-told lie. I used to love Christmas as a kid.

The magic of a tree blazing with colorful lights. Not having to save candy for after dinner. Trying to go to sleep so Santa could put presents under said tree. My stepdad was a lot nicer to me around Christmas. He didn't beat me until it was really bad. Other times of the year, he had no moral quandaries about punching a seven-year-old boy like he was a man. Christmas was great, until I found out that Santa didn't exist. I haven't been able to enjoy the holiday ever since.

The only part I didn't like about Christmas was that mom drank a lot more during the weeks leading up to it. She went to bars and left me with my stepdad. I thought at the time she didn't love me enough. But thinking back as an adult, I know she was trying to get away from her. She fell down the stairs a lot to give my drift. Accidentally tripped and hit her eye on the doorknob. Things like that. I'm thinking now of December 23rd, 1987.

I was not. years old. And I still believed in Santa Claus. He was my hero and God. I couldn't wait to see what he brought me this year. I'd done my best to be good. There were a lot of bad things I wanted to do. But thoughts of Santa always stopped me, especially when I thought about the bad thing. My stepdad's own drinking had gotten a little out of hand that year. His best dad's beatings didn't decrease with December like they usually did. Just two days previous, he'd beaten me so bad. He knocked out two of my teeth.

Baby teeth, but still, I remember constantly tonguing the empty sockets in my gums, still tasting a trace of blood. I also had a throbbing bruise on my jaw from where he'd punched me. I, too, had fallen. down the stairs. My teacher said I should be more careful. My mom had left her out noon to drink at the bar. I found out from my aunt years later that my mom had been cheating on my stepdad,

looking for someone to rescue her, by extension, me, from him. If I'd known that back then, I'd probably still have done the same thing. You can't wait for someone to rescue you. enough to do it yourself. I'd been watching cartoons when my stepdad walked out of his bedroom wearing his usually ratty robe. This comb over looked like a bird's nest. And I knew before I could smell him that he was hung over.

Where's your mom? Shopping, I said. At the bar then. He sighed and went to the kitchen. When he came back, he held a bottle of jack. Whenever he woke up, it was always booze o'clock. One of the perks of having been fired from every job he'd had. He didn't bother with a glass either.

He drank straight from the bottle. He plopped down on his creaky, lazy boy, and he must have just remembered then about the remote. He wordlessly held his hand out, waiting. So much for cartoons. I handed it over. He turned on the news and I tried to watch, but it bored the hell out of me. Mom had been there, I'd gone to my room to read Hardy Boy's book.

But my stepdad didn't like it when I was an insight. He always quoted the idle hands devil's workshop thing on me. If I'd left the room for any reason, outside of going to the bathroom, he would have backhanded me. So I looked out the window, and people watched for a while. Wished I could go outside and pet some of the dogs I saw. And I thought about the bad thing, which I like to do often. Sometimes it was the only way to stay sane.

Ralph Orgha the sun dimmed in the west, ushering in an early winter night. Mom usually made it home in time to cook dinner at six, but she would be late that day, which was probably for the best, all things considered. My stepdad kept making me fetch things for him. You wanted food, too. But no matter how drunk he got, he knew I couldn't cook. So he kept it simple. If I lagged a little, he made sure to smack my forehead to remind me he was the king.

of this particular castle. He'd do that even if I didn't lag. So I thought more about the bad thing. Who wouldn't? If I rolled around and I got another smack to the forehead. And now his aim was off, his eyes were dull. He might not have been capable of standing. Good thing I was wrong.

Six o'clock still no mom. Even my stepdad started. started wondering where she was. Not because he cared for her welfare, of course. He wanted dinner and he knew I couldn't make it. That was a woman's work. So the idea of doing it himself never occurred to him. But restlessness made violence easier on him.

And the longer mom didn't show up. The likelier he'd hand me a beat down. It was just a matter of what I'd do to earn it. It happened on my way back from the bathroom. I tripped on the carpet and fell on my face. One of my hands flailed and hit his whiskey bottle, knocking it off the coffee table. It didn't break, but it did spill. A cardinal sin in my stepdad's eyes.

He wailed on me so hard I lost time. I don't remember everything he did take. me. But one of my eyes had swollen shut and my nose bled. A clock said 7.32, so I'd been out for a while. I snorted and blood went down my throat. I gagged, trying to cough it back up so I wouldn't have to swallow it. And my stepdad still sat on his lazy boy. Drinking and smoking Winstons. oblivious to me. I knew in that moment I had to do the bad thing.

I had to save Mom and me from my stepdad. I knew it would put me on Santa's naughty list, and I knew I wouldn't get any presents this year, but I couldn't just keep living like this. I staggered to the bathroom and cleaned the blood off my face. I dotted my shirt, too, but I could. I didn't do anything about that. I tried to use cold water to get my swollen eye open, but it didn't work.

The whole time I did this, I plotted my next move. Frank and Joe Hardy would not approve. Neither would their father Fenton come to think of it. I went past the living room without looking at my stepdad. You probably didn't look at me either. the kitchen I worked at the garbage can. It wasn't full, but I figured that wouldn't be important. I used a tie on the top and leaned in the living room.

I'm taking out the trash. Good, my stepdad said. I opened up the back door and pretended to go down the stairs. When I thought I'd been outside long enough, I went back in and stood next to the lazy boy. What? My stepdad said, he had an edge to his voice. There's a man outside, I said. He showed me his thing.

That did it. He stood up in a flash-like lightning and strode to the back door with purpose. No sign of drunkenness. He truly lived for violence. Mom and I weren't his only targets. He saw every opportunity. possible to hurt someone. He threw the door open and started stomping down the stairs on his bare feet.

Not fast enough. As soon as his upper back was within reach, I pushed him as hard as I could. I pinwheeled on the brink of following him, but I grabbed the handrail. He went, as he would say, ass over tea kettle. I didn't have to worry about him not dying. He hit his head so hard on the stairs, I heard his skull crack. As he rolled further down, I heard a crackle. I didn't think it was the steps.

When he landed, his face looked up at me. No one was home. I called 911 and I didn't have to pretend to cry. I still heard all over from my stepdad's abuse. The police came and before long. they found mom, but she was too drunk to do anything. I didn't remember much after that, except the cause of death was misadventure. My stepdad's blood alcohol content was 0.42.

Much more than the legal limit back then. More than enough to put a fork in any investigation. On Christmas Eve, I cried my eyes out. Not because I'd killed someone, mind you. No, I felt justified in doing that. I just thought Santa wasn't going to get me anything. Because I killed someone. But the next morning came, and I found a bounty of presents under the tree to me from Santa.

And that was how I discovered Santa. how wasn't real. 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.