Creepy - Stay Off The Ice & Peppermint

Episode Date: February 15, 2024

Stay Off The Ice***Written by: Nikki Brumback and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Peppermint ***Written by: Lex Chamberlin and Narrated by: Alicia Atkins***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***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. which listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. Stay off the ice.

Written by Nikki Brumback and narrated by Daniel Hewitt. Before I say anything else, I want to make myself clear. I did not kill my husband. You probably know my name. It was plastered all over the news after it has. happened. Every social media wannabe detective, every podcasting middle-aged soccer mom with a wine

problem, all of them have covered my story. The man who disappeared and his wife who claims it was a monster, I know how my story sounds. And if I had not experienced it myself, I wouldn't have believed it either. I have told my story dozens of times. Police officers, detectives, psychologists, my friends, or the people I thought were my friends, rather. I have written my story in my journal over and over, reassuring myself that it was real, as much as I wish that it wasn't. It was my fault that we were up there. That much I will admit to. All I wanted was... Wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm sure you're wondering why I'm doing this. I have been accused of murdering the love of my life. I have been called evil, a monster, a killer, deemed insane, and my picture displayed on the news in countries I never even

knew existed. So surely, I must want to disappear. You wouldn't be entirely wrong. I would go back to being just Laura Wilson, a school teacher, and polite, but ultimately boring neighbor. But that's impossible. We can't turn back time. No, I'm doing this because I need to know if there are more people like me out there. People who have seen the things I've seen. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I close my eyes and I see that thing. So I'm here to tell my story again, at least once more, in the hopes that someone out there will understand. The trip was meant to be a Christmas present. My childhood has been a major topic of interest since the events of that night hit the headlines. They point to what I've been through as a sign that I must have snapped.

I spent much of my formative years in and out of foster care. I bounced back and forth between relatives and lived out of my mom's car occasionally. Christmas was never something that was really an option for me. Of course, I built it up in my mind. Maybe I'd watched too many movies. But I dreamed of the big tree with handmade decorations and presents piled beneath. I yearned for a family gathered around a table, laughing together, and the sound of Christmas carols drifting from the radio. Corey and I met in our first year of college.

We were lab partners in a gen ed chemistry course. It took a long time for him to work up the courage to ask me out. He was awkward, nervous. I thought it was sweet. I felt comfortable. with him, my gentleman. He had this smile that could light up the room. His eyes were this rich chocolate brown that I could stare into for hours.

His hair. Oh, his hair. Those ink-black curls. God, I loved him. I loved everything about him. I loved him so much, I ached with it. How could anyone think that I would ever? Sorry. I'm sorry.

The first time I met the Wilson's after Corey and I got serious, I was terrified. Before me laid an opportunity that I had been desperate for. A family. Corey's family is huge. Besides his mother and father, he had four brothers and two sisters. All were older, married, and a few had kids of their own. The house at the holidays was so full of everything, noise, singing, laughter. And there was love, like a real physical presence.

It added a weight to the room that settled over me like a blanket, and I longed to be accepted. I was, I really was. From the first night I had dinner with Corey's parents, they treated me as one of their own. We had just gotten married that summer before it happened. It was everything that I had dreamed of. My fairy tale wedding.

I know it must sound ridiculous. Surely nothing could be so perfect. But the Wilson's, God, they were as close to perfect as anyone could be. Even when there were arguments, though, that felt so real to me. families are supposed to have those moments and come back together after. I felt more connected to them for those little flaws. In the early days of December, Corey sat me down for an early Christmas present. It would be our first Christmas as a married couple,

and he knew how important those sentimental memories meant to me. We were looking at a lifetime of holidays with his parents, siblings, their children, and perhaps children of our own one day. Why not treat ourselves to a second honeymoon? Two weeks in a cabin on a private lake. Just the two of us. Those years of cheesy hallmark movies unfolded before my eyes, I could picture it so perfectly.

Corey and I cuddling in front of a fire, sipping hot chocolate and watching it's a wonderful life. We would play cards and play cards, board games, make love and hide beneath the covers as the winter weather scratched at the door. I was a little ashamed by how much I wanted that, as though it meant I didn't appreciate my time with the family enough. But how can I say no? As always, the Wilson's were understanding. We were newlyweds after all. They promised to take us out to dinner in the new year when we came back from our getaway. The two weeks leading up to the trip passed as slow as molasses. The anticipation building

with each hour that crept by. Corey was constantly teasing me about how excited I was, marking off the calendar like a child waiting for Santa. December 16th, we loaded the car and headed out. The drive was set to take us a few hours, so we left before the sun had risen. We were running on gas station, coffee and donuts from a paper bag. I was anxious about the slick winding mountain roads. Each falling rocks made me grit my teeth, but I reminded myself of the joy that awaited us. Corey was a good sport about the music,

not once complaining as the radio stations rotated between the same few jingles. We stopped in some little town. I don't even remember the name of it. It was one of those places where everywhere worth going, was on a single street. The lampposts were decorated with lights and wreaths. It was a roundabout at the very center of town. A massive tree planted at its heart. The ornaments on the tree had little messages on them, but we were in a hurry so we didn't

get close enough to look. Corey said it was probably just sponsors anyway. We stopped in at this diner with a faded sign in the window that promised the best burgers in the state. I don't know if it's true or not, but they were pretty good. I wish I could tell you someone warned us. I wish I could say that a bubbly waitress recognized us as out of towners and asked us where we were headed. I wish some grim-faced old man told us to steer clear of that lake and just keep driving. That's how it happens in movies, isn't it? The protagonist gets a choice and they choose wrong. They seal their fate

by ignoring the advice of the locals. That didn't happen to us. We didn't get a chance. We ate our dinner and then stopped in the market for groceries and left. People were polite, but not conversational. It was normal.

We got to the cabin later than we would have liked. It was dark and closed up. There was no way to stop and appreciate the view. even if we could see beyond the first few feet, neither of us really had the energy. Corey and I dragged our bags, changed quickly for bed, and went to sleep. I woke the next morning to the scent of breakfast down in the kitchen. I resisted, dragging myself through my morning routine before I left the loft. I will always remember the way that first day felt.

The way the sunrise shined through that wall of windows. bathing Corey in a golden light, the taste of coffee on his lips, and the sleepy relaxed feeling of having nowhere to go, and all day to just enjoy each other. I'll spare you the details. We were newlyweds on vacation. I'm sure you can guess what it was like.

Splendid, magical. Much has been made out of what might have happened to make me snap. Nothing happened. I didn't go through his phone and see explicit texts from a work friend. We didn't argue over finances. God, I cannot tell you how many times I have been forced under that microscope. The police went through our phones, our bank statements. Reporters have gotten their hands on leaked documents.

Our vows have been analyzed. The fucking cameraman sold the footage of our wedding. Screenshots from it are all over Reddit with commentary on how my smile doesn't look quite right in some parts. Whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean. You try walking around in heels in a massive dress for 12 hours and see how you feel. No. You want to know what the inciting incident was? Ice skating.

That's what kicked off all of this. Christmas Day. We had already opened our presents. watched a few movies and hadn't changed out of our pajamas. Corey kept looking at me with that grin of his. The look he gets when he has something up his sleeve. He really can't... Couldn't.

He couldn't keep a secret for anything. Especially not when it came to gifts. He was one of those people, you know the type. The kind that gets someone a present and then immediately starts in on the... Wait till you see what I got you. Do you want a hint? type of thing. Yeah, that was him. Anyway, he disappears and comes back with these two boxes. One of them is wrapped up in a ribbon and he hands it to me. Inside was a beautiful pair of ice skates and part of me thinks, oh, we're going to take lessons when we get back. I've never been

ice skating in my life. Not before then, you know, but he urges me up. tells me to get changed and we're heading down to the lake. I'm protesting the entire time, but not hard, not really. Part of me was thrilled. He had been planning this for God knows how long, and I knew it was because he wanted to give me that perfect Christmas. We walked out onto the dock and sat.

He started changing into his ice skates, barely able to contain his excitement. He used to do this kind of thing all the time, he said, and he checked the ice himself that very morning while I was in bed. He would keep me safe. There was nothing to worry about. I trusted him, of course. I stepped into the skates,

immediately grateful for the thick socks I was wearing. We wouldn't be able to stay out here for long. The new skates would have to be broken in. Corey stood, stepping out onto the ice and gliding flawlessly over its glassy surface. I took my time lacing up, watching the way his blades cut lines in a trail behind him. Before I knew it, he had me up and stumbling along after him. I was truly a disaster.

I landed hard on the ice plenty of times. And at other times, I was held up only by Corey's steady hands. I don't know exactly how long we spent out there on the lake. The sun had started to set and Corey recommended we go in for, for hot chocolate in the movie. Neither of us noticed anything strange. Not at first. We were almost back to the dock when we heard it.

There was this echoing sound, a twang that filled the valley. It came again, louder this time, followed by a crack. We should have moved. But like idiots, we stood there frozen, listening.

I can only describe it as being like a deer in the headlights. We waited for another sound, processing. A thick thud, a twanging echo, a cracking of ice, closer this time. Whatever spell had me gripped, it was broken for Corey, and he tugged me along toward the dock. Just behind us I heard this massive groan,

or maybe it was a growl. It was coming from below the ice. I turned to look over my shoulder, just as something broke the surface. It was a tentacle. Thick is the trunk of a tree. It shot up into the air 25 feet. I choked on a scream,

no sound coming out but a strangled gasp and lost my balance. I hit the ice hard. and felt the skin on my chin split open. Corey wouldn't leave me behind. That was his mistake. That's what he died for. He died for me.

He came back to me, helped me get to my feet just as more of those long arms reached from the water and dragged him back. He shouted out to me to go, and God help me. I went. I scrambled across the ice,

unwilling to look back, and telling myself that Corey would follow. My jeans were soaked through when my skates had filled with cold water. I pulled myself up onto the dock. And knowing I couldn't run with those damn blades on my feet, I yanked the laces. I didn't pay attention to where they fell.

Just threw them away from me and tried to get as far from the lake as I could. I didn't look back until I was halfway to the cabin. There was nothing. Just a bubbling pond in the center of that expand. of ice. I screamed for Corey. I sobbed. I begged for any sign of life. I got inside, stripped off my freezing clothes and tried to call 911. The lines were dead, and our cells got no service. They sat useless on the counter as I paced. There was no way I was going to try and get back

to town that night. There would be no help coming if I crashed off the side of a cliff. I lit a fire with shaking hands and wrapped myself in a blanket. That was the longest night of my life. I wept and checked my phone for service over and over. As soon as the orange-tinted sky lit up over the mountains I dressed. I meant to take one last look at the lake. I don't know what I was hoping for. Maybe that it would all just be a dream.

Instead, I saw Corey. He was standing on the edge of the dock. His body was turned in my direction, but his head was down. I called him, and his body jerked. Arms swaying, where they hung limp by his side. My heart pleaded with me to go to him, but my instinct told me something was wrong. He moved forward. But his legs. His legs. didn't move. The top part of his body lurched forward, but his feet dragged behind. My stomach turned, bile rising in my throat. Even now I can't. My brain was slow to register the details. The pallid tint to his skin, the way his hair clung to his forehead. His clothing dripped.

There is no way he would have survived the night in the night. that water. He moved like a puppet on strings. Corey moved again, and a brown lump appeared behind his shoulder before it disappeared again. That's when I realized that something was manipulating him. Whatever that thing was, the thing in the lake, it was using my husband as bait. I vomited there on the porch. Corrie was dead. I was looking at his corpse. being danced about like some twisted marionette. The police, when I eventually made it to town and sent them up there, couldn't seem to agree about what happened.

Some insist that my husband fell in and the trauma of it warped my mind, something that I must have drugged him and thrown him in the lake overnight. The owner of the cabin was never found. The money my husband paid for it is gone, but that proved to be a dead end. I've combed those crime scene photos the same as everyone else, the one that gets me. Every single time is the sign lying in the brush not far from the cabin.

One we didn't notice before. No swimming. Creepy presents. Peppermint Written by Lex Chamberlain and narrated by Alicia Atkins. I shouldn't have agreed to come back. back. In the taxi, well past dark, I work through my breathing exercises as my therapist guiding

words replay in my head. I see snow crunches like a warning beneath our tires as we grind to a halt in front of the house. I bite the skin around my fingernails as I take in the inflatables, the pinwheel ribbons around the front porch's columns. Intricate patterns of LED string lights lace over the bushes and trees and work to smother the house itself, too. Half of them flicker in a way they shouldn't. Circuit overload. When I pay, the driver wishes me luck. It feels like a bad omen that he can tell I'll need it.

I mutter something cordial back, wrestling my suitcase across the seat, and don't even get the door fully closed before he peels off down the street. I shiver, staring after him a moment. My bones know I shouldn't have climbed out. But it's too late now. I tread up the steps,

slipping every few feet, like a woman condemned to die. My mother is all curls and smiles, her red and white apron a swishing blur as she ushers me inside. She motions for her husband to take my bag upstairs, and he gives me an obligatory half-hug before shuffling off with my belongings. My hand twitches in the suitcase handles absence. My mother waves me into the living room, declaring that I must be famished. As I lower myself to the pastel green sofa set against wallpaper pinstripe to match, she extends a closed hand.

She unfolds it to reveal a single candy, a large peppermint pinwheel. My brow furrows. It's unwrapped, and the red dye is already smudged by her hand's sweat. I try to conceal my unease as I decline. Could I just maybe take a minute to settle in? As though she'd planned it all along, she pops the pinwheel into her own mouth and directs me to my old room. Her tongue struggling to navigate around the suite as she speaks. I lock the door behind me.

I can't bring myself to rejoin the house, except creep to the bathroom, until morning. The walls here make my skin crawl, knowing what they've seen, and sickly sweet decor chokes every room I pass. Reunion is inevitable, though. I'm here. I huff as I wrestle on the Christmas sweater packed for the illusion of festivity, compensation for my lacking demeanor. I know I won't be able to fake the mood they'll want today. I never really could.

I am not like them. I breathe out again, curl my fingers around the door handle. I've already waited too long. Seconds tick by, maybe minutes. and a sweet minty aroma floats through from the kitchen downstairs. I remember my mother's candy from the night before, and my stomach grumbles weakly. Chewing my cheek, I paced back to the suitcase at the foot of my undersized bed for a protein bar. I packed a full box, a dozen, just in case they didn't have anything I could eat.

It wouldn't be the first time. It's down to ten, and then nine as I pluck one out for breakfast. I devour it, though the smell now. now suffocating the room curdles the taste. I empty my water bottle down my throat and force a deep breath through my mouth. In the kitchen, my mom is in her apron again. Or still? I register with discomfort the back of her hair, a frizzled nest, unlike her.

Her shirt is the same as yesterday's too. A minty saccharine concoction bubbles in the pot on the stove. Loud enough that I think about tiptoeing backward to escape. But I propel my limbs on until I can grip the back of a dining chair, squeezing for courage. She means well, I repeat to myself. Assume good intentions. My tongue is dry, but I make myself speak. Is that for dessert, Mom?

She hums like she doesn't hear me and keeps mixing whatever it is. The steam so clowing it tests my gag reflex. I repeat myself, louder. She startles and spins. Her eyes are strangely unfocused, head unbalanced on her neck. Once she finds me, though, she mutters that it's still hours too early. What? She shoes me out of the room.

The rejection drops weirdly in my chest, and as I stumble back, she seves a handful of those awful round mints into my fumbling fingers. I spot red splotches on her hands. I can't tell whether they're die or burns. I start to protest, but the door shuts in my face, then locks. I take the stairs two at a time. I trudge back to my room, slam the door, and throw the candies across my dresser. Several fall to the floor.

A frenetic pounding builds in my chest, and the corners of my vision are blurry, my throat already raw. What is her problem? It's not like I'm some uncontrolled child. I could have helped. I could have at least kept out of the way. I pace across the carpet, huffing, muttering expletives into the empty room. She didn't even let me talk. But then, mid-step, I stop.

Didn't she just give me exactly what I wanted? I close my eyes and massage my temples with my fingertips. I focus on my breathing. I shake out my wrist, and by the time I open my eyes, the sting is melting away. This will be fine. I returned to my suitcase and dig past the clothes, to what stowed away at the bottom. I came prepared, a whole trove of literary escape pods. I climb back into the bed with a book, burying myself in blankets and disappear.

As the daylight changes, the doorbell rings twice, and footsteps and words dripping with cordiality shuffle in. Each time my chest flutters dangerously, and each time I suppress it. Redouble my focus. Chipper conversations drift off from the living room downstairs. I check my phone for the time. 2.47 p.m.

I wonder if I should let them come get me or go down willingly. But then the tiny icons in the corner of the screen register. and I narrow my eyes. No signal. I search for a Wi-Fi network to connect to, but, bizarrely, that's missing too. I set up from the bed. A tickling dread plays down my spine

as I fold down the corner of the page I was on, just a few chapters to the end. I haul myself to my feet, inhaling through the nose and exhaling through the mouth, counting the seconds between. The cheap mirror I had in high school still hangs on the back of the peasant, painted door. For lack of other options, I move toward it. I look a little haggard, even after

smoothing my hair some. But I do have the sweater. I practice a smile for the main event, and it falls off like I always knew it would. I leave it behind and abandon my sanctuary, for the merry throng amassing below. Are Jerry and Kayla not coming? I asked from the bottom of the stairs, eyeing the small congregation with suspicion. It's my aunt and her husband on the pastel couch. My young cousin and our grandfather, one each in the overstuffed armchairs. Everyone who's arrived lives in this neighborhood.

Everyone but me. My mother asked, Jerry and who? Kayla? His wife? She waves off the question, assuring me that it will be just us. I should be really.

Maybe there is a god, and he spent the night canceling their flight from Florida. Why am I not feeling relieved? I remember my phone then. I wanted to ask about the Internet. I opened my mouth to start, but with a florist that concludes all the small talk in the room, my mom announces that is time to eat. My young cousin whoops and hops to his feet. The rest laugh and follow suit.

I'm standing closest to the kitchen, but they all beat me through the door somehow. My legs feel rooted in place, and my socks are made out of lead. But I make myself follow anyway. They've already seated by the time I slump in. They're seated, with ravenous eyes and ready coltry in waiting napkins hanging from their collars, around a table of nothing but peppermint pinwheels. Is this a joke?

I ask, voice wavering as I take in the enormous candy centerpiece. Twice the size of any roast I've seen. Smaller versions of the wheel fill up the dishes usually reserved for sides, mashed potatoes, green beans, stuffing. But it's all red and swirling white. Aluminum pie shells are filled with the same. The water glasses, the butter tray. My mother eyes me with concern as she repeats my question back to me.

She asks if maybe I'm feeling unwell again, which hits me like a slap. But she doesn't seem to notice. She pulls at a chair and packs the seat, cueing me to come sit. I wanted to press the issue, but the words catch in my throat as I obey. A familiar helplessness is settling in my chest, and I focus on that instead, on trying to untangle it like my therapist taught me, though I give in to it anyway. I move myself forward and into the chair by the largest monstrosity of the bunch,

so big it pushes the surrounding dishes to the edge of the table. My lips buzz numb with overwhelm as I stared down at my empty plate. I picture myself on the plane ride home. I picture my apartment. The relief of plopping onto my own bed again. I imagine the takeout I'll order when I get back. Noodles, maybe? When what's happening now will be a fuzzy memory that I'm already forgetting.

What I'll say when I complain about this trip to my friends? The parts they'll laugh at, what'll make them cringe? How they'll reprimand me with, girl, I told you not to go. And I'll sigh and say, I know, I know. My mother flips on the electric meat saw. I snap back into my body,

and my stomach drops through the floor as I realize what she intends to do. I know it's already too late as she rushes to lower the blade, but I open my mouth to yell for her to stop. I push away in my seat, panic compressing my lungs. My socks slip against the vinyl flooring. A minty airborne shard hits me, right in the eye. As the pain sends curses past my teeth, I topple backward out of my chair. I clutch at the sharp and burning fragment as I stagger up, but there's no swarm of comfort.

My aunt admonishes the language. My mother doesn't stop carving. Disbelief swells in my chest, but I can hardly see them, much less find the rebuke they deserve. I spin away and rush to the bathroom instead. One eye cover tight. My fingers grow wide. My fingers grow wide. wet, and my breath is uneven and thick. I slammed the door and slumped down to the floor with my back pressed hard against it. At first, I can't bring myself to the mirror. I can't even look at my hand, to see whether it's blood or just tears. But I know I can't sit here forever.

The shard has to come out. I inhale for four seconds and exhale for eight. I do it again. Then one more time. I get up and step into view. Immediately, I gag at the carnage. I try to slow my heart as I wash my hands. It's mostly saline on the one, but not all.

Then carefully, horribly, I use my nails to negotiate the splinter out of the white of my left eye. It's not as big as it felt, just a sliver, but there very much is blood. The saw is still going in the other room. And they're chatting now. Cheery as ever. Half the white around my iris is bright red.

I rinse it without significant effect. While I dig through the cupboard beneath the sink for medical supplies, the conversation on the other room dies off. I scoff, tearing some gauze open and pressing a thick square of it to my eye, wincing at the tenderness. I'll probably have to drive myself to the hospital. Then there's a clang, and the pitch of the saw changes. vibration through the floor.

There's no scream, but there should be. Someone should have something to say about that. A part of me doesn't want to go back to investigate it. What were they even thinking? But I'm not like them. I remind myself. I'm not. I huff, still holding the cotton over my damaged dye, and rip the door open.

I stalked back down the hall. The buzzing begins the wine in a new way, like the saw is going through wood. I speed up and then push through the door. The blade is eating into a table leg. Shards at the centerpiece are all over, sharpening and sweetening the floor, the dining table, and even the far-off countertop. I don't care about any of that at all. I sit in the pastel green living room. On the sofa and armchairs, I've arranged six peppermint pinwheels.

It's the size of a human head. My palms sweat against the smaller candy in my hand. I opened my fingers, and they come away sticky and streaked with red. I look back up with my one good eye, the bad side covered in taped gauze. The candy dishes are still, but overflowing around us, onto the tables, onto the floor. I don't see anything move, but things change. I curse and throw the disc I'm holding on to. to the carpet. I sprint to the bathroom and I wash my hands vigorously. Upstairs, I never unpacked,

so I don't need to repack. I throw my book into my suitcase and pull it down the stairs. I steal into the kitchen and swipe my mom's car keys. When I walk past the living room to leave, small candies trailed down from each pinwheel head. Spines, forming invisibly, but surely. My mouth fills with revolted saliva, but I suppress the nausea to get to the door. The wind outside hits my flesh like whistling knives. In the driver's seat, I twist the key three times, but the sedan won't start. I hear myself crying. I think I scream. I work on my breathing again. Four seconds in, eight seconds out, repeat. A strange tapping starts from the house. With numb fingers, I pull my bag back to out of the car. I check my phone. Dead. I rack my memory for the way to the hospital,

but I don't know it. The living room's window breaks behind me. I pick a direction and I run. 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 comments share-a-like 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.