Creepy - Slip of the Tongue & Afterlives

Episode Date: January 26, 2023

Slip of the Tongue***Written by: Morgan Lane and Narrated by: Heather Thomas***Afterlives***Written by: Laura Belle and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by Alex Aldea 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 biocations. Silence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. Slip of the tongue. Written by Morgan Lane. And narrated by Heather Thomas. I find it hard to relate to people sometimes. It's not like I hate anyone who isn't me, or even that I'm particularly selfish, if I can even say that about myself.

Me and the rest of humanity just don't have to be. have much in common. Take my brother David. We're family, we're close, we live together, and usually get along great, except when I make a remark offhand and he just gives me this look. Like I should be embarrassed, or maybe he's embarrassed for me. Everywhere I go, everyone I meet. I see David's look reflected back at me from acquaintances, co-workers, and strangers. Once I start talking about anything I'm really passionate about. We'll go on walks, David and I, and every time it's the same routine. He coaxes me to talk about future plans and what Barbara from HR said about my performance this

week and how much nicer the park looks now that they've gotten rid of the crabgrass, only to be disappointed that we aren't focusing on the same things. He looks out at the world. I look down. David usually stops and asks what's so interesting, his voice hovering at the threshold between annoyance and resignation. I remember one time, I had stopped to examine a beetle that still waggled its legs in protest as a steady stream of red-brown specks carried away shreds of its abdomen by the mouthful. David's shoes scraped at the sidewalk as he took a quick step back. Why? He sighed. Why can't you just people watch or ask to pet people's dogs like a normal person? We were standing by the new baseball diamond at the time.

I remember looking out across the immaculately cut grass stretching between our featureless sidewalk and the smooth dirt of the pitcher's mound, and I didn't have an answer to stop the twinge of shame the words brought into my mind. Instead, I embraced the stab of satisfaction I got from that nest of ants poking up defiantly against the edge of the unnatural Bermuda grass I saw. David wouldn't understand, and that was fine. But I don't feel the same way about it anymore. Not really.

That night I dreamed of a flat world paved over into a parking lot. The sun's unforgiving brilliance chased away any clouds that might have provided shelter from its oppressive heat. Wherever I stepped, the tarmac reflected the heat back up at me like a solar oven. The only shelter I could see were lines and lines of beige-painted strip malls, new in uniform, and packed with ugly polyester clothing. Old people with nothing better to do watched me disapprovingly from every door. Their gaze is almost worse than the sun. I think David was in there, too, though I only remember him shaking his head in disappointment.

His starched white shirt didn't move with him. Stress dreams are the worst. Nightmares have the decency of being interesting, at least, but this was the sort of dream that took everything I hated about life and condensed it into my entire world. Just people in their myopic little kingdoms or nothing lived unless they approved of how it looked and moved. The dream wasn't a new one.

I wouldn't remember this occurrence in such detail if I hadn't noticed the crack, a deep, dark fissure under the nearest building. So black it made the new parking lot look gray. I stepped toward it. Eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun. At first it only seemed to stretch a few inches. The edge of the plaster darkened with moisture seeping out from the recess,

providing a tiny oasis for a few individual florees of moss. Life. I stumbled forward with a pang of desperation, wondering if anything else might live there. The crack widened invitingly as I approached it. until it stretched over half a foot, though maybe it had always been that size. I knelt on the hot blacktop

so I could peer into the darkness past sharp square rocks that lined the gap like a fence. Yes, there was definitely something inside, something that shifted bonelessly like a giant worm poking up through exposed soil. What was this thing? It settled itself flat against the earth,

and I was overwhelmed with a sudden design, to grasp it. I plunged my arm into the gap up to my elbow. A sharp pain in my mouth jolted me awake a second later. For a moment I sat there unmoving, my limbs locked up with what, sleep paralysis, lethargy? With an effort of will I twitched a finger, then painstakingly sat up, and then everything worked again. With a curse I ran to the bathroom to check myself in the mirror. I opened my mouth, using the light from my phone to look over everything from my gums to my tonsils, but there was no explanation for the sudden pain I had felt. No blood, no cracked enamel, not even a bruise near my lips.

I stood there staring at myself like an idiot for two seconds. Then a door slammed. David's heavy footsteps announced his presence before his bedhead and shaken face appeared in the doorway. Did you hear it too? He blurted out. I turned to face him. The way his eyes bulged in their sockets made me uneasy, but I kept my voice even.

You look awful? There was like... I was dreaming at first, but... Something was scratching at the... Maybe the wall between our rooms? It sounded like scurrying. Maybe mice. David rubbed the back of his neck and wouldn't meet my eyes.

I sighed. I think I'd notice if my... for running around my room, David. Go back to bed. His nose wrinkled like it does when I'm being annoying. What? You can be up and I can't? What are you doing anyways? I meant to roll my eyes. I meant to tell him it wasn't his business and he should go get some sleep. But that's not what I said. My lip curled at David and a low inhuman hiss clawed its way out of my throat. What I do in the dark isn't meant for your eyes. We stared at each other.

The silence filled the room like smoke, discouraging us from breathing. Then David left. He was shaking. I was too, come to think of it. The next morning he acted like nothing had happened when I came down for breakfast. At that point, I'd half convinced myself the bathroom episode was just part of my dream. That only lasted long enough for me to get breakfast together and pour us both some coffee. David stared down at his mug as though, hoping to set it boiling again with the intensity of his gaze.

So, I'm going to call the exterminator today. I paused with my coffee halfway to my mouth, the memory from before squirming to the front of my mind. Oh? He didn't look up at me. Yeah. some things in the wall. It kept waking me up last night. I drank mostly so I could think over my response.

Okay. Just let me know how much it costs. Cool. Silence. David's back was stiff with apprehension, and he drummed his fingers against the table. I cleared my throat. So, uh... Sorry about being... weird last night. It's fine. We were both half asleep anyway. The guilt that I'd tried to cut out

of myself wriggled at the back of my brain, impossible to ignore. I put my mug down. Yeah, but you seemed freaked out. You know, I'm like, I don't try to freak you out on purpose. His gaze cut sharply over to my face at that. I'm not great at reading people, never have been. But in that instant, I knew he didn't believe me. Sure, Jan. He laughed as he took his mug to the sink, and I forced my shoulders to relax. We were siblings, and we got under each other's skin

because that's what siblings do. So what if he thought I was being creepy or annoying on purpose? It didn't matter. I kept telling myself it didn't matter on the drive to work, but it wasn't very convincing. My tiredness caught up to me at the office. The white and black of the computer screen kept swimming in front of my eyes, and more than once I jerked upright just before my head slammed into the keyboard.

I don't usually take naps, but it seemed like a good idea to catch a few minutes sleep during my lunch break. So that's what I did. I didn't even bother going out to my car. I just shoved my lunch bag to the side and put my head down on the table in the break room. I was out almost instantly. This time I dreamed about a maze of cubicles surrounded by towering, powder-blue walls. Barbara from HR frowned as I scrambled around in frenzy looking for a misplaced form. Her foot tapped against the floor as I dipped under the desk, and she clicked her tongue in

disapproval. No excuses. No excuses. If you don't improve your performance. Bite me, Barbara. You want me gone anyways. The tapping of her foot turned into the ticking of a clock. Right, I was probably late for a meeting, or maybe not. The already loosely held details of my boring office jobs slipped through my brain like water through a sieve. I clutched my head. What part of the building was I in anyway? Everything was right angles and cold fluorescent lights without a single of the office's usual fake plants to break up the monotony. None of it looked familiar, except my eyes found the crack, the same crack as last time. Now a rough black line between the carpet and baseboard that stretched eagerly open for me. Meetings and forms forgotten. I dashed towards it with my hand out.

This was shelter. This was relief. My hand brushed sharp stones on the path toward the strained worm thing inside. It recoiled from the invasion, but not far enough. The tips of my fingers made contact with its slimy skin. Ow! That same sharp pain jolted me awake again. And again, I laid there with my eyes open. My body waited down to the tabletop as though it were led. At work.

Great. I was so uncomfortable that I didn't immediately realize I wasn't alone. A woman stared at me over her own lunch, sandwich forgotten in her hands. Her expression inexplicably twisted in horror As though she had just witnessed me disposing of a body I managed to twitch my mouth in a smile Good, I could still move that And swallowed the lump in my throat

My mind cast about for something clever to say That might diffuse the situation Say nothing And pray the same does not befall you It was that same terrible hiss That had scared David the night before The lady's jolt of shock sent her chair toppling over, and she ran from the room. I sat there in a daze.

What was I supposed to do about this? What could I do about this? After a few minutes I managed to stiffly sit up, then returned to my desk. Part of me wanted to apologize to whoever that had been, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Maybe if I acted like nothing was wrong, everything would go back to normal. The rest of the workday passed in a blur of sleep-deprived routine. It was a blessing when five rolled around. I remember flashes of the drive home and focusing so hard to stay awake,

then pushing open the door of the house to see David. His business clothes were rumpled uncharacteristically, and the shadows under his eyes hadn't been there the day before. David held his cell phone to his ear. Yeah, we're not sure. Probably mice? Maybe squirrels. It sounded kind of big.

No, we haven't seen any droppings, but... Yeah, whatever you can do would be great. Yeah, thanks. See you then. He put his phone down on the table before turning to me with a tired smile. Okay, it's all set. Yikes. You look rough.

You don't look great either. I tossed my keys onto the counter and flopped into it. chair. So when's the exterminator coming? Should be next week. Apparently they're busy this time of year, but they managed to slot us in. I told him it's an emergency. Irritation prickled at my insides. That's basically a lie, but okay. No, it's not, he replied stubbornly. I'm a wreck because I didn't get any sleep last night. And you can say you didn't hear anything all you want? but it won't get rid of the circles under your eyes. And what will you do, David?

He froze as that horrible tone overtook my voice again. The drip of the sink was the only sound until he cleared his throat nervously. What? What's that supposed to mean? I tried to tell him I didn't know. I tried to grit my teeth and not say anything. I even tried to bite my tongue.

For all the good it did, I might as well have attempted to consciously stop my mouth, heartbeat. What will you do when the only vermin left is what you cannot kill? I don't remember what he said to that, or what I did, but we didn't have dinner together that night. I dreamed of the parking lot again. This time I ignored the tacky buildings in oppressive heat. That great yawning crack opened up directly in front of me, wide enough to crawl inside with promises of damp and dark, and shelter from the hated light of the sun. I stooped next to it eagerly.

My shaking hands pulled me forward over the sharp stones that jutted up like grave markers to the fat, boneless thing within. From this close it looked familiar somehow, but the shape didn't remind me of a worm anymore. That was when I realized it wasn't jutting up out of a burrow, but connected to the floor, the warm, wet floor of a mouth.

What woke me this time wasn't pain. It was something pulling itself on many bristly segmented legs over my jaw, my lower lip, my teeth. My eyes bulged, but once again the rest of my body refused to respond. I couldn't move. A heavy carapace scraped against my hard palate. Thick antennae twitched against my tonsils, so that had I been able to move, I would have gagged.

The fat body shifted with the language. motion as though it were trying to get comfortable, and I felt a rounded head pressed down against my tongue. Many insects have specialized mouthparts, depending on their food preferences. Mosquitoes have serrated needle mouths, for example, which is why you barely feel it when they bite you. Cockroaches, however, are opportunists and scavengers. The construction of their mandibles allows them to eat a great many different things through chewing, including meat, but there would usually be no advantage for the process to be quick or painless. It wasn't. I couldn't move as this thing methodically, with an aching deliberation, chewed through the muscle. A scream I couldn't release built in my chest

as tears pricked my eyes. Desperately I tried to fight against whatever force held me pinned to the bed, to thrash or cry or even bite the hateful creature in half. and somehow it knew. I knew it relished in the pain it caused as much as I felt the pain itself. No sooner had I realized this than thought that wasn't mine, wormed its way into my head. We are home. We are one.

I felt it wash over me, through me. A half-familiar anger sharpened to an edge by years of lurking at the periphery of human notice. through a world they would sterilize into level lawns and cement with no room left for the things that crawled and burrowed and scuttled in the darkness. I saw the cracks between the walls and under floors where humanity had forgotten anything could live. I saw space as filled with shining, twitching chitin like the floodwaters behind a dam. And with a surge of vicious triumph, I saw the dam burst over crowds of immobile human figures. Faces frozen in expressions of horror disappeared beneath shifting wings and twitching legs.

Horror, disgust, the creature's rage, and the agonizing scrape of its mouthparts reached a crescendo in my mind, fueling my frantic attempts at any movement until, finally, a choked whimper forced its way out of my stiffened vocal cords, and suddenly I could move again. I scrabbled from my mouth as I gagged. The roach thing's spiny legs clamped to either side of my tongue, but my face was. Fingers found purchase around its oval body and dragged it out into the streetlight pouring in through the window. It glittered like obsidian, too large to exist, all spines and armor and those thrashing whip-like antennae. The body bent in my hands, so the head lunged up toward my fingertips, and out of shock I dropped it to the floor, where it hit the carpet with a muffled thud.

If it hadn't fallen on its back, I know it would have darted into the shadow under my bed, out of reach. As it was, I had only a split second until it managed to right itself. I grabbed a shoe from beside my bed and brought it down as hard and fast as I could manage. It crunched sickeningly, but I brought down the shoe again, and again. I kept slamming the spot on the carpet until I couldn't make out anything against the fibers but a dark stain. The boot fell from my trembling fingers, and I cried. I don't remember what I told David, or the doctor.

They pretended it was something they could rationally explain, and I was given pain killers, time off work, physical therapy, so I could manage to talk and eat normally again. I say normally. I could only talk half as fast as I used to, and the surface of my tongue is, it's not pretty. But that's a small price to pay. Whatever that thing was, whatever called it, I never saw more of them. It's been a year now. Most days I can pretend like nothing ever happened.

Life goes on as before, more or less. But every so often, my tongue flinches of its own accord. I keep telling myself it's my imagination, that I'm just traumatized and this is how that trauma manifests itself. For my own sake, I hope I'm right. Creepy presents After Lives Written by Laura Bell

and narrated by Danielle Hewitt. Bright green digital numbers slowly come into focus as I blink my sleep-crusted eyes. 837. Shit. I am running incredibly late from my Psych 101 midterm at 9, which might not be so bad

if I wasn't the TA in charge of handing out the exams. Luckily, passed me, at least somewhat had her shit together, and printed off set exams the night before, even if she did forget to charge her phone. I give myself a half-second to let out an annoyed groan, then proceed to leap out of bed, hastily put on some pants and a sweatshirt, and sprint toward the door. I live close enough to the lecture hall that I can do an awkward speedwalk rather than a full-out run, and I make my sweaty entrance into the room with five minutes to spare. The students look disappointed that their exams have indeed arrived,

and my co-tie, Greg, gives me his usual creepy smile while staring at my chest. The next two hours go by smoothly despite the frantic start to my morning, and I managed to rebuff creepy Greg's attempt at conversation by holding my book about a serial killer's right up in front of my face. I am many things, but subtle is not one of them. One of my master's-level sight classes is about serial killers and is incredibly fascinating. For example, many of them share childhood traits such as bedwetting, animal cruelty, arson, and head trauma. I peer over the top of my book and wonder if Greg may have fallen out of a tree onto his head as a child.

Hmm. Seems like a definite possibility. Finally, I collect the last of the exams and head back to my dingy, but cheap, university-provided apartment for a long-awaited nap. I feel naked without my phone having left it behind to charge. So I make a beeline to my nightstand after fishing open my door. I've got one text from Stacey asking if I want to grab drinks later, and one miss call for Mom. Nothing from Eric, of course. Good riddance, I tell myself.

I text Stacey back the affirmative saying that I'm in for drinks and call my mom back. We talk about the plans for the upcoming Thanksgiving break, and my mouth starts to water thinking about her apple cinnamon pie. I still need to see if I could. I'm a ride home from someone, so I don't have to take the bus again. Last time I was stuck sitting next to a hungover freshman who was missing an eyebrow. And despite a vague curiosity, I made the uncharacteristically wise decision not to ask, mostly because I was a little nervous as to what would come out of his mouth if he opened it. He was looking quite green around the gills.

Yeah, I should definitely call my buddy mad about getting a ride. Add that to the growing list of things to do. I swap my jeans out for sweatpants and plop onto my bed. And as I glance up, I notice that my door is a jar. I begrudgingly rolled back off my bed, grunting like I'm 40 rather than 24 as I moved to shut the door. Then thinking about my serial killer book, I turned the deadbolt. It gives a bit of resistance, so I open the door and flip the deadbolt a few times to unstick it. When I see something flutter to the ground, I bend over and pick up what appears to be a piece of tape. Okay, that's weird. I'm getting paranoid now and fervitively glance around my apartment.

My apartment is tiny, just a single room with an unsweet bathroom and a shared kitchen across the hall. The carpet is that mystery brown, where you can't tell if it was originally supposed to be that color, or if it was once something lighter that eventually succumbed to its fate of decades of spilled beer and tracked in dirt. It's lit by a single bare bulb in the ceiling. I imagine there was once a light fixture covering it, but not since I've been living here. I do a quick sweep and check under the bed and in the shower. I also make sure my window is locked. I've never been so happy to have such a small living space.

I can at least be reasonably sure that no masked killer is hiding anywhere, but I chastise myself and decide I need to be more cautious going forward. I can be a bit scatterbrained, especially when stressed. But being a blonde college co-ed, I should probably be more careful. I'm a horror movie buff, so I'm very aware that the odds are decidedly not in my favor. I'm now fully awake so a nap is out of the question. I decide to hop in the shower and get a head start on grading some of the exams from this morning. The less I have to do over Thanksgiving break, the better.

Eventually I look at my phone and realize it's time to change into going out clothes. so I can meet up with Stacy. I don't do anything too crazy. Anything is an upgrade from my pizza sauce stained sweatpants. I go with skinny jeans, a form-fitting tank top and a leather jacket. Make that faux leather jacket. I am a poor grad student after all.

Whatever, though. It's cute and it's not like the dumb-ass college dudes I know know the difference anyways. Or care, for that matter. I make awkward faces to myself in the bathroom mirror as I apply eyeliner and mascara. I try doing cat eyes but end up looking more like someone who's had a mental breakdown, so I abort and go back to my usual more subtle look.

Lastly, I dab on some lip gloss, give myself a seductive lip pout in the mirror, and walk the two steps to my door. Molly, one of the international students, heads into our shared kitchen as I enter the hallway. I give her a genuine smile and a quick wave as I lock my door, double-checking the deadbolt this time before continuing down the hall. I also see one of the university maintenance guys.

I should probably know his name, but I don't. So I do that weird half-smile thing you do to strangers that always feel stupid? But I guess it's better than resting bitchface. He gives me a nod back and I continue on my way. I'm glad I was able to blow off some steam tonight. We went to our regular dive bar right off the main college drag. The bartender there looks a little bit like Orlando Bloom as Legolas, and always gives us a few drinks on the house.

When the time comes from the lights to go from an even glow to fluorescent horror, I leave the bar happy and buzzed, and with a few more contacts in my phone. The autumn night is brisk but not uncomfortably cold. Between the beers and my fake leather jacket, I'm feeling reasonably warm as I meander back to my apartment. The walk home is quiet. The only other person I see is the resident homeless man, Piccolo Pete.

He's sporting his usual orange jumpsuit. suit, but rather than playing his piccolo, he's passed out on a doorway, a few empty 40s of Mickey's surrounding him. When I get a bit farther down the sidewalk and away from the drunken snores of Pete, I take a moment and look up at the moon. It's a waxing gibbis, if I recall correctly from seventh grade science class, and Jupiter is shining brightly on the horizon. I'm not one of those astrology chicks, but I can appreciate a beautiful fall night sky. It's my favorite time of year. I stay still a moment longer and take a deep inhale of the cold evening air. Suddenly I get that chill down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold

and everything to do with the sense that something is watching me. I slowly turn in a complete circle but don't see anyone, at least not anyone conscious. I continue walking at a faster pace while glancing around, but I don't see anything or anyone out of place. I'm still feeling unnerved until I finally stepped into the the relative safety of my apartment building. I'm not sure what's gotten into me. Probably my fear from this morning, combined with my serial killer class

and general love of true crime podcasts. I approach my door and see that it's already open. What the fuck? I am officially freaking out now. All of my options are running through my head. Do I call the police? Do I try and wake Molly and have her check my up? apartment with me. Do I call Stacey and see if she can come over? All of those seem ridiculous at 3 a.m.

on a Friday night. So what should I actually do? I made the wise decision to do absolutely nothing. I very slowly push my door open the rest of the way and of course it creaks like I'm in my own personal slasher film. I managed to flick on the lights from the hallway, then sort of karate kick, chop my way into the room. I know I look insane, but I don't care. The apartment is empty. I do another quick check. My comfortable drunken buzz long swept away by the various spikes of adrenaline coursing through my body. Nothing seems out of place until I shiver and realize that it's colder than usual in my room. I walk over to the window and it's cracked open half an inch. I could have sworn I locked it earlier, which makes me think that someone has definitely been in my room.

I'm going to submit a maintenance request first thing tomorrow morning to get my lock. changed. In the meantime, I shut and lock the window and drag my desk chair over the door, lodging it under the door handle. I'm not sure that works in real life, but at the very least it should give me an extra warning if someone tries to get in again tonight. To no one's surprise, I do not sleep well at all, and remain in sort of a half-conscious state the entire night, interrupted only by flitting dreams of shadowy figures circling and bursting through doors. I call the emergency maintenance number first thing in the morning until them I need my locks changed out immediately.

They get pissy about it and tell me it's going to be a $200 charge and they can't get out till Wednesday. I roll my eyes and say fine. I figure I'll just crash at Stacey's for a few days. I already told her about what's going on. I'm a bit strapped for cash so I'm not excited about the $200. But I bet my parents will help me out since it's for my safety and peace of mind. The next few days pass uneventfully, and it's a bit of money.

finally Wednesday. Everyone's motivation quickly dwindling to nothing with the anticipation of the long holiday weekend. I managed to get a hold of my friend Matt. He can give me a ride but can't leave until late tonight, which works out well because that should give me enough time to pick up my new set of keys and quickly throw some clothes in a bag. Around six o'clock, I get the call that maintenance is at my apartment so I head over to meet them. I'm relieved as I was getting nervous they wouldn't actually get to it today. I walk down the apartment building hallway and see the maintenance guy whose name I should know, just finishing swapping out the lock. I walk up and thank him, and make awkward small talk asking if he had any Thanksgiving plans. He smiles and says yes, he's got an annual tradition,

but doesn't expand on what that is. He's maybe in his 50s and a bit grizzled looking. His once dark hair mostly overtaken by gray. He's not wearing a wedding ring. He's not wearing a wedding ring, and his hands are a bit bloated. So I assume his annual tradition is probably getting drunk with some friends and watching football or some other boring dude stuff. He tells me that it looks like the lock had been tampered with so he's going to get the $200 charge taken off. I grin and thank him feeling immensely grateful.

I tell him to have a great holiday, and I walk into my apartment, everything looking mundanely normal. Maybe I had been a bit paranoid. But then again, I guess not since the maintenance guy's said the lock had been tampered with. Shit. I still didn't ask his name. I start tossing clothes into my duffel bag. I'm packing all my dirty clothes so I can do laundry at home. It's nice to get a break from the

coin-operated apartment machines. Plus, I don't have much in the way of clean clothes available at the moment anyway. There's a knock at the door and I jump. The maintenance guy is back, and he apologizes but wants to know if I can help him lift some stuff into his truck. He thought he could manage it, but his back is still recovering from throwing it out a few days ago, and the person manning the front desk has wandered off, which is more typical than them actually being at the front desk, to be honest. I figure the dude saved me $200, so helping him out is the least I can do. I quickly grab my jacket and follow him outside to the truck. As he's opening the back double doors, I finally remember to ask him his name. But as I start to turn around, everything goes black.

I blinked my eyes open, awoken by a dull throbbing in the back of my head. I appear to be in a small cabin, the only light, a soft glow coming from the fireplace. I'm lying on the floor. My hands are tied behind my back and my arms hurt like hell from being bent behind me at a weird angle. Things are still a bit fuzzy. But the man stoking the fire seems to realize that I've regained consciousness. It's the fucking maintenance guy, of course. Who else would have been able to get into my room so easily unnoticed? I can't believe I let him lure me to his truck. I've seen silence of the lambs. I should have known better.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He remarks that he's glad that I'm awake, that he had thought he'd hit me too hard and ended it all prematurely. I guess his annual tradition isn't getting drunk with the voice, but rather strangling young women. He's rambling on and telling me all about it. his eyes lighting up with sick excitement.

A wave of nausea overtakes me and I'm torn between wanting him to shut the fuck up and wanting him to go on forever. I don't see how I can possibly get myself out of this situation and the longer he rambles the longer I stay alive. I guess he's finishing up now as I no longer hear the senseless babble in the background and he's walking over to me. Full panic sets in and my heart is pounding out of my chest in perfect time with my throbbing head. It's as if my heart is trying its best to escape.

knowing that staying within the cage of my ribs is a losing bet. He strokes my face, and I flinch my head away and disgust, causing a sharper throbbing pain this time. He slowly wraps his rough, beefy hands around my throat, almost like he's savoring it and begins to squeeze. I can feel the tears starting to spill out of my eyes and down my face. I think about my mom, and my dad, and my dumb older brother,

They're expecting me home tonight, and they'll never see me alive again. They may never even find out what happened to me. They are all doomed in a different way than me, but doomed all the same. They will spend the remaining days weighed down by grief and the pain of not knowing, the pain of imagining the very worst. I'll never get another taste of my mom's apple cinnamon pie. I'll never get to meet the love of my life. Never have another girl's night out with Stacy.

I feel so much sorrow for all that I am losing, all that I have lost, and all of the pain my family is going to feel. My lungs are on fire, and stars begin to dance across my eyes. It would almost be beautiful, if it didn't mean I was dying. Oh my God, I'm actually dying.

It wasn't creepy Greg after all. But the unassuming maintenance man, With access to everything, going unnoticed by everyone. I feel something in my throat snap. The hyoid bone, probably. I remember that from one of the various true crime podcasts. My parents' faces briefly swim back into my mind one last time. And then finally.

Once and for all. Everything fades to black. I opened my eyes with a panicked gasp, tears still streaming down my face, sitting in a simple wooden chair, in a room that's completely dark aside from the dull circle of light emanating from a single bare light bulb hanging by a string.

What's happening? I'm dead, right? I see a figure moving in the darkness. They step into the circle of light and it's... Me. They laugh at the confusion on my face. A cute, dainty laugh with a slight edge of cruelty in it. I look at the circle of light.

down at my hands and they are large and gruff, not the hands of a 24-year-old girl. The girl in front of me, the girl who I thought was me, but it was clearly not me, says, Hello, Roy. I see you're figuring it out more quickly this time. Ironic that I didn't learn your name until after you stole my life. And she's right. I am, Roy, and I am starting to remember. I lived until I was six. 67 years old, killing one girl every year from the time I was 25 until the time that I died. 42 in total. I died alone on a Christmas Eve from a heart attack, my left hand clutching at my chest while my right clutched a bottle of whiskey. I woke up, if you can call it that, in this

very room surrounded by all of the women I had killed. They told me that I was not in heaven or hell, but the in-between, what some would call purgatory. The first punishment assigned to me is to live out the full life of every single girl that I killed. That is the only way I would ever come close to understanding what I took from them, the futures they should have had. I'm not sure what happens once that's done, but other punishments wait for me before my final judgment. But it'll be a while before I find out.

Sarah. The girl whose life I just finished, reaches her hand out into the darkness and pulls a petite, red-headed girl into the light. They smile at each other, hug, and then Sarah walks back into the darkness. Melanie turns to face me now shaking her head so that the long waves of red hair move out of her face, her mouth moving into a slow, wide, almost predatory grin. Enjoy my life, asshole. I'll be here when you're done. Twenty-six down. Sixteen more to go. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com.

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