Creepy - The Dumpster & Independence Death

Episode Date: June 2, 2022

The Dumpster***Written By: Paul Caseley and Narrated By: Alicia Atkins***Independence Death***Written by: N.M. Brown and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***Find our reward tiers and how to get your bonus magnet at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.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 creepy pastors 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 books. Violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy Presents The dumpster Written by Paul Casley and narrated by Alicia Atkins. My partner and I were so caught up in the idea of being in love that we left home young and without education nor any prospects. That meant that we had to take whatever jobs were available to us.

I ended up working at a popular fast food chain, at minimum wage, and as the low person in the restaurant's hierarchy. To be honest, it kind of sucked, but that's life. You have to start somewhere. Anyway, what this meant was that I had to do all the crappy jobs. Did you know that the oil in the deep friar has to be strained and clean so they can use it again? Or that someone has to wash the dishes that end up getting used in prep, even though the food we hand out as wrapped in paper and cardboard? The worst, though, was taking out the trash.

Before I could go home, I would have to carry out between six and ten bags of trash, mostly stuffed with food waste. Customers were disgusting, and sometimes we found even worse things stuffed into the garbage bags. One way or another, the bags, which were greasy and smelled, would have to be carried behind the restaurant to a fenced-in area with dumpsters in it, and thrown inside the dumpsters. It was frequent that the bags dripped or had holes in them. As a result, when I got home, my hair was greasy from the deep fryer, I had crude under my nails from the dishes,

and I was coated in rotten food waste from the garbage. More often than not, I would peel off my clothes and climb into the shower. On a few occasions, I even found that the putrid food waste and oil had permeated all the way to my underwear. There were few jobs I have ever had, before or since, that made you work in such filth and degradation to earn minimum wage. Anyway, I will be honest. I was fully waiting until the next person quit so they would hire someone to be the low person out. It just never seemed to happen, so I would just end up taking the garbage out night after night.

During the summer months it wasn't so bad, even though the place was closing fairly late at night, it was still relatively light outside. Once autumn came upon us and the skies started darkening earlier and earlier, I found myself feeling real trepidation at the single act of taking out the trash. More often than not, as I dragged the bags outside, unlocked the cage around the dumpster and then opened the dumpster, I could have sworn there were sounds like scratching and low squeals close by. Often I would stop what I was doing and listen, only to have the noises cease.

Still, it rattled me as I tossed the bags into the two dumpsters, and continued on my way so that I could get the hell out of that grease pit and home to a nice warm shower. Still, it wasn't long before I started to imagine whatever was making the noises, and started to have my sleeping brain conjure images of a creature in my nightmares. More often than not, I would wake up to my partner lying, beside me with the look of concern. I was bathed and sweat and mumbling about taking out the trash. This job really was not good for my long-term mental health. Really, I was being foolish allowing my mind to run away with me like that. But I know a lot of people who do exactly the same thing

with their troubles. Over and over again, I tried to convince myself that even if there was a nasty critter in the trash, the worst it could be was maybe a big rat or a rabid, possum, perhaps a raccoon. I did have to worry about rabies and try to keep from being bitten. That was for certain. But the idea that something dangerous enough to threaten life and limb was living around the dumpster was foolish. Any number of critters could be living close to where we place the food garbage in order to snag a quick and easy meal. Despite my logical working is on the issue, and my reasonable and rational approach, a dark feeling clung to my stomach as soon as I started dragging the garbage bags outside for disposal. Logic works well for the head, but it doesn't make

whatever is upsetting you vanish completely. There is a survival instinct that all animals, including humans, possess, and that was in high gear at night to start with. Once you add in what could have been a predatory scratching or squeal, the hairs on my arms would raise up. and I would immediately feel my fight or flight response activate. Actually, who am I kidding? It was all flight response, no fight. I did try to get some of my fellow workers, people who I started to think of as friends,

to help me with the trash. I figured that if three of us did it, we'd all be out of that area even faster. It was a no-go. Most of them told me that they had their own close-out duties. One told me that he wasn't. on the bottom of the ladder anymore, and was done with trash. Still, one more gave me a look that belialed real fear.

I knew suddenly that I wasn't the only one that avoided the area in the dark unknown. Other people I worked with knew something was wrong. Perhaps even the manager who kept sending me out knew. I tried to talk to her. I tried to convince her that it wouldn't matter if the trash went out first thing in the morning and set up before closing at night. However, she reminded me that it was part of the duties I was hired for, and that I was told this during the interview.

This was actually true. It was spelled out in painful detail in the list of what I had to do before I could go home, and I had agreed to it. She also told me that the garbage would start to smell at the restaurant in the middle of the night, and the smell would be hard to get out of the restaurant before opening the next day. No customers wanted to order food and a place that smelled like garbage. Fast food already had a crappy enough reputation

without making cleanliness more of an issue as well. I had to admit, her arguments were all valid. I didn't like her denial, but I couldn't argue with it. As a result, I just kept dragging the trash out night after night. During one of the worst nights, some chuckle had turned off the lights in the back parking lot while I was dealing with the garbage. I was in the middle of throwing the bags into the dumpster

when I was suddenly completely in the dark. I paused a second when it happened, startled. At that point in time, I heard what sounded like a snarl, the sound of several footfalls, and then what seemed to be the sound of something landing in one of the dumpsters in the midst of the trash. I swallowed hard as the sounds of growling and movement in the dumpster turned into the distinct sounds of something eating,

and fought my sudden desire to take off or the restaurant despite not being done with the trash. It sounded big, bigger than a rat, bigger than a possum, bigger than a raccoon. However, again, my rational mind told me that it probably just sounded bigger because I was terrified, and my mind was playing tricks. I decided not to antagonize whatever the hell it was, and tossed the remaining bags in the other dumpster. The sounds of eating pause for a second as the bag hit the second dumpster

and were replaced with a low, unnerving growl. I stopped for a second and waited for the munching sounds to resume. Once that happened, I tossed the remaining bags in the second dumpster, close the lid, and locked the gate. I left the first dumpster open, which I knew I would get in trouble for, but I didn't really care. I would just tell my boss that I forgot it. I was not going out of my way to antagonize that animal.

She might write me up. but it might eat me. From there I went in and told the idiot who was shutting down the lights to leave the parking lot lights on until after I had taken out the trash. To their credit, they apologized,

and looked actually a bit alarmed. I still think that everyone knows about whatever is back there, or at least they are aware that something back there is dangerous. That night, I told my partner everything that happened at work. I think they were the only, person who would believe me and not just think I was insane. They were definitely sympathetic to my plight and went out of my way to comfort me, so I could try to forget the horrible events at work

that day. At that point, I started going out of my way to find another job, but you have to be careful. I had only been at the fast food place about six months, and didn't want to risk a string of short-term employment on my resume. That is something that looks really bad. An employer start the question whether or not you want to work anywhere. I knew I would have to keep working there and taking out trash until I found a job elsewhere, and that it needed to be seen as something that was a step up. That was harder than it seemed. As I figured, the fact that the first dumpster was enclosed was noticed by the manager.

What did surprise me, though, is that she didn't write me up for it. She gave me a verbal warning. She reminded me that any number of nasty creatures could get inside if I left the dumpster open despite the surrounding fence. The irony of that statement was not lost on me. She also said that it was also a potential health department violation. I was told to ensure that the garbage was done properly in the future, as she wouldn't give me other chances. I did understand, and told her about the incident with the lights and made some lame excuse, about not being able to see the first dumpster lid and forgetting that it wasn't closed.

She told me that she would talk to the rest of the night staff to ensure that I was the one who shut off the parking lot lights after the garbage went out. That actually seemed like a pretty fair resolution to the problem. There wasn't much I could say. I did mention that I thought there was already critters out there, though. And she told me she wasn't surprised. As long as the critters stayed outside and weren't inside, there wasn't much we could do.

This was an understandable answer, although it did nothing at all to make me feel better about the situation. I felt like I was being offered up as a sacrifice to whatever monster lived amongst the dumpsters. It was not a good feeling. One way or another, I would have several hours before I needed to concern myself again with how to survive whatever was in the dumpster. The rest of the day passed is a pretty normal one, at least in the fast food industry. people in a rush, screaming children, and those in pain are absolute ass drivers for delivery companies. Just another regular screwed-up day.

Have you ever noticed that when you hope that a day goes slowly, it seems to just whip past? I really was wanting a lengthy, drawn-out day for what I figured might be my last day on earth, before being chomped on by the dumpster Denison. When the day finally ended, I noticed it was one of the heavy garbage days. I had a buttload of bags to be carted out and thrown in.

Almost as soon as I started carting them outside to the dumpster, I heard the snarling. It seemed louder and much more nasty than before, and I felt a prickly sensation going down my spine as I unlocked the gate leading to the dumpsters and pulled it open. I walked in carefully, checking the area around the dumpster before tossing both lids open. At that point, I heard a padding sound as something was running towards, me. Then the snarling and a strange sounding squeal started as well. I looked around and nothing seemed to appear, so I threw a bag into the first dumpster, and seconds later I heard the sound of something heavy following it into the dumpster. I don't know what possessed me at that point.

Perhaps it was a need to know what I faced. But I decided to peer over the edge of the dumpster. I needed to see what was in there. carefully I snuck to the edge and pulled myself up to look over the side. The inside of the dumpster was poorly lit, only catching a bit of light from the parking lot lights. It made it a bit hard to make out the difference between mash and shadow, but I could have sworn that I saw something the size of a large dog. It almost was shaped like a rugby bowl, and I seemed to be covered in spiky black hair. It seemed to sense my presence.

and swing whatever served as his head around to see me, and I saw two glowing eyes fix on me. Then its mouth gaped open, exposing rows of large, pointy teeth. The beast lit out of spine-shattering screech, and started scrambling towards me. Nope, I thought, and slammed the dumpster lid down before running out of the caged area. Then I swung the gate shut, locking it behind me.

Nine bags of garbage still sat on the ground, ground outside of the dumpster area, with me when I did, but I didn't care. Being safe was more important than any stupid minimum wage job, and I had no desire to be a snack for whatever the hell that was. I suppose had I been thinking fully and intelligently, I would have figured that the creature had probably been snacking on the contents of the dumpster for some time, and probably didn't need me to open the lid to it. It was likely willing to take the convenience of me opening it, but had longed to have been to be to the dumps for some time, but had long found a way in on its own. At any rate, no sooner had I started to calm down from the fright of

seeing whatever that was, when I heard the familiar sound of it running on the ground outside of the dumpster. Somehow, it had gotten out. For an instant, I hoped that the cage would provide some small amount of protection, but as poorly thought out, trapping it in a dumpster and trying to keep it in a fenced-in area was doubly so. That nasty, furry sucker easily moved. over the fence and on to the pavement next to me. With that, I started to scramble away from it and began to run for the back door to the restaurant. I could hear its feet hitting the pavement beside me. It was making good distance and time until I slipped in something on the pavement. I fell face first and know that I scrape my nose on the way down. I quickly turned over

and saw the glowing eyes bearing down on me. I crabbed walked backwards to try and gain some distance on the thing, which in the slightly better light of the parking lot had the spinal fur of a razor back, but not the face to match. The glowing eyes seemed to be matched by a maw that was all teeth and was bearing down on me. The creature took a chomp on what was closest to it, my foot. Thank whatever gods there may be, that I had my work, boots on as the snarling bee spit down hard on the hardened toe of the boot.

And it damaged it. It actually created an indent on the work boot. I don't know if you know how hard it is to malform the toes on one of those boots. But what's more? I felt the chomp through the boot. It didn't break my skin, and it didn't break the boot. But seriously, this thing had some strong jaws. I quickly figured that I had to get out of there. as it could easily bite through my flesh and bone. What happened from there is all a blur, but the nearest I can figure as I got up

and made it through the back door of the restaurant. All the manager and any worker saw was me soundlessly running like mad from the back of the restaurant to the front, and right out of the front door. I didn't stop running until I made it home, where I showed my partner the boot and told them exactly what happened. The look of shock and concern,

on their face was palpable. They begged me not to go back there, but I knew that wouldn't be a problem. I hadn't finished taking out the trash. All the bags were still sitting in the parking lot, soon to be torn open by whatever thing resided back there. I also hadn't clocked out. Finally, I hadn't closed the second dumpster

when I slammed the first one shut. The next morning, the manager called me to tell me that she had written me up on each one of the offenses. and that I no longer had a job. It never felt so good to lose a job in my life. Creepy Presents Independence Death Written by N.M. Brown

and narrated by Michelle Kane. Our family got invited to a Fourth of July party by some close family friends, Lee and Adam. The public fireworks in town were canceled due to social distancing with current events, Not that we would have gone anyway. We've never been one for crowds, especially with three spirited little boys. Too many fears and scenarios of leaving home with three and only coming back with two haunted my mind,

and we hadn't been able to get together with friends since the quarantine started truly. This was a perfect way to spend our holiday, and we were excited for our kids to be able to play with all the other little ones there. I made trays of food to bring, potato salad, macaroni and cheese, and some red, beige, and blue, rice-chrispy treats that looked more like a bad acid trip mixed with unicorn puke than anything else. All the kids in attendance would be under 10, though, and they tasted good, so I brought them anyway. When we pulled up, there were many people there that we already knew, and a handful of ones that we didn't. My husband Ray and I brought in the food while we let our lives.

little guys play. I was in the middle of giving some much-needed hugs and greetings when I first saw her, a dark-haired beauty with turquoise-kiss tips. She sat outside at one of the checker-clothed tables, looking so peaceful and free in her linen-style sunglasses. The perpetual social wallflower, I normally don't talk to people I don't know. Not this time, though. She was beautiful in how she carried herself, spoke, and who she was. It was utterly infectious. I joined her at the table, sitting in front of a stuffed bag on an empty area of the tablecloth. Oh shit, I said with a smile. Is that tie-dye? She reached in the bag and pulled out a tie-dye kit, containing every color in the rainbow, and then some. Hell yeah, she smiled back. You know, tie-dye is my jam.

I fucking love it. The woman reached out her arms for a hug while telling me her name. I'm Dawn. After we departed the embrace, she looked over at the man sitting beside her. This is my husband Matthew. Matthew gave a smile and friendly handshake before returning to his wife's enchanting presence. Even if he was silent the entire night, the way he was just content to be with her, purely screamed louder than any firework whistle.

I smiled at Ray, who smiled back. eyes alight with the glow of love. This will be so fun for the kits. I commented as the two smallest toddled up to the table. We have shirts for all of them. Dawn smiled broadly, pulling a bag of white t-shirts onto the table, along with four bottles of pre-made dye mix, soft pink, hot pink, purple, and red.

I've always been interested in tie-dye, I admitted, But it never came out right for me. They used to have us make sure it's at summer camp as kids. It was fun as shit. I'll show you some stuff if you'd like. She lifted her sunglasses, revealing the largest set of midnight brown doe eyes, ones that weren't a stranger to heartache,

yet radiated love and joy. She showed me different designs and folds while explaining common things that people do wrong that cause them to not get the results they want after dying. I nodded before scanning the yard, taking a quick headcount of my children before leaning back to enjoy watching them chase each other with a water hose. A few adults squealed in protest, throwing up their hands in futile defense as they unwillingly became caught in the crossfire of spraying water. One thing led to another, and before we knew it, a small pile of shirts was tied and died. Our fingers were stained a kaleidoscope of colors, while a fresh stack of unused gloves lay on the table to our left.

We didn't care, just giggled while trying to avoid staining things with our star-spangled hands. It was a blast, a much-needed trip through time to the creativity of my childhood. Colors muted by stress, heartache, and the solemn unfairness in life in general now popped vibrantly before my eyes. The kids, old enough to dye their shirts, had so much fun under Dawn's guideful instruction, not satisfied until each thread of fiber was thoroughly saturated. Like dozens of presents carefully wrapped under a tree, we colored all of those shirts with lightning speed. They were placed into empty grocery bags before we placed them in the trunk of my car. We decided that since I live in the middle of everyone and three of the three of the

shirts were for our boys, I'd take them home, wash them, and hand them out. We finished at the perfect time for fireworks, too. Darkness had just overtaken the sky, beckoning to be decorated by sparks of blues, reds, golds, and greens. By the time the firework pile was getting low, Ray's alcohol had caught up with him. My husband isn't a drinker, so sometimes it doesn't take much, depending on the brand of liquor. Nevertheless, the ashore. Nevertheless, the ashore. tension tinge to his sweaty face, told me it was time to say our goodbyes and head home. Dawn had told me to wait 24 hours before untying and rinsing the shirts to ensure full vibrancy. I had done one better and waited for 26. My fingers excitedly fumbled with rubber bands as I freed the

fabric from its bonds. As I began to rinse the last few shirts, I noticed something. The metallic silver of the sink basin was quickly flooded with a myriad of cups. colors. Dawn's colors were way brighter than the ones I'd done, and I frowned. She helped me do it herself, ensuring I saturated each section until the dye created a sopping puddle in the area beneath it. The shirts were still gorgeous, though. I was sure I'd get a better result next time. So my youngest son and I decided to have a tie-dive fest. We'd become addicted to the creative freedom of the world of arts and crafts during quarantine. We had just spent the two weeks prior making every kind of scent, color, and shape imaginable soap, and we were ready for something new.

So we dyed a couple of Daddy's work t-shirts and an old pair of canvas shoes and snazzed up some plain white pillowcases. Everything came out great, but the colors still bothered me. The reds, pinks, and purples still didn't pop. Since we hit it off so well, I didn't think it would be inappropriate to message her and ask about it. She responded by saying that the variances were probably due to the fact that she used her own dyes on the shirt she made. I remembered the bottle of liquid she had pulled out from the bag at the party. Our youngest son had sensitive skin, so I was all but obsessed with finding out how she made them. I had been so caught up in the chaos of rounding everyone up, that I'd forgotten some of the pictures Dawn had taken of us on one of the new Polaroids.

I'd hoped to ask her about it then. She said if I wanted, I was more than welcome to swing by the house the next day and pick them up. When I walked to her apartment, I felt even more in love. The walls were adorned with canvases depicting some of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful paintings I'd ever seen. The sweet musk of honeysuckle and frisia permeated the air. But there were undertones of something else beneath, like copper and incense. These are amazing, I proclaimed, an utter awe of the beauty that her home possessed. Did you paint all of these yourself?

Not all of them, but most. Matt does a couple now and then. She paused. It isn't even half of them either. We keep most of the canvases in the basement. To switch out when we get bored with what we're looking at, I gratefully accepted the pictures from her and placed them in my purse. Oh, one more thing, I said after thanking her.

Can you please tell me how you make those dyes? Our son Charlie has eczema, and sometimes store dyes can be too much for him. Sure, give me a minute. I'll write down how they're made. Make yourself at home in the meantime. Can I get you a water or anything? She asked. I politely declined. My husband Ray was also an artist. I'd heard them talking about it before the fireworks and was curious to see more of her work.

She did say to make myself at home, so I approached what I hoped was their basement door. Bingo! I opened the door to a dark set of stairs. I pulled the chain light as I reached the bottom, relying on the light coming in from the open door to guide my descent. At first, it looked like any other unfinished basement I'd been in. Paisley throw rugs rested over concrete, flooring. A washer and dryer sat in the corner, accompanied by what looked like a laundry rack. Blank canvases were stacked on top of tarp obscured piles, while others lay neatly piled

on shelves placed along the cement brick walls. It could have been used for a number of things, though. I'd seen people use them as drying racks for paintings also. A glint of metal caught my eye just under the corner of one of the throw rugs. I pulled it back to reveal a silver drain, with the smallest remnants of crimson pooled at the rims. That's pretty neat, I thought. She even has a built-in drain for art projects. The copper smell intensified the further I immersed myself in the room. Thrown off by the putrid scent,

I clumsily knocked over a stack of boxes gathered by the left wall. My breath caught in my throat as bones scattered around my ankles, unerced by one of the boxes I had knocked over. Making a half-assed attempt to kick them back into their cardboard home of secrets, I turned around and started for the stairs. I reached the bottom step, to hear the door slammed shut. Dawn stood at the top of the stairs, a worried and disappointed look on her normally calm face.

Do you know how many colors are found within the human body? It's not all red jello sauce in there, you know. She began as she strode over to a pile of tarps. She lifted one, revealing a pile of raw muscle and sinew, a pile of the mutilated and forgotten. When mixed with blood, components from certain metals can make the most gorgeous shades of green and blue. Also, when handled correctly, components from the ovaries, eyes, and pancreas, create rich yellows and vibrant oranges.

I nodded my head numbly, subconsciously polite, even in my abject terror. Our—do—do—what happens now? I stuttered through a jaw locked in fright. Her eyes, rich in beauty and wisdom, narrowed in concern as she consoled me with stained and speckled hands. What? I don't want to hurt you, silly? We just became friends. I feel a connection with you. Does Matthew know?

I asked warily, looking up the stairway, past the blocked door. Of course he does. I'm not a killer, Natalie. I'm just making the most of what people aren't using anymore. You wouldn't call an organ recipient a murderer, would you? She asked, matter-effectly. I don't know if it was her enchantment or just plain logic. But what she said had made perfect.

sense. It's the ultimate expression of the human form. I use it in my paintings as well. A way for people to live on forever through the gift of art, she proclaimed. I ran past her and up the stairs making no effort to close it behind me. I didn't know what to do. I'd handed the shirts all out already. God said she didn't kill those people. Maybe she just found them dead and brought parts of them here? She did let me live. Who would even believe me? I'd go into the police station with a handful of my kids' shirts and say what exactly. Excuse me, officer, I made clothes for my kids using humid juices. By the time I arrived home, practically all records of Don's existence. had vanished. Her name no longer appeared on any social media profile. It wasn't that she blocked

me. If that were the case, the messages exchanged between us would still be there. I just wouldn't be able to reply. But the messages were gone. The pictures of our family were nowhere to be found. I even looked through my phone, fearing all evidence of the party would be missing altogether. However, all of the pictures were still there, she just wasn't in them. It's like she had mysteriously avoided the camera all evening. All the pictures of Matthew showed him sitting or standing alone. I called Lee and asked her about it, completely omitting the part about going over to Dawn's house or the die. She explained that Matt's wife had passed away two years prior and chastised me for even bringing up such a thing.

Fear began to swell in my throat, and I nodded through the conversation, even though she couldn't see me. The only thing that remained was the shirts. My stomach turned when Lee began gushing over how much the kids loved them, especially as my own ran by me with his very red, orange, and yellow one on. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own. story for consideration. Please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us

at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Shererlight 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.