Creepy - The Deep Sea Siren & The Photographer's House

Episode Date: January 12, 2023

The Deep Sea Siren ***Written by: Jamie Anne and Narrated by: Nate DuFort ***The Photographer's House***Written by: Sarah Jackson and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***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 simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence. and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. The Deep Sea Siren. Written by Jamie Ann and narrated by Nate DuFort. I wake to the numbing sound of the beeping of my alarm. I hit snooze over and over and finally decide to roll out of bed. Another day like yesterday and the one before it. and unfortunately, tomorrow will be the same as well. I work in the IT department for a private equity firm.

I get paid close to minimum wage to make sure everyone around me makes millions. If my life were a color, it'd be the shade of rice paper. Someone described my personality to be not very exciting, but practical. So, I sit at my gray desk in my small windowless cubicle, staring at a computer screen for eight hours a day. The only upside is not having to work on the weekends. The mundane of my life all ended the moment I received a notification of a new email. Our company had a raffle last week. I bought a ticket just to try to participate like everyone else.

The email notified me that I was the winner of a four-day-day-day-day-old. a three-night deep-sea fishing expedition. I couldn't help but smile. Maybe the first time I've done that at work in a long while. I'm a single 24-year-old guy who doesn't get out much. Being a recluse doesn't help me score with chicks or enjoy the nightlife. The only travel I've ever done is to and from work each day. I thought maybe this trip would be the start of a new life.

The next few weeks were an exciting blur of Googling what to pack because, let's be honest, I had zero idea what to bring on a fishing trip. My neighbor agreed to come check on and feed my cat. I had to buy a bigger suitcase. A carry-on wasn't going to cut it. All the travel sites I looked up informed me that I would need lots of sunscreen, a pair of sunglasses, a hat, some cargo shorts would come in handy, anti-slip shoes would be helpful too. I made the biggest Amazon order and received countless packages. My mail lady was not impressed.

She rolled her eyes, I thanked her with almost a giddy pitch to my voice. Thursday finally came and I woke before my alarm. I was packed and out the door by 4.30 a.m. The flight was a painless four hours and I arrived in Nova Scotia, Canada, feeling like a new man. I'd never been fishing, so the idea of deep-sea fishing was an intimidating but exciting thought. I was greeted by a local who took me to the dock where I would spend the next few nights. I wasn't aware that we'd be sleeping on the boat, but I was ready for whatever adventure this trip would bring. The guide told me that we'd be headed past Prince Edward Island,

and I'd be accompanied by a captain and three crewmates. I learned that this area was known for catching, on average, 800 to a thousand pound bluefin tunas. In 1979, a man made the all-tackle world record by catching a 1,496-pound bluefin tuna. It seemed very impressive. I signed all the documents that they had for me, and we set sail. We traveled with the wind for about three and a half hours.

As I watched the land disappear, my stomach started to get a little nervous. I think the adrenaline got the better of me, and now it was wearing off. The sun was high in the sky by the time the captain shut off the engine and set down the anchor. There were some clouds in the distance, but the crew said it shouldn't come our way. I got a quick lesson on how to use the fishing rods and how to bait the hook. The crew was a rough-looking group. Their beards were scraggly and their clothes dirty.

They spoke with a thick accent, and I only caught every other word. A guy with one eye threw some chum in the water, and I watched as little fish would appear and disappear with a mouthful of the mixture. I got my fishing pole baited and cast my first line. Within minutes, I felt the slight pull of something, and my line started to dart out into the water. The captain yelled for me to reel her in. I turned the reel quickly towards my chest,

and I felt the pole of the line getting tighter. The pole started to bend, and I thought that it might snap in half. A red-bearded man came up beside me and helped me grip the rod. The line got closer and closer, and finally a silver-flapping fish breached the water. I was told it was a striped bass. It was about the length of my arm and very strong as it whipped its tail back and forth. The captain came up and took a picture of me with my first catch. He instructed me to pull the hook out and throw it back in the water.

By law, this charter is a catch-and-release fishery, and they're only allowed to keep one or two fish total. I took a short breath and had a soda and watched the gentle movement of the water. This is life. Maybe I'll never go home, I thought. I joked with the one-eyed man about me staying and working on the boat with him. He laughed and hit me hard in the shoulder, grumbling something about needing to man up first.

We had some sandwiches for lunch and then got back to fishing. I caught several more bass and small tuna, but no luck catching a big bluefin tuna. The cloud started to turn in our direction around 6 p.m. And with them brought a new cool breeze. The crew quickly started to move items on the boat. I watched them not sure how I could help. One man nodded his head towards,

me and mumbled for me to stay out of the way. There may have been a curse word or two in a speech, but I couldn't make it out clearly. The captain came down from the bridge of the boat and told me we needed to wrap it up for the day. The storm turned its direction and I needed to go down in the cabin while they readied the boat for the winds. I offered to help, but the captain let out a very obvious laugh, and I was dismissed. I made my way down the steps into the cramped cabin.

Six small beds were stacked near one another. One tiny bathroom was to the back of the cabin, and a table with three chairs was set near the opposite side of the room. I sat down at the table and looked out the narrow round window. The sky had darkened quickly, and the sway of the boat had started to move more. Small waves turned to large rolling forces, crashing into the boat uncontrollably. I could hear the quickened footsteps of the crew above me. The captain's faint yells for direction sounded harsh from my earshot.

But I suppose the men were used to it, just as I was used to countless emails from everyone in the company wanting something fixed ASAP. I made my way to the bed and laid down. The events from the day exhausted me. I closed my eyes for a moment, and just as I started to dream, I was woken by stomping boots coming down the cabin steps. The red-bearded man yelled for me to get some gloves on and get my ass up on deck. I felt dizzy as I rushed to my feet. The waves at the boat harder and I lost my balance and fell. I got back up and tried to steady myself.

I couldn't see out of the little window anymore. It was pitch black outside. I looked at my watch. 10.43 p.m. Geez, I didn't mean to sleep so long. I followed the bearded man up the steps, and when I got to the deck I froze. One man was sitting on the floor at the stern, holding a towel to his head. Blood was spewed around him.

A tagline had snapped and hit him across the face. The one-eyed man and red-bearded guy were yelling at one another, as they sent a second anchor into the water. The captain walked up beside me and told me they were trying to steady the boat. The rain had started to come down and went from a second. sprinkled to a hard pore without a few blinks of the eye. I went over to the two men working and offered my help. I grabbed a new tagline and pulled it towards the railing.

Trying to keep my balance, I held tight to the line and wrapped it where the one-eyed man pointed for me to tie it off. Another wave came and hit the side of the hull, hard. The excitement washed away from my soul and a newfound feeling leapt into its place. Fear. The rain hit my face at a relentless pace, and the cool wind turned to cold in an instant. The waves got higher and higher and started to hit the deck every few seconds. The captain grabbed my arm and motioned for me to follow him.

We started up the few steps to the bridge and stumbled inside the small dry space. It reminded me of my office cube, except he had windows all around. The captain attempted radioing the shoreline office, but there was no response, only static. He told me the storm is interfering with reception. Poseidon is an angry bastard, the captain said to me with a serious face. I thought about the stories I remembered, learning in high school about all the Greek gods. Poseidon, God of the Sea and Storms, was one of my favorites. He was known as protector of seafarers, just as my heart rate.

was starting to settle down. We heard yelling from the deck and the two crewmen scrambling about. I looked out the window and saw one of the men throwing a life ring out into the water. The one-eyed man came running up to stairs and yelled at the man overboard.

The captain pushed past me and followed the crewmate to the deck. The red-bearded man pulled the life-ring back up to the deck with no one attached to it. I made my way to where the men were standing. their flashlights were no help on the shifting waves and heavy rainfall. I heard words like,

Keep searching, spread out, check the bow. The men frantically run about the ship. The merciless sea claimed a victim that night, as the waves swallowed him whole. After what felt like hours of staring into the haze of rain and blackness, we all headed to the cabin for shelter. It was a quiet, somber scene. the captain, the two crew members, and I stood there just looking at one another.

We dried off the best we could and sat down to process the event. The storm kept growing wilder and more unpredictable outside. My mind was racing and I wanted to go home. I missed the safety of sturdy land, my big warm bed, and my obnoxious cat. It was 1 a.m. now. I don't know if it was the nap or the events it had taken place, but I was wide awake. The crewmates, however, were fading fast. The two men laid down and closed their eyes.

The captain motioned me over to sit with him at the table. We had some tea and listened to the wind rail against the boat. Just as I was about to ask what we were going to do about the lost crewmate, a loud crash of water hit the deck, and we heard the loudest piercing screeching noise. The captain jumped to his feet, making his way to the steps. I cautiously followed. The ear-curling noise continued, and as we approached the deck, there it was. The source.

It was like nothing I had ever seen. This was not a shark or bluefin tuna. This was some hybrid, fishy, human-like thing. It had a tail with two-splift. lit fins that were longer than my legs. It had arms with scales and spiky small fins erupting from its skin. It had a face that was similar to mine, but more delicate looking. It was a female, and she was looking right at me. The captain ordered me to return to the cabin, but I could not look away from the creature before me. Her yellow and greenish scales were glowing, and her eyes

were as dark as night. The top of her head had more spiky fins protruding out and going down her back. She restlessly flapped about on deck, obviously trying to make her way back to the water. I took a step towards her, and the captain grabbed my arm. I shoved him off and kept walking, unable to break the gaze I had with this creature. She was not like the Disney fantasy I grew up with. She was enchanting, in the most frightened. way. Her scream stopped as I got closer to her. A foul smell came across my nose as I got

closer to the creature. Worse than the rotting chum used earlier in the day. It didn't stop me, though. The rain continued to pour over us, but all I could focus on was her endless dark gaze. She opened her mouth and a quiet noise filled the air. It was almost soothing. It sounded like a soft lullaby. I reached my hand towards her, and she pulled away further from me. I couldn't speak. I wanted to tell her that I would not hurt her, but the words wouldn't come out. As she shifted further backwards on the deck, I followed till we were both at the boat's end. The look on her face softened, and I thought maybe she realized I was not a threat. I reached again for her, and this time she reached back. As I bent down to lift her, the softness of her face retracted,

revealing dark oozing scales and raised fins on all sides of her body. They pierced my skin instantly and latched so tightly that I couldn't let go. I let out a loud cry and tried to get away from her clasp, the fins growing deeper into my skin, my blood pouring from all the penetrated areas. She kept her subversive eyes locked on mine, and we fell into the water. The waves took us under, and all I could see was black, and all I could feel was endless pain. I didn't know if it was the dark of the night or my blood clouding the water, but I was blind at that moment. The creature finally retracted her grips on me and let me go. Just as I thought my lungs couldn't hold their breath any longer,

I felt the tug of something pulling me to the surface. The captain had hooked my jacket and started to pull me up. The creature swam before me one last time, not looking at me, but looking through me. I blinked, and she was gone. I woke up two days later in the hospital. The nurse said I lost a lot of blood and needed to take it slow. I rubbed my eyes and looked down at the carnage left behind.

There were countless bandages taped and wrapped all around my arms and chest. I felt insane as I relived the memory over and over in my mind. Although I was in pain, I couldn't stop myself from thinking about the creature and wanting to see her again. I knew at this moment that I'd have to go back out to the water, that I could not go back to my boring life before. I'd witnessed something real that was thought to be a legend, and I would not rest my search till I found her again. The Siren of the Deep.

Creepy Presents, The Photographer's House, written by Sarah Jackson, and narrated. by Megan McAfee. What can you tell me about Eustace Randolph? What sort of man was he? I asked as I took out my notebook. Gillian Reynolds, secretary of the Friends of Eagle House, let her excited smile slip slightly at the corners.

Our small town hardly offers up much in the way of news, but I do my best, even though the Milverton Echo is only a community newsletter. My neighbor, Annette, wrote a story about a pigeon trapped inside the church hall for the February issue, and our editor put it on the front page. I began to hope there was more of a story here, at least. We were standing in front of the house, a grand Georgian affair, set back a little from the street behind crumbling gateposts, the huge black-framed sash windows, the twisting ivy,

the claret-colored door looked imposing, even in the cool morning sunshine. It had been shut up as long as I could remember, and naturally it was known to be. be haunted, or a witch lived there, or both. Soon after, he started junior school, my son told me the story of how Theo Richards had climbed over the iron gate on a dare, one dark and stormy night. Peering through a gap in the shuttered window, Theo saw nothing but darkness at first. Then a woman in white loomed out of the shadows towards him. He screamed, scrambled over the gate, ran home and would never go back. Theo was 27 now, and he was 27 now. working at the Butchers. I wondered if he regretted this story, passed from generation to generation,

at Milverton Primary School, or if he was proud of his legend. We've included some biographical information on your handout. It's all in there, Jillian said brightly. I glanced at the sheet, birth, hobbies, death. Thank you, yes. What I mean is that Echo readers will want to know about Eustace the individual as well as Eustace the photographer. Some of these are Victorian gents were rather eccentric, weren't they? Jillian laughed nervously and twisted her small pink fingers, glancing up at the house. Heavens, I thought, she's actually frightened of me. I wondered if the rest of the committee were the skittish.

No wonder it had taken them so long to open the house to the public. Was he popular in his day? Her face brightened. Oh, yes, all the county ladies would get their portraits done here. It was very much the thing, you know. very fashionable for a while anyway for a while she looked pained well you know he was such a pioneer a real artist he was ahead of his time and some people just didn't understand a bit too avant-garde for milverton yes and there was some concern about his methods but really what methods she looked afraid again and fell silent drat shall we go inside i said breezily you can tell me more as well as we we go round. She threw up her hands and shook her woolly head. Oh, no, you go ahead. Oh, wait here, I've brought a chair. We want you to have the whole place to yourself to really, you know, for your

article. I smiled and tried to hide my exasperation as she began to bustle. Sadly, we can't open up all the rooms yet, and we're still furnishing them all. You know how it is. I didn't, but nodded sympathetically. His pictures are truly sublime, Mrs. Braden. She beamed. slightly breathless. I am sure you will love them, and your readers too. We'll see, I thought, as she opened the door. The biographical information on my handout was brief. Born into a local aristocratic family, Sir Randolph bought the house in 1853 in his early 40s. He was engaged for a time to a young widow, a beauty apparently, but they never married. No details were given about what became of her. More space was devoted to listing the usual range of interests.

held by Victorian gentlemen, of whom Sir Eustace Randolph was no exception, antiquity, taxidermy, entomology, egyptology, spiritualism, and the cultivation of ferns. That is, until he saw his first daguerre type, after which photography became his reigning passion, though the sheet of paper had almost nothing to say about his achievements, equipment, or the processes he supposedly pioneered. Then, at the age of 71, he died, unremarkably, in his sleep. There was one peculiar detail, though. On the night of his death, he had arranged one of his own cameras at the foot of his bed, as if to capture the moment of his departure, as if he had known.

Perhaps he set it up every night, and that fateful morning he was not around to put it away again. Or perhaps he knew he was leaving, and intended the poor housemaid who discovered his corpse to take a quick snap before sending for the coroner. Even in these sparse particulars, I could see the outline of a life full of obsessions, but empty of people, except for those framed by his camera lens. I folded up the paper and set to exploring. The hallway was not as grand as I had hoped. The friends had clearly done what they could with a small budget, and rated eBay for an old bookshelf and some leather-bound volumes, an ornate brass-light fitting, and a few poor oil paintings of ships and dogs. One of the dogs was so badly done it looked as if it was melting.

The wide staircase was impressive, despite the threadbare green carpet. The mahogany banisters swept upwards confidently to a landing with a huge window, where a grandfather clock ticked softly. As the seconds settled around me, I listened. There was no other sound, except myself. Old buildings are talkative, but Eagle House seemed to be holding its breath. I shifted my feet to break the stillness, and tiny creeks rippled across the ancient floorboards. There were doorways to either side of the hall.

The one to my right was closed, but I walked over and tried the handle anyway. Locked. I walked back towards the open door opposite the watchful eye of the grandfather clock. Stuck to the door was a sheet of paper reading drawing room, above a blue clip art arrow, ushering me inside. It had smart navy walls, a rosy marble fireplace. and some splendid plaster cornicing, but the room was gloomy and bare. Standing in the center of a worn Persian rug was an antique camera on a tripod. It was the big box-shaped kind with a brass lens and black cloth hanging behind,

under which the photographer, Sir Randolph himself presumably, would have stood, hunched over the viewer, adjusting the focus. Perhaps it was the sprightly wooden legs or the dark glassy eye, but the object had a sense of life to it. The camera seemed alert, standing ready like a hound awaiting its master's command. I felt distinctly, I suppose unsurprisingly, that it was watching me. I found myself avoiding standing directly in front of it, and admired it instead from the side.

As I turned to leave, I heard a soft whispering sound behind me. I looked back and saw the camera fabric settling into place as if it had just been lifted. then everything was still again. A draft from the fireplace, no doubt, but it was an eerie effect. I walked briskly back into the hall. Following more blue arrows down a dim corridor armored with dark wood panels, I stepped suddenly into a light-filled room, the studio. It had a dusty, grassy smell.

The walls and ceiling were glass, and a back wall was hung with various drapes, and a cracked yellow painting of a country park. A chair had been placed in front of the vista, its green, velvet cushions, blotched and torn, and a reproduction, blue-and-white Chinese face, stood on a small plinth beside it. Otherwise, the room was empty, save for a large wooden chest and a folding-screen for dressing. I walked up to the glass and gazed out into what was once a compact Italian Renaissance-style garden. Now overgrown, its squares and low hedges were just about traceable through the weeds and tangle of brambles. One sad little Puto stood mournfully above a fount.

mountain clogged with dead leaves, its face gently caved in by wind and rain. I wondered how many years it would take the friends to retrieve the garden from neglect and decay. Touching my hand to the cool glass, I shivered. There was a soft blur of movement to my left, and it took me a second to understand that it wasn't something in the garden, but in the room behind me. I spun round and felt my heart jump with fright. At the top of the folding screen, there was a hand, a man's hand. grayish. It retreated behind the screen to its owner, crouching unseen. Hello? I called out. There was no response. Not a sound, except my own shallow breath. I thought about striding over and pulling the screen away to confront him, but the awkwardness

of the situation defeated me. I made my way out, silently, keeping my eyes on the screen. Returning to the hallway, shaken and angry, I mounted the stairs to the first floor. Another volunteer? A builder? Why was he lurking that way and watching me? I paused to let my nerves settle and stood, hesitating in the slab of pale sunlight thrown across the landing by the mighty Georgian window. The moss-green carpet was neatly quartered by its slanting cross-shaped shadow. I decided to finish my tour and complain sharply to Jillian about her colleague's absurd behavior later. After briefly inspecting the grandfather clock, Walnut, I believe, late 18th century, I pressed on. Two large doorways faced each other on the first

floor landing. The door on the left was open and bore a sign reading Exhibition. Inside, the varnished floorboards were stained, a dark treacle brown, and the walls covered in faded damask of a sickly yellow-green shade. The room was empty, except for black and white photographs, in ornate frames, which covered every wall, the opus of Sir Eustace Randolph. Above the fireplace hung an especially large portrait in a black oval frame, crusted with carvings. It was a photograph of a dark-haired woman in a white dress, in her early thirties, I guessed. I noticed a filigree ring on her left hand. Sir Randolph's fiancé? She had a gentle face. Her eyes seemed rather sad, almost pleading, and it was hard to turn mine away.

I took my time studying each wall. While I wasn't enraptured, as Jillian seemed to expect, they were, I confess, very good photographs. They were all portraits of women, ranging in age. Some were elegant, dressed in smart jackets and crinolines. Some were nude, sheathed in gauzy, sparkly fabric, or clutching a fan of curled feather. Others wore plain-day dresses with muddy hymns, battered aprons, or even rags. One was holding a cloth, as if interrupted, while washing up. In many I recognized the painted country park from the studio below, the chair, the plinth.

Others sat or stood in unfamiliar settings, in unknown rooms and corridors. Many were standing and had an air of having just walked into the frame. A few were blurred, the dark spaces of their eyes and my eyes. mouths, stretched gaping, over shuddering faces. Evidently, they had moved after the lens cap came off, fixing them forever in motion. Had they fidgeted? Or were they simply surprised? The more I looked at the photographs, the more it seemed that every one had a melancholy expression, more than the usual solemnity of a Victorian portrait. Their frozen faces formed a silent chorus of pain. I was reminded of another room in a grand house I had visited once.

in which every wall was hung with severed heads. Deer, bison, antelope, musk-ox, a moose, their glossy black eyes shone with the same vigilant sadness. My curiosity about the former owner of Eagle House was developing into a strong dislike. I left the room feeling haunted, angry, and restless, but I needed something more concrete than an eerie feeling for the article, and I was sure Julian would clam up again. I turned back towards the stairs and noticed that the door on the other side of the landing was standing slightly ajar. There was no laminated sign, no blue arrow, no label.

Feeling a small thrill of adventure, I laid my hand flat on the heavy wooden door and pushed it open. As I entered the room, I started. Another antique camera stood in the corner, pointing directly at the doorway. It had me square in its sights. I felt reluctant to move closer while it watched me, and I paused on the first. threshold. The room was heavy and had a faint coppery smell. The walls were deep crimson and the floorboards dark, though mostly covered by a rug worn and faded like the rest. The only object in the room besides the camera was a small silver picture frame on the marble mantle. I should have turned

and left, but a good journalist is nothing, if not tenacious, and I was determined to uncover the mystery of Eagle House. So I stepped forward toward the fireplace. and peered at the photograph in the frame. It was me, myself, the back of me, leaving the drawing room half an hour earlier. From the corner of the room came a familiar dull whisper. I looked up and gaped in terror. The black cloth behind the camera held the form of a figure hunched low,

two suited legs and shoes growing beneath it. I couldn't move. Even as I saw a hand reaching out from the cloth, gray fingers fondling the lens cap. The sound of tapping on a window broke my trance, and I sprang backwards onto the landing. Through the doorway of the exhibition room, I saw with shock that the portrait of Randolph's fiancé above the mantle had changed, or rather the woman within it had changed. Her hands were raised in front of her, palms out as if they were pressed against the glass.

I looked at her for a moment in horror, then bolted down the stairs, only to stop short. There was someone there, but there wasn't. Although I was alone, the thin, cross-shaped shadow which fell across the floor held another. The unmistakable outline of a man standing in front of the window. For a moment I stood trembling. Then a great plume of anger rose within me, furnishing me with both courage and adrenaline, and I charged down the stairs. I will not forget the sensation of a cold, an unseen hand brushing my neck.

but I hurtled forward down the second set of stairs toward the door without looking back, thanking heaven for my sensible shoes. As I barged out of the front door, Gillian jumped up from her folding chair and surprise. I came to a stop on the path and tried to catch my breath. What did you think? she asked tentatively. I saw him in the red room. She looked stunned and opened and closed her mouth a few times. Oh, I'm sorry.

So terribly sorry. I locked it this morning. He must have... Well, you know how artists are. I stared at her. She started wringing her hands again fretfully. Will you... Will you put it in your article? 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.