Creepy - The Estate & Terror Nights

Episode Date: February 24, 2022

The Estate***Written by: David F. Gray and Narrated by: Nate DuFort***Terror Nights***Written By: N.M. Brown and Narrated By: Alicia Atkins***Content Warning: Child Death, Mother Death***Find our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko 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 estate, written by David F. Gray, and narrated by need to fort. You don't find the dead. The dead find you. I stumbled into that damn bar after one really bad day and four too many drinks. The bad day was courtesy of that vile self. absorbed creature, commonly known as a celebrity. Come to think of it, so were the drinks.

I was covering a major network's fall media show out in Los Angeles. After a lot of bowing and scraping, I had managed to land a short interview with a star of a fairly popular television drama. I was in place 15 minutes early, and of course, the star was almost half an hour late. He did not want to be there, that much was certain. The actors who attend these events do so because they're contractually obligated to promote their work, but at least most of them make an effort to be cordial. This guy couldn't have cared less.

I asked my questions and got short surly answers. As soon as the interview is over, I asked if I could get a picture with him. There's a thousand of you local yokels here, and one of me, he replied, not bothering to hide a scorn. Find someone else to hang on your office. his wall back in Hickland. With that, he got up and stalked off, his agent and publicist in tow. I had known coming in that I was going to have to put up with a few arrogant SOBs. It goes with being an entertainment reporter for a local television station like WFAC,

serving the greater Tampa area. Still, his words hurt. There are four movie scripts gathering digital dust on my computer back home, with another in the works. I've been trying to break into the big time for 20 years, with nothing to show for it but a lot of heartbreak. At 45, I still have time, but each passing year brings less and less hope. WFAC could very well be the best that I'll ever do for myself and my family. Back at my hotel, the quality in-suits, not the Hyatt or Hilton, my boss will only go so far.

I'd dump my things into my room and made straight for the bar. I had nowhere to go until my flight home the next night and was determined to get blind, stinking drunk. I don't drink a lot as a rule, but as I said, the actor's words had struck a nerve. I suddenly saw myself at WFAC for the rest of my life, and the prospect was beyond depressing. The hotel bar was on the far side of the small lobby.

It was called the clipper ship, and so naturally was decked out in a seafaring motif. The tables and chairs were all made out of plastic molded to look like driftwood, and there was a huge, brightly lit saltwater fish tank sitting against one wall, filled with multicolored tropical fish. The bar ran along the wall opposite the entrance. The only thing I cared about was the darkness. There was barely enough. light to navigate past the tables. It was just past six and the place was almost deserted.

I found a table in a dark corner, ordered a double vodka, and got started on my first drunk in 10 years. By the time I finished my second drink, scotch straight up, I like variety. I was getting the pleasant buzz that meant that if I tried hard enough, I could probably find my way back to my room. On this night, that was nowhere near good enough. Drink three was a martini. I started it on drink four, gin and tonic, no ice, and settled back into my chair, enjoying the ride. I let my eyes drift over the small lounge,

not really noticing anything. I glanced at the fish tank and then blinked. Just off to the left was an entrance to another lounge. I had not paid much attention to my surroundings when I came in. The clipper ship? was just another hotel bar, unremarkable in every aspect. The second lounge looked different. From what I could see through the open double doors,

it had an elegant feel that was totally out of character with the rest of the hotel. Shiny dark marble flooring reflected the soft light provided by expensive-looking chandeliers. I could see another bar far in the back. This place was fairly large. It seemed to be made of a little bit of. of solid oak. It had an honest to goodness brass footrail in a dozen or so comfortable looking leather-bound stools. Behind the bar, lined up like obedient soldiers waiting to be called into action, were hundreds of bottles on four long shelves. The sign above the door is made

with even more brass, proclaimed in a bold font that I was looking at. The estate. The evening The main crowd was filtering into the clipper ship, but the estate appeared to be deserted. I glanced to my watch and was surprised to see that it was past eight. Granted, I'd been nursing my drinks, but did not feel as if two hours had passed. Curious I lurched to my feet, took a moment to make sure that the room was only spinning in one direction, and made my way over to the entrance. A receptionist podium stood off to the left, but it was deserted. Moving past it, I peeked inside, but I could see no one sitting at the few dozen round or

innate wooden tables that filled the room. My first impression had been correct. The estate was a great deal more elegant than the clipper ship. It appeared to be closed, however. And with a pang of regret, I turned to go. The receptionist suddenly appeared at the podium, nodded, and smiled at me. "'Would you like a table, sir?' she asked nicely. "'Or would you rather sit at the bar?'

"'Startled I took a step backward. "'She was young and pretty, dark-haired and pale-skinned, "'almost certainly a celebrity in training. "'Who isn't in this town?' "'I, uh, taking a deep breath I tried to compose myself. "'I was drunk, but not that drunk. "'She had not been there thirty seconds ago. "'She must have been in the clipper ship,

perhaps getting change or something, and returned when she saw me enter. My head cleared slightly, and I tried again. I thought you were closed, I said. My voice just a little slurred. Oh, no, sir, she said gravely. We're open. We're always open. Table for one?

Thanks, I said, but if it's all the same, I'll just have a quick drink at the bar. She nodded and waved me on. i turned back to the bar but just for a moment wavered something inside me wanted to go back to my dark corner order another drink and finish what i'd started i glanced over my shoulder and blinked the hostess had disappeared again She's an emma little minks. I heard Bill Murray's voice in my head and giggled. No doubt she had ducked back into the clipper ship to finish her errand. I looked back through the doors, but for some odd reason the hotel lounge seemed even darker than before. I could barely make out the fish tank off to the left.

Everything else seemed to be shrouded in shadows. The idea of going back into that soulless plastic-infested den was suddenly repulsive, and with new resolve I turned my back on it and headed to the bar. The bartender, a sturdy older man with dark hair graying at the temples, waved at me. I studied over the fact that, like the hostess, I had not noticed him before, but shrugged it off and ambled over. Sir, he said professionally. He was wearing black pants, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, in a black vest. I noted his green oval-shaped name tag, identifying him as Sid.

Double vodka, no ice, I said, sliding onto one of the stools and leaning against the polished wood. Yes, sir. Sid was good. In just a few seconds, I had my drink. I turned around and eyed the empty tables. Slow night, I said, but it seemed rude not to at least make an attempt at small talk. "'For now,' said Sid. "'The usual crowd will filter in soon.' I swiveled back to face him. "'I would have thought a place like this wouldn't have a usual crowd,' I said. He lifted an eyebrow.

I mean, don't you have mostly event traffic with the convention center this close?' "'Mostly,' said Sid with a shrug. "'But we have our regulars, like any other bar. And they'll be coming in soon?' "'In a way,' replied Sid. "'They're always here, poor souls.' He shrugged again. "'I have no idea why they stay here.

"'But that's their business. "'I just serve the drinks.' "'I must be more drunk than I thought,' I said. "'I didn't understand a word of what you just said. "'It doesn't matter,' said Sid. "'The estate found you. "'For that, I'm truly sorry.' He glanced over my shoulder and nodded.

I turned toward the door, but there was no one there. Not even the receptionist. What the hell does that mean? When he didn't answer, I turned back to the bar. He was nowhere in sight. Huh. I looked around, but there was no trace of him. Taking a good-sized swig of my drink, I told myself that I really was too drunk to be out in public.

that I was suddenly uncomfortable. Although the estate was empty, I had the absurd impression that I was now being watched. All of a sudden, my dark little corner of the clipper ship did not seem that bad. I decided to go back. Could you talk to me? Please?

The feminine voice came from my left. I glanced at the nearest table and saw a young woman probably no older than twenty-five sitting alone. She had not been there, just moments ago. I'm sorry. She was pretty long, blonde hair, petite figure with lovely features,

but I've been married for over 20 years. I've never cheated on Carolyn. I had no intention of starting now. Please, she begged, her voice cracking. I slid off my stool and took a step toward her. Look on her face spoke of such loneliness that I instinctively wanted to help. What's wrong?

I asked. Just talk to me. Tears started down her cheeks. She turned away as if ashamed. Look, I said, reaching into my pocket for my mobile, maybe I can call someone. They can come and get you. Do you know anyone?

She turned back to face me, I screamed. I stumbled backwards, slamming to the table behind me. Gone was the beautiful young girl. The hair, clothes, and figure were all the same, but the face. Talk to me. The voice was a void, a blank. No eyes, no nose, no other features. Nothing but a yawning chasm of a mouth. Talk to me! I screamed again and stumbled away. Somewhere inside my mind, I was still trying to tell myself that I was drunk and hallucinating, but I wasn't buying it. I'd wandered into a place it was not meant for the living. Death was in this room. Death was this room. And it was hungry. I staggered toward the entrance. I could still see the clipper ship through the open doors, but now it seemed thin.

Only the glimmer of the fish tank assured me that it was actually there. I passed another table, and a hand shot out of nowhere, and I mean nowhere, and grabbed my wrist. I spun around and found myself facing a man about my age. He was short and disturbingly obese, like the Monty Python puking seen obese. Tell my wife! He screamed at me. His face just inches from my own. His breath stank of stale vomit, and I felt my gorge rise. Tell my wife, tell my wife, tell my wife. I tried to pull away, but he was too strong. He yanked me into the chair next to him. I fell forward and my head at the table for just an instant

darkness closed in. I blinked and my eyes cleared. The fat man had disappeared, but now the room was full of people, and they were all screaming at me. An old woman with rotting skin begged me to take her away to heaven. A boy, no more than five, cried for his mother. Three girls, perhaps 17, kept shouting, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, over and over in perfect unison. They were constantly fading in and out. Each one only visible for a moment, but for everyone that left,

two more took their place. The noise was overwhelming. and not just because it was loud. There are things we are not meant to see or hear, at least while we're alive. Their presence assaulted my innermost being. I could feel their spirits reaching out for my own, reaching out and reaching in. My soul was being invaded, tormented, and brutalized. I slapped my hands against my ears, but it did not help.

A thousand damned souls were demanding my attention, breaching the barrier between life and death. I lurched out of the chair and stumbled toward the entrance. It seemed impossibly far away now, and I instinctively knew that I had seconds to escape. The noise increased and figures crowded all around me. Hands reached out and tried to grab my arms, shoulders and legs, but somehow I kept going. By the time I got to the entrance,

all I could see of the Clipper's ship was the fish tank. The receptionist was back at her stand, only now her eyes were empty. I don't mean devoid of life. I mean empty. They were black holes, eyeless sockets, and for just an instant, I looked into those sockets. I saw hell.

Then she smiled and spoke to me. I screamed again and threw myself through an opening that was barely there. I fell hard under the worn carpet of the clipper ship. Stunned, I could only lay there, gasping for breath. After a few moments, a pair of strong hands grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me up. I was certain that the dead of the estate had come for me, but it was only one of the waiters from the clipper ship. It's all right, sir, he said with practiced ease.

You signed for your drinks, so you're square here. Let's call someone and get you to your room. I looked over his shoulder, knowing what I would see. The fish tank was still there, but, of course, there was no sign of the estate. With an effort, I pushed away from the waiter. I can find my way. I muttered.

He eyed me professionally. What he saw must have assured him that I was at least sober enough to get to my room. He nodded and went back to work. I didn't waste any time. I changed my airline reservation to the red eye for that night. I made a quick call to Carol to tell her that I'll be in around 3 a.m. I'd take a cab home. That was six months ago.

I made it home and tried to settle back into my life. life. But of course, that has been impossible. I've been touched by the dead, literally. Once that happens, nothing is ever the same. I wake up in the middle of the night, every night, fighting to get out of some nightmare that I can never remember. As I claw my way back into consciousness, I glimpse just for an instant the entrance to the estate. Sometimes, it's by my dresser. Sometimes it's replaced the door to my closet, but it's always there, waiting for me to return. Remember when I said that the hostess spoke to me before I escaped? I looked into those empty chasms that had once been eyes, and all I could see was loneliness,

utter complete loneliness. Surely there cannot be a better definition of hell. You can never really leave, she said, and her voice was the voice of the damned. Right now it's two in the morning and I'm sitting in front of the computer in my study. I woke up about an hour ago. I saw the entrance to the estate again, only this time it took a long time to fade. I lay in bed next to Carol, staring at the double doors with the expensive brass letters. My time is growing short. Last week I went in for my annual checkup. Yesterday I got a call from my doctor,

asked me to drop by for a few additional tests. It's just a spot on the x-ray, on your left lung. Probably nothing, but we need to be sure. I've tried my best to live a good life. I've been a faithful husband and loving father. I've given to charities and tried to make my small corner of the world a little better for having been in it. Is eternity in the estate all that I have to look forward to? Is that all there is for any of us?

Sitting here in the middle of the night, staring at a glowing computer screen, I am terrified that the answer to those two questions might just be yes. Suddenly my job at WFAC doesn't seem that bad. In fact, working there and sharing a long and healthy life with Carol feels like owning my own little slice of heaven. But I don't think that's in the cards. Tomorrow, I'm going back to my doctor, and I'll be going to fight against something that I don't think I'll beat. I'm thinking about going back to church, although I don't think that'll do much good. The estate is there, just out of sight, but it's there.

I can feel it, and I can feel them waiting for me. You can never really leave. You don't find the dead. The dead find you. And once they do, they never, never let you go. Creepy Presents Terror N.M. nights, written by M. Brown and narrated by Alicia Atkins. The scent of gunpowder and rust overwhelmed my airway as my mother fell over the top of my crib. My lungs screamed with terror as the

doll in my crib recocked the gun. This time, my dream self was able to do something about it. All I could hear through my screams were the internal voice of Uma Thurman. Wiggle your big toe. That's just what I did. inching the maniacal entity towards me and away from my mother, now slouched and bleeding on the floor. She, it may have been an absolute asshole, but I was at least five to ten times at size. As terrified as I was, I attempted to wrench the gun from her nubby hands.

After holding it so tightly, it let the weapon go too damn fast. A burst exploded in my ears, and the smell of gunpowder refreshed itself as if it was on an air fresher or timer. The color of crimson bloomed through my shirt in a perfect circle as pain consumed my chest. Then I woke up. Society, psychology, and even grade school teachers dictate that we shouldn't play favorites. I mean, sure, inanimate things are fine. Songs, TV shows, ice cream flavors, etc. But it's common knowledge that it's not nice to have favorite parents, grandparents, children especially and so on.

If someone has a favorite, that could leave open an interpretation to mean everyone else isn't good enough. However, as we all know, it's all bullshit. Everyone has a favorite person, and I was my mother's. I don't mean that she loved me more than other children.

That went without saying. I'm trying to make that she preferred me over everyone, more than lovers, mentors, family members, etc. Sadly, I resented her for it. While she wanted to recreate her own little version of Grey Gardens, I wanted a life for myself. After all, that was the natural order of things. Women have children and raised them to have families of their own someday.

Something that seemed worse than a death sentence of my mother, Livy. I'm sure she wanted happiness for me in the back of her mind. she wasn't a bad mother after all. I think losing my dad got to her. From what I was told, she was six months pregnant with little old me when she opened the door to two solemn-looking deputies one day. She said that the pit of dread she felt

reached inside the cavity of her soul when she saw them. They confirmed her worse fear. My father had been found dead. Police explained what had happened, but my mother was so shocked that it took her days to understand. stand it. My dad was on the job to repossess a vehicle when he ran into a man at the end of his rope. The man pleaded with my father for just three more days with the car, to no avail. It turned out the man was at the end of a two-day run with the law. He fled from the hit

scene and ran into the very car my father was supposed to repossess. I guess he hadn't had time to clean it to destroy the evidence properly. The man had been fighting with whether or not to turn himself in the entire night before, and my father's presence was the final sign. In the inevitability of the situation, the man became desperate and pulled a gun. My mom didn't know if the shot was intentional or just the result of jittery hands from adrenaline, but in the end, the result was the same anyway. And of course, as these things do, I was born almost a spitting image of him. My mother resolved to hold on to the only living piece of him she had left, and that was that.

It wasn't all bad. It's not like she was a bad mother. My fondest childhood memories were the picnic she used to take us on. She used to sit on the ground with me, leaning over me to smother me with tickles so light they felt like drizzles of rain. Her hair would fall around me, consuming me in the scent of honeysuckle and strawberry. My mother was my perfume superhero. Normal children had stuffed animals or blankets to bring them comfort. But for me, my mother's scent was home. Years of formative childhood flew by before I realized that my mommy was different from other mommies.

All my friend's mother's smiles reached their eyes, while mine didn't. She became rigid with visible discomfort when I played with other children. I don't mean that she was a helicopter mom. I mean that she got this look on her face as if she'd stepped on a banana peeled stuffed with cat shit or something. She'd never let me attend sleepovers or hold them at the house. Not only that, she would cry about not wanting to be alone when I asked her to go to simple things like birthday parties,

even if they were in the most public of places. It wasn't long before I realized that, though she loved me, she was more afraid of being alone than she was of my safety. I didn't judge her for it. She had had a hard life before I came along from what it sounded like. My mother was an enigma to most, a nightmare to some, and a joy to me. As far as nightmares go, though, there was no one that she hated more than Bobby Harlow. She didn't waste a single opportunity to let him know that either.

We met in community college, the one thing my mother couldn't manage to keep me from. I'd managed to work pretty much everything out as far as my mother went until he went and fell in love. He asked her for my hand in marriage, hoping to impress me. I wish to God he hadn't. I mean, yeah, the sentiment isn't lost on me, but who the hell does that? This entire, and I mean the entire situation, likely could have been avoided if we just said fuck everything and married as everyone else did. God damn it. I wanted to hit him when I'd found out what he'd done. You can imagine my mother's surprise. She hadn't even known I'd been dating anyone.

Not only did she tell him, no, she also threatened him, completely falsely, of statutory rinketal. due to him being two grades ahead of me. If she did call the police, they'd probably laugh in her face. Still, it's not the type of thing to say lightly. Bobby certainly didn't anticipate being called a rapist just for wanting to get married. So we did what we should have done in the first place, with the damage already done in spades. I moved out, leaving my mother alone and heartbroken.

Things went well enough until the second. sexual frenzied phase wore off. I can't remember exactly what it was, but I said or did something and Bobby just up and left that day. He said whatever I had done was something identical to my mother. He said that thought haunted him all day long

about our future together as an older couple, and me just pecking him apart like a crow to a rotting eyeball. I didn't hear much from him after that until eventually, All contact fall away completely. With too much shame and embarrassment, I was left alone to return to the mother who needed me.

Days turned into weeks that turned into months. The year 2021 bled into 2022, bringing the same cold in distance as the year before. When I woke up at 8.13 a.m. that fateful Wednesday morning, I knew something was wrong. The house was eerily silent. robbing all sound of its innocuous safety. My body was enveloped in sticky, cold sweat,

and I was surprised to find my heart hammering wildly. My muscles ached to spring into unknown motion for an event I wasn't yet aware of. I hadn't awoken from a night terror that I recall it anyway. It wasn't that much of a shock at first when my phone rang. My mother's nurse Janet's voice drifted solemnly through the line. I found myself responding politely, as if on a business call, completely emotionless. The gravity didn't hit me until a moment after the line disconnected.

I sank to my knees with heartbreak, allowing myself to succumb to the feelings. I hadn't thought about my mother dying much and certainly wasn't ready to accept it. After all, she was always larger than life to me. I always thought we'd have more time. I fantasized about long, overdue conversations and apologies that I'd now never get to experience.

Grief and nostalgia brought out the brightest colors of our happiest memories, leaving the dysfunction to fall away to shadows and the forgotten night. I suppose that's the way it sometimes goes, though. It's the same reason women give birth more than once. You take the beauty out of the experience to forget the pain. Janet had come to the house at 7.30 to make my mother breakfast. and administer her medication as she had for the last eight months. My mother would typically already be awake and in her lifting recliner by the time she walked in.

Except for that day. That day, Janet opened the door to a dark and silent house. My mother didn't have any pets. She never had, really, now that I think about it. I think it's something to do with the inevitability of her having to outlive them. She always demanded control over when people departed her life. Imagine the irony in that. But she noticed an odd smell.

She thinks my mother died on her way back into the bedroom from using the bathroom at night. That's when the dream started. It's only natural, right? I sure shit had unresolved issues left over from childhood, along with 89% of the rest of the world. My hormones have been entirely unbalanced. balanced, so that adds another factor. Finally, my mother had just died.

Whether we had a great relationship or not, the death of a matriarch causes some type of feeling. The oceans that were once our family had changed, sending ripples off an unknown path with new patterns. I would be small and frozen, utterly paralyzed with fear contained behind bars. It took me longer than I'd like to admit to realize that I was in a baby's crib.

My subconscious mind had shrunken me back to my younger days, stuck somewhere between infancy and toddlerhood, and I felt absolutely everything. Colors, textures, smells. It was all accessible to me. The dreams were always more realistic than what happened in my waking life. Eventually, I could even recognize the room I was in

as the one we lived in when I was a young child. The pink and white cloud wallpaper became covered in blood spatter as I watched the first shot tear clean through the side of my mother's face. Her body slumped over the side railing over top of me immediately after, and remained locked in place like a defeated Afghan draped over the back of an old chair. Sputters and gags erupted through my tiny lips as tendrils of the dark hair I once was so in love with, trailed down my throat. Frustration throbbed through my being as my brain sent orders that my body

wasn't able to accommodate yet. My mother, the only caretaker I'd known, was in danger, and I was rendered powerless to stop it. And that bitch you read earlier, that was no mistake. The attacker in my dream was a sentient doll. You know, the type that's heavily lashed eyes close when you tilt their heads back. Only it was fully functional. It had a trifecta of curls painted below its hairline that barred a striking resemblance to three sixes, as cliche as that sounds, each plastic digit moved separately on the inner command. It's not that I was afraid of them, mind you. Everyone has mortal fears and silly ones. For example, it's much more reasonable to be scared of drowning in the ocean than it is to fear, say, frogs. Even the most mature mind holds the

least of fears. My best friend Melody was always terrified of dolls and clowns. Being scared of clowns has become a valid fear, thanks to Mr. Gacy, and the clown trends that came in the 2000s. But besides being visually unsettling to some, dolls can't hurt you. Also, I'd always wake up in a different place than I'd fallen asleep. Whatever the reason, it all seemed to act as some kind of warning, a foreboding to something that was just out of my conscious grasp. I'd never had recurring dreams before, especially not one so vivid. Like I said before, my mental conditions were right for it, I guess. Still, each time the dream occurred, a new piece of it would unfold.

I'd been provided another puzzle piece of my subconscious in each subsequent dream. I found my waking moments disturbed, dreading what would be revealed next. Did I carry guilt for leaving her behind? Was that what all this was about? These types of questions plagued me through her funeral. I held a stoic stance as they delivered the eulogy. It was odd to hear the pastor speak so much about my mother when he hardly knew her. Everyone's their best selves at church.

My resolve was solemn but strong. That is, until they closed the casket lid. A sliver of her face remained visible from my vantage point just before the wooden tomb sealed around her. My stomach was seized with panic, and I found my heart rate increasing faster than I had time to process. Tingles invaded my sinuses seconds before I felt the tears come, and then I fell apart. Usually I would have been embarrassed. I hate drawing attention to myself. But hell, I was her only living relative.

It would look terribly out of place if I didn't cry. People gave sympathetic stares and murmured platitudes for healing, but I couldn't hear them. A kind-faced woman I didn't recognize swept me up in a one-armed hug. The gesture took me almost completely off guard. I was almost sure I'd never met her before in my life. Her other arm was at her side, holding the hand of a little girl, which, judging by her features, was undoubtedly her daughter.

I backed away after allowing myself an appropriate amount of solace in a stranger's comfort and wiped my eyes dry as I smiled at the child. I couldn't help but notice she'd brought a baby doll, even dressed it in black for Christ's sake. And guess what kind of doll it was? Go ahead. I'll wait. That's right. One of those rosy-cheeked fuckers with the movable eyelids.

Only it seemed to be broken. The eyes moved utterly separate from one another. As stupid as it sounded, the thing seemed to be winking at me, as if it knew all about the night terrors and what they meant. Completely unhinged by the entire situation, my body began to shake. I sunk to my knees, clamping my hands over my ears as a scream of terror rang through the air. It was so loud that it hurt my lungs.

I didn't realize that I was the one screaming until everyone was staring at me. I shouldn't have done it. I know I shouldn't have done it. But I did. I ran to that darling little girl, grabbed her doll, and threw it into the open grave. A thud rang through the atmosphere as its plastic body hit the wooden lid. My feet raced around to the other side of the burial plot before her mother could stop me and began throwing handfuls of dirt and mud on top of the casket.

My hands flew voraciously with hand after a handful of dirt, determined to bury the damn doll where it lay. I spotted the little girl and her mother a ways off in the cemetery, and my heart sank with guilt as I watched the little girl cry. hysterically. Her mother shot daggers at me as she ran her hand back and forth over her daughter's back to soothe her. Eventually, two sets of hands were brave enough to grab me from behind and drag me away from the ceremony, where I collapsed gratefully in a fresh fit of tears. I looked to the man on my right as I reached into the pocketbook inside my purse and pulled out some cash. My fingers smudged brown along with the crisp green paper as I handed it to the gentleman. Please.

I pleaded softly. Give this to the girl's mother with my deepest apologies. I'm not well, and probably gave that little child a lifelong fear of funerals and graveyards. He nodded sympathetically as he agreed to my grief-laden request. I stayed just long enough to make sure he approached her, then spun on my heel and left. I was done with crying, done with all the people,

done with the outdoors, done with all of it. The small of my back ached as I straightened up to assess the total cluster fuck that had once been my mother's clean living room. It was littered with things left behind from a woman who was the queen of sentimental hoarding. She could be eating out and see a pretty bird in the sky

and keep the napkin from the damn place for the next 20 years. I'd almost filled an entire garbage bag with utter and complete bullshit when I heard the wimpers drift down from upstairs. A cold sweat of dread broke out across my neck and shoulders as I carefully ascended the stairs. This wasn't supposed to be happening. I thought in terror. Not now, at least.

The sounds grew louder as my stomach filled with the acid of anxiety. I froze in the doorway, keeping careful not to be seen while peering inside. I knew if I made my presence known and achieved eye contact, it was all over. Nevertheless, I took a deep breath, thrust open the door to my mother's spare bedroom, and plastered the largest fake smile on my face imaginable. There she was, limbs jerking wildly as she struggled to figure out the complexities of her motor skills. Hello there, I cooed. Did you have a good nap, baby?

I picked up my daughter, Chloe tenderly, lamenting how much heavier she was getting every day. Pretty soon, you won't be my baby anymore, I thought sadly. Yep, that's right. I had a baby. I'd found myself in almost the same situation as my mother. Only Chloe's father was alive and well. He was driven away by enough hatred for mom that even the love and promise of new life wasn't enough to stay. And co-parenting would only increase the exposure to my mother's insults. along with sealing the certainty that he married her incarnate. We had only been in this new space for a short time, and our rooms were vastly far apart from each other.

That's why I thought I was moving rooms in my sleep. At first, I thought it was an unspoken maternal instinct. Maybe I walked in my sleep to be closer to Chloe. I'm ashamed to admit, especially now, that I hadn't exactly told my mother very much about the baby. In some way, I'm sure she knew all about her, though. We lived in a tiny town, not far from where she lived. In hindsight, I should have just let her have her way.

It's not as if Bobby stuck around. Not that I could blame him. And if that experience taught me anything, I did not need to be in a relationship. Another man was the last thing I wanted. Nope. Chloe had undoubtedly become my favorite person, just like I was my mother's. Even though I knew I wouldn't be all that she needed, she was certainly enough for me.

But yeah, I should have just moved back in with Mom, and we could have all formed a mother-daughter cult. Then everyone would be alive and happy. Right? Please, God. Somebody tell me I'm right. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe the dream signified something else entirely. Perhaps my feelings of inadequacy as a new parent were bleeding into my R.E.M. sleep, like liquid into a paper towel. The following morning, I awoke with a start, followed by intense pain in the side of my neck and shoulder. I had already dreaded the pain I knew would accompany my rise to my feet, but I guessed it was inevitable. It took me a few seconds to absorb the familiar surroundings.

The pink carpeting slid between my fingers as I rolled onto my side. I slapped at my forehead, surprised by a slight tickle and unwelcome beat of liquid caused, as it rolled into my eyes. My vision was overwhelmed with patches of crimson as I struggled to wipe the mess away. Torrents of tears invaded my already wet eyes as I followed the trail of red across the floor to the corner of the room. The once white bars of Chloe's crib was marred with red smears. Those eight steps across her room seemed to take an eternity.

I began to choke on my sobs, unable to keep an even-breathing rhythm through horror-robbed lungs. Gobbs of spit flew from my lungs as I started to scream. You see, in my dream that night, I had finally turned a corner. I was able to not only overcome my terrified paralysis, but beat the doll. I ripped it limb from limb with maniacal glee as the pops of an arm being ripped from its socket. I stared into the crib, expecting to see a jumbled mass of plastic. However, that's not what I saw at all. There was so much blood present I could barely tell what was what.

My mother always wanted to be the only person in my life. Ever since before I was born, it seemed that she was sure to get her way. Only the dream wasn't a dream at all. It was supposed to be a dream. The conclusion to a series of terrifying nightmares, manifested by unresolved feelings about my mother's death. And the doll wasn't really a doll. 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 story's author.