Creepy - The Cozy Cottage & Something At The Door

Episode Date: June 27, 2024

The Cozy Cottage***Written by: Soaring Siren and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Something At The Door***Written by: Cath Eagleson and Narrated by: Alicia Atkins***Content Warning: Obsessive Behavior, Harsh Language***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.

The Cozy Cottage, written by soaring siren and narrated by Daniel Hewitt. I'm Amelia Scarlatti. I'm 33 and one of the most well-known female authors in Massachusetts. I take pride in my work, just like any other author would.

I busted my ass to get where I am. But I will admit, for a long time, my work consumed me completely. My husband, called her, hated that we never really had time to spend together. Can't blame the man. I did just admit that my work consumed me completely. There's a lot of demand in the industry.

Many people don't know about the things we deal with on a day-to-day basis. The endless emails, phone calls, meetings, book signings, the drafts, the editing, the finale. It's a lot. But as I mentioned, I take pride in my work. I strive to be the absolute best. I pay great attention to detail. It's both a blessing and a curse. Watching Calder grow more tired of the bullshit every day broke my heart.

but I was drowning in my work. I couldn't possibly muster up the energy to even try to work on our marriage. It was different when we were first wed. I had just been starting out my writing career, and I was so inspired that I could write something absolutely fucking golden in just a few days. Calder worked from home the majority of the time,

since he owns his own masonry company. We had plenty of time together back then, As time went on, though, I started to run out of ideas. And there, the tangled web began to weave. Less and less time together. More phone calls, less dinners. More attempts at writing. Less intimacy.

A typical cliche. My husband was distant now. And I didn't have the time to try to bring him any closer. shitty on my part, I know. You need to understand, though. I grew up as a nobody, and I turned myself into a somebody, all on my own. There was no one there to cheer me on or pick me up when I was inevitably knocked down. I busted my ass.

Therefore, I wore my pride on my sleeve. Being alone in my own corner wasn't a new thing for me. My parents weren't really involved. They worked busy schedules and were rarely home. But even when they were, we barely said two words to each other. I didn't even know how they managed to stay together. We ate dinner at separate times. I had a nanny that took me to ballet in gymnastics.

I didn't have many friends, which is where my walls started to grow. I also attribute my love of writing. to having to create my own world aside from the shitty one I'd been stuck in. I'd sink deep down into my imagination and create my own world. I'd shut out the real world and type away at my computer, traveling wherever I wanted, being who I wanted, doing anything I wanted to do. It was an escape, and I still use it to this day.

When I was a young, naive girl, I had always dreamed of having a picture-perfect life. I'd romanticized the idea of a happy, small family, living in a cozy house with a white picket fence, the quintessential American dream. So when I met my husband, I finally felt like I was on the path to achieving that idealized life that I had written about in my youthful fantasies, despite my best intentions. I had inadvertently become a miniature singular version of the two people who raised me, my parents. And just like them, I found myself repeating the same patterns and mistakes that I had vowed to avoid. I hated myself for it.

I despised the fact that I had become a carbon copy of the very people I had once criticized and resented. My pride, however, kept me stubbornly stuck in my ways, unwilling to acknowledge or change the toxic behaviors I had inherited. There truly wasn't a point in saving my marriage anyway, at least not in my eyes. Every time I would try, I'd get sidetracked with something else pertaining to my job. A phone call, an email. Back to work I go, my husband would say, in a tone that was absolutely meant to be condescending. His tongue was so sharp something.

times. And I think my demented mind still loved him most for that. My feelings toward him didn't change. I just couldn't fight for it. By the end of the day, I was fought out. I still loved him, and I know he still loved me. At least I think he still did. After all, he was the most stagnant thing in my life. Confirmation of that love came on a Tuesday afternoon. 3.33 p.m. on May 6th, to be exact. I was sitting in my office, typing away at the keyboard of my fluorescent pink Macbook, zoned out as I usually am. I honestly can't even remember what I was tapping away for. I couldn't think of shit to write anyway.

Calder came knocking at the office door and entered right away, because he already knew I was hyper-focused on whatever I was doing. Short and sweet, he said to pack my bags for the weekend because we were going on a little getaway, leaving Saturday morning. Work was absolutely not allowed. I had to leave the electronics at home. Reluctantly, I agreed, even though he had walked away without giving me an option

to reject his plan to begin with. A getaway, I thought to myself. I have shit to do. I'm up to my eyes and shit. I let out a sigh. I mean, Maybe it'll help this mild episode of writer's block. I didn't ask any questions about the getaway.

If there's one thing I know about Calder, he loves the element of surprise. By Friday night, my bags were packed and I was actually excited. A feeling I hadn't felt in a long time. I did have a bit of a panic attack when I remembered that I wasn't allowed to bring my electronics with me. But that feeling was quickly followed by a wave of warmth that washed over me. I couldn't believe that my husband still cared to help our marriage after all this time, especially with someone like me, who barely even paid attention to him.

Most men would just go out and cheat at that point. Was I one of the lucky ones? I closed my eyes, anticipating the next morning so we could begin our adventure. 8 a.m. the next morning and the house is up. Calder is loading the car while I get myself together. It's so weird. not to follow the normal routine. Wake up, shower,

grab some coffee, and sit in my office for hours, trying to come up with my latest and greatest book idea. It's a three-hour drive. I remember him telling me at least that. I mumbled to myself as I get ready and gather

any last-minute necessities, trying to remind myself to bring my medication. I had the car playlist planned, I had a blanket ready in case I took a nap, and I packed some snacks to munch on as I sat as a passenger princess. I hated driving, and I hated long car rides.

But I was determined to make the best out of it. After all, he did plan this getaway, and I didn't. 8.30 a.m. and we're ready to go. The car is packed. We're buckled in. It was time for our adventure. I sat there, curious. waiting to see where he was taking me. I knew we were going to Maine,

but I didn't know any other details. As an author, I'm sure you can imagine how much that ate at me. I need to know every single detail. I already knew better than to ask, though. I would just further frustrate myself when listening to my husband respond with, I'm sorry, honey, you'll just have to wait and see. That bastard.

He got enjoyment out of watching me. me wiggle around in my own skin, anxiously awaiting the unknown. I love him, though. It's almost noon now. In 12 miles, turn left. Then the destination will be on your right. The voice said, echoing from the GPS. Finally, I thought. Finally, I would be able to see where we were going to be spending what I assume is supposed to be a romantic weekend away together. My eyes followed every tree, every sun ray, every bird I saw out of my peripherals on that entire ride. I even spotted different state license plates. New Hampshire, Florida, Michigan, Pennsylvania, anything to keep my mind occupied. I tried to nap, but the anticipation wouldn't allow it.

After what felt like forever, we finally arrived at our destination. A cozy little cottage nestled in a lush, secluded countryside area. I couldn't see anything for miles. Initially, I wanted to ask my husband, What the fuck is this? But I didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, I had this rider's block going on. Maybe being out in a secluded area with Calder

would be exactly what I needed. Away from the busyness of my everyday life. Just me and my man. Looking at him, I can start to feel a tingling sensation course through my body. Holy shit. I forgot what it felt like to actually feel things. The cottage itself was beautiful. It was surrounded by a sea of vibrant flowers and towering trees.

Its exterior is a charming mix of stone and timber, giving it a rustic and inviting vibe. A winding cobblestone path leads up to the quaint wooden door, with ivy cascading, down its walls and creeping up to the thatched roof, creating a whimsical and enchanting facade. The windows are adorned with delicate lace curtains that billow gently in the breeze, allowing soft rays of sunlight to filter through. Surrounding the cottage was a garden, bursting with blooming flowers in every hue imaginable. A stone pathway meanders through a garden, leading to a charming gazebo covered in climbing roses, providing a peaceful retreat for quiet contemplation.

The sound of a babbling brook can be heard in the distance, adding to the serenity of the setting. A wooden swing hangs from a sturdy oak tree, gently swaying in the breeze. Maybe this isn't going to be so bad after all. The tranquility was beautiful and calming. I felt myself starting to give in to the peace, Calder unpacked the car and carried everything inside.

He really was such a manly man. Cheating on me would have been a breeze for him. He could have anyone he wanted. Six-two, chiseled, blonde hair, green eyes, tan complexion, covered in tattoos. He was built like a lumberjack with the patience of a saint. Wow. cheating on me would be very, very easy.

But he didn't. At least not to my knowledge. And if he did, why would he want to weaken away with me? Don't overthink it. Don't overthink it. I kept repeating this to myself. We just got here. The last thing I wanted was to let my brain run wild and ruin the time before it had even begun.

Fuck! I realized I forgot my medication. In all my anxiety-attached excitement, I must have left them on the bathroom counter. Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing, though. Maybe the medication was actually clouding my mind. Maybe they're the reason I can't think of shit to write about anymore. Who really knows?

I couldn't drive three hours back home just to grab some meds. I'm sure I can survive. without them for a couple of days. I pushed the thought to the back of my mind and finally get out of the car and enter the cottage as Calder finishes bringing everything inside. The inside was just as mesmerizing as the outside. The interior was basically the same throughout the entire cottage, warm neutral tones, floral wallpapers, braided rugs, exposed wooden beams on the ceiling in the living room,

added to the rustic charm. The fireplace sat in the corner of the room, providing both warmth and a cozy ambience. Candles on the mantle. The kitchen features a farmhouse sink, made of fireclay, and complete with traditional fixtures, like its bridge faucet. Countertops are made of natural material,

a mix of wood and butcher block, adding to the rustic aesthetic. A kitchen peninsula provided added workspace and storage, as well as a casual dining area for meals or gatherings. The cottage bedroom exudes a sense of warmth and coziness as well, inviting you in with its quaint charm and rustic elegance. The walls are painted a soft soothing cream color, accented by wood beams as well, that add a touch of character to the space. A plush braided rug covers the worn wooden floor, providing a soft landing for bare feet. The centerpiece of the room is a large four-poster bed made from rich dark wood, draped in billowing white linen.

that create a dreamy canopy overhead. Soft, fluffy pillows and a thick duvet beckon you to sink into its embrace and drift off into a peaceful slumber. A vintage, hand-stitched quilt adorns the foot of the bed, adding a touch of nostalgia and warmth to the room. Beside the bed, a weathered nightstand holds a glowing lamp and a stack of well-loved books, inviting you to curl up and lose yourself in a good story

before drifting off to sleep. The delicate lace curtains on the windows filter in the soft light of the setting sun, casting a warm glow over the room. A small, cozy reading nook is tucked into the corner, complete with a plush armchair and a side table stacked with books and mementos. The walls are adorned with framed botanical prints

and vintage photographs, adding a touch of old-world charm and character to the room. A hand-woven throw blanket is draped over the back of a wooden rocking chair, practically begging you to sit and gaze out of the window. at the serene beauty of the cottage garden beyond. It was bliss. I can't believe I almost dismissed this place

before I even really looked at its details. It was gorgeous. It was euphoric. It felt like home. I never wanted to leave now that I had arrived. Calder and I spent the first day just exploring all that the outside had to offer. He chopped some wood for the fireplace.

I sat in the gazebo admiring the serenity around me. listening to the Brooke Babel a beautiful tune. It felt good. I felt at ease. And the best part? I didn't miss my technology at all. I did still have this block in my mind, but it was day one. And I surely couldn't expect to just snap out of it.

That night I slept amazingly. For the first time in... Fuck if I remember. I actually slept. Calder and I even made love by the fireplace. It's been a while since we'd done something that sporadic. Oh, my kidding. Even if it was planned,

either he fell asleep waiting on me or I passed out the minute my head hit the pillow due to exhaustion. So it's actually been a while since we slept together in general. It was perfect. I thanked him wholeheartedly for planning this getaway for the two of us. It hasn't helped out with the block yet, but it helped me get closer to my husband. To top it off, we had an entire day ahead of us to get even closer. When I opened my eyes and rolled over to Greek Halder with a good morning, he was already gone.

I wonder where he went, I thought. It was around 8 a.m. and he was usually an early riser. But I couldn't imagine what he'd gone to do. We were on a mini vacation. Let's just lay in bed for a while. When I got up and out of bed and planted my feet on the floor, my head started to pound. It was as if someone had tightened a belt around it and pulled as hard as they could. Something felt off.

No, something felt wrong. I have to find Calder. That's all I kept mumbling to myself. I shouldn't have forgotten my fucking pills. Surely they were why I was feeling this way. I searched. I searched every inch of that cottage. But he wasn't anywhere to be found. The car was outside so I know he didn't get far. I walked outside and yelled for him a few times. Calder? Calder. Where are you? No answer. Calder. This isn't funny. Come out now. No answer.

My heart was beating so fast. I thought it was going to jump out of him. my chest. The next thing I know, my head is pounding harder and harder. The pressure was so intense. I could have screamed at the top of my lungs and pain. And suddenly, it all went black when I opened my eyes. The cottage was gone. The beautifully designed and decorated cottage. The garden, the winding cobblestones, the gazebo, the hues of flowers, the babbling brook. Everything was gone. And my world faded. When I opened my eyes, there were no neutral colors, no braided rugs,

fluffy pillows, no wood beams or botanical portraits. It was white walls, gurneys, and posters about mental health. When I opened my eyes, I was back in the same place I always was. Bay Ridge Hospital. My husband called her, was my nurse, called her, who'd been taking care of my needs for six and a half months now. Five foot five, not chiseled, sandy blonde hair, brown eyes. White as a ghost with no tattoos. When I opened my eyes, all I heard was good morning, Madeline, I have your meds for you. I swallowed them, washed them down, and heard Calder say.

Back to work, I go. Creepy presents. Something at the door. Written by Kath Eagleson and narrated by Alicia Atkins. It's still there. Huh. How long has it been? Three weeks?

It's not a small parcel. It's almost person-sized, and yet it sits on their welcome mat, undisturbed. They must be away. But three weeks is a long time for a holiday. You'd never get that time off work. She wouldn't, working at that shop. I know she wouldn't. But I haven't seen them.

And I've been looking. And I can't imagine them straddling that lump of cardboard just to leave and enter their flat. Not in her dainty, strappy shoes. Not him, either. He'd step through it, probably, the clumsy lout. If they were still there, they'd have moved it. My eyeball pulses with strain. I've been at the peephole too long.

I gave it up. Blinking, I retreat to the kitchen. Her Facebook page is open on my laptop. No insights there, either. It's as empty as the corridor. I click away. The kettle bubbles and shutters. It doesn't make sense.

If they'd moved out, they'd have told Mr. Hitchett, and he'd have new tenants within the day. He's quick like that, like a nesting rodent. The new tenants, or Mr. Hitchett, would have forwarded the parcel along. Or stolen it. It's big. It could be expected.

And yet we're acting like there's nothing there at all. I pour myself some tea. The peppermint stings my eyes, but it's a good sting. Medicinal. The light outside is dimming. Saturday afternoon turns to Saturday evening so fast. My small flat stretches ahead of me, empty and dark, like an underpass. I would send them the package.

I would. I'd like to help. But if she wanted me to, she'd have told me where she was going. I take it. For safekeeping. It occurs to me, as I lie awake at night, that anyone could take it. Steal it, I mean. So around 5 a.m., I gave in and dragged it into the safety of my flat.

It's lighter than I thought it would be. Too big to fit. The box itself is far too wide and too long. But it almost feels hollow on the inside. I ease it onto the bedroom rug and examine it. There's no label and no return address. The cardboard is almost wholly unblemished. I would have thought it was an empty box,

rubbish to be recycled, if not for all the masking tape and the address on the front. There. Her name. Their flat number. I sit on the bed for a while, looking at it. I do wonder what's inside, of course. It might be worth a lot. She comes from money, you see.

And it's such a big thing, whatever it is. My fingers waggle out a drum roll on my thighs. It might be private. I lean back against the headboard. I say, damn, because I haven't spoken to anyone since Friday, and I feel like moving my lips. I decide to call Mr. Hitchett and find out where she is. Not now, though. It's all a bit much for one day.

I'll call him tomorrow. It's late, or perhaps early. The box stands at the foot of my bed. This is where I left it, but my body doesn't remember that. I start over and over at the shape of a tall, broad intruder. The only sound is my breathing. Rapid puffs of air. Out, in, out.

Will they topple the box? I hope so. Quite horribly. I hope so. I want to hear how it reacts to the floor. I want to guess what's inside. I watched it for for weeks, without once being asked. I didn't take it in at first.

No, no. didn't want to make them uncomfortable. But I looked out for it, kept an eye. And in return, she left? Without even telling me how to follow? I rise and crete past the box. When I return, the knife is cold against my palm. I pushed the box to the floor.

The blade hacks it apart. Hows of tape floor apart like split skin. I peel back the folds. The box is empty. It's morning. I've been lying in a growing patch of daylight. My throat parched, ruminating. The box remains prone on the floor.

I don't like looking at it. It's like a crime scene. It's nothing, sure. But it's her nothing. And I saw it. And I shouldn't have. "'Mr. Hitchett is no help. "'I call him, getting through on what I suspect is the final ring.

"'I tell him they've moved out. "'He says, no, they haven't. "'I say I haven't seen them for weeks. "'Are they still living there? "'Should I be concerned?' "'He says, I should mind my own business. "'His rudeness appalls me. "'I tell him I've paid my rent on time every month for three years,

He angrily points out that I have cost him more than I'm worth. I ask him what the hell that is supposed to mean. He tells me that I know what he means. I point out that I've only ever been kind, polite, and helpful. He throws in a last dig, saying that I was helpful, yes, helpful to a fault. I say nothing, and he waits, goadingly in the silence. I look over to the box, hard proof of my altruism. I am helpful.

That's the truth, no matter what Mr. Hitchett thinks he means. I sigh. Despite all my good deeds, I am used to dealing with naysayers. Can you just tell me where Susie is so I can... Dead. I throw my phone on the bed. I'll have to find a way through this on my own. As usual.

I approach the box until I'm standing over it, legs astride. The sight of it still makes me feel guilty, but if I must see it, I want to look down on it, like it's mine and I have every right to it. The handwritten address faces me. The script is unfamiliar. If it were hers, I'd know it in a heartbeat. But of course, it isn't.

So what then? her parents send them packages from time to time little trinkets candles gemstones since they retired to cornwall in 2018 they've had less on their plate it's true but are they bored enough to wrap nothing and mail it as what a prank besides i think i'd know her mother's handwriting this isn't that not loopy enough. I loom over the box, my shadow covering it like a cloth. It's funny. For all the hours I spent at that peephole, I never saw the person who delivered it. All through my afternoon shift, my head is buzzing. I don't tell the other checkout girls about the box. I learned a long time ago that my brightest ideas are not for sharing. People find them ugly. Off-put. So I keep them safe in my head. But I'm thinking about the box the whole time.

I'm thinking, no matter what it takes, I'll find her. I'll get it to her. I walk home in the dark. I can tell I'm overexcited. In my peripheral vision, objects come alive. On two occasions, I mistake the branches of a silver birch for the spindly waving arms of a stranger. I'll lock the door behind me. It's past ten the clock, and the whole building is silent, a warren after the rabbits have been gassed. Inside my flat, too, there is no sound. Wait. No, never mind.

I brush my teeth and shuffle into bed. I'm about to turn the light off when my eye catches the box. There, at the foot of my bed. Up right. It is the size of a wardrobe. It stands like a man. I frown. Most recently, I had it on the floor, didn't I? Either way, that's how I like it. I stand and kick it across the room,

until its head batters against my skirting board. I won't see it standing over me in the night. I go to sleep. Something's moving. moving. My mouth is dry and my pillow is wet. It's dark outside. There's no light around the curtains. All around me is perfect silence, except in the direction of the door. Rustling. Scratching. It's like a mouse. No, bigger. A rat? A fox? It can't be. It must be nothing except. it's there.

The sound rings adrenaline into my guts. It's getting louder now, as if the beast is shuffling nearer, nearer, dragging its heavy legs around the foot of my bed. Something tugs at the corner of the duvet. I snap upright. For a moment, my eyes fizz, unaccustomed to the dark. But then my pupils dilate,

catching the slither of streetlamp glow that has made it past the curtains. I'm forced to face the madness in front of me. The box is back, upright, and can something with no legs walk? I wouldn't have thought it so, but now I see this thing, this awful thing, shuffling on the stumps of its corners. It is walking. It's walking towards me.

Looming, a man-sized, faceless monster. I kick out. The thing topples backwards. I remember with giddy triumph, that it's empty, it's light. That's a good thing, too, because it's raising itself up again, like a lifted drawbridge. The sight is awful. I get up on my knees, screaming, I push the thing to the floor. Then I'm up, and I'm stamping on it, stamping it to death, not caring for the shape or integrity of the box.

Then I'm running, out of the room and through the hall and up the other end of the flat. I'm slamming the kitchen door and piling a barricade against it. I'm trembling, crying, gagging. I'm listening for the sound of shuffling. I listen for it all night. Now that the sun's up, it all seems a bit absurd. I know boxes don't come to life. I know the one in my bedroom can't have done,

but I still don't want to go back and check. The memory of it is too vivid, too close. No matter that my eyes were playing tricks, or I was dreaming or whatever it was, in the moment, it was real. Calm now. I'm starting to believe it again. It doesn't help that I spent all night online.

I did some research, though I used the term loosely. Dead blogs and Web 1.0-style chat rooms are hardly the library of Alexandria. But at 3 a.m., when I was coated and sweat in tears, they were enough. I learned about a witch in Penzance who puts demons and cardboard boxes. I learned the names of the demons, or at least I tried to. Staring at those long strings of letters

just made my eyes go funny. Why put a demon in a box? Well, that's only part of the service. For a fee, the witch sends the package to your enemy. They open it, and seeing that it's empty, think nothing of it.

They try to throw it out, but find they, can't. The box is not easily gotten rid of. It was some hours ago that I read that. Now there's distance between me and that ghastly

fiction. It pinches at me, of course. The thought that lovely Susie could have an enemy who'd subject her to this. I think I'd quite like to be strong for her. To weather the horror and then present her with the culprit.

But no. Of course, there's no culprit. It's not a demon box. It's just a box. It's late afternoon before I dare return to the bedroom. When I do, I have a knife in my hand. I push the door, shrinking back in anticipation. But there's nothing to see.

The box is just as I left it, stamped near flat on the floor next to my bed. I creep closer, more curious than afraid. Yes, it's empty. I can see how I slit the bottom days ago with this very knife. The open flaps gone. How it walked on them. I don't... But I guess it never walked at all. I heave it over my shoulder.

It's easier to carry now that it's flat and drag it downstairs. The recycling bin is full. So I throw the box in the dust ring behind it. The bin men will know where to look. I smirk and almost leave it there. But then I drag the bin over a corner of the cardboard, weighing it down, just in case. This time, I don't hear it. I don't wake up to scratching and rustling like before.

I sleep soundly. My bedroom door is locked. My fear defeated. So my body doesn't alert me that something is wrong. No. Maybe that isn't why. Maybe the thing has learned to be quieter. Perhaps it sneaks, taking each step a little lighter, a little slower, on those awful cardboard stumps.

It doesn't wake me up, because it's taking great care not to do so. However, it happens, when I wake up this. time, I'm half-in-sighted. It takes me a few moments, while I'm still groggy and sleep-addled, to realize what's happening. My legs are constricted, but I assume that it's just the blankets. When I look down and see cardboard swallowing me like a snake, I start to scream. I punch and kick, like before, but it's all much harder when you're inside your attacker. when it has not just your legs, not just your hips,

but your arms and your shoulders and fuck, oh fuck, it's taking me faster and faster, and it's so tight and warm inside. I realized two things then, as my vision fades to black. I realize flat cardboard can fit under doors, and I realized that Susie and her dickhead of a husband disappeared just before the box arrived.

There was no danger, of them taking it in. But me, the nosy neighbor opposite, who's been told more than once not to look through their post, uptight cunts, it was for me. It was always for me. I cry for her.

I whisper into the fetid darkness that I love her. I've always loved her. From the moment I saw her, I knew. we were meant to be together. Forget him. Forget what she thought she wanted. Her and me.

That's what it was always about. The box closes its lid over my head. 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 common 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.