Creepy - The Grimes Home

Episode Date: July 16, 2018

You know its name. Even when the TV is off, it's there. Waiting. But where does it come from?***Credited to Alice Thompson and guest narrated by Cynthia Reinhardt, Rob Weeks and featuring Mr. Creepypasta!***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCQ3SrH_3fsROXFAjomKcUtw***Please consider supporting the podcast at Patreon.com/Creepypod or creepypod.com/support***Produced by Steve Blizin, Puzzle Audio***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.

This episode has made possible thanks to our patrons. Patrons like Renee Shook, Sean Renalio, Jessica Lines, Twinkie, Joseph Warren, Dylan Farmer, Ashlyn Johnson, Andrew Roebuck, H.N. Thomas, Megan F. Ross, Michael Robertson, and Lee Davies. Patrons get access from everything from early releases of our fully produced Sunday episodes to bonus narrations on their own personalized RSS feed to personalize stories read specifically for them. If you'd like to find out more about how you can support the podcast, please check out the reward tiers at patreon.com slash creepypod.

And a quick announcement. Submissions are now closed for the 31 Days of Horror. I want to thank everyone who sent in their requests and recommendations. If we haven't already contacted you about your story, I'm sorry, but we did decide to pass on it right now. Unfortunately, we just couldn't use every story that we were sent. Please don't take this as any sort of statement against your work. There was some really great stories that we decided to pass on for any number of reasons.

Please continue to submit your stories to the other great horror podcasts out there. I really hope to hear your stories produced in the near future. That being said, the 31 stories are set. The actors are being blackmailed. I mean, scripts are being sent. A lot of time goes into October for us, and we can't wait for you all to hear it. But that's then. This is now.

This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. The Grimes Home, credited to Alice Thompson on creepypasta.com with guest narration by Cynthia Reinhart and Rob Weeks,

and featuring Mr. Creepypasta. The following was found in an envelope on a bus bound for Chicago. My name is Jason Grimes, and I'm writing this so that one in the room is eventually opened, people will perhaps understand the things they find within it, and so that I will not be thought of as the madman that part of me already fears I am. It all began with the reading of the will. My mother, my only living parent left, had passed away due to a heart attack in a New England home. Her body had been found by one of the women who came to clean every few days, and the news had not come as a shock to any of the family. She had two previous heart attacks, and with her smoking and drinking, she wasn't exactly

in the best of health. It had been a surprise that she wanted me to have the old family home, though. I'd never exactly had much love for the place, and it moved out the first chance I got. Honestly, I hadn't been expecting to get anything in the well, given how long it had been since we'd even spoken. I was surprised that she hadn't written me out, the way she'd tried to write. me out of the family's history by removing any pictures of me from the house. I certainly didn't plan to keep that creepy rundown whole place. But at the same time, I knew that there was a chance I could fetch a bit of cash on the market if someone put a little work into fixing it up, and as I was currently between jobs, it might

be a worthwhile use of my time. I got my brother and her cousin to come over and help with fixing it up, which they happily agreed to do. There actually wasn't as much work to do as I had first thought as the house seemed to be in better repair than I remembered it being. I guessed that my mother, cheap as she was, had still finally been forced to actually get someone in to fix up some of the bigger problems the house had. There was still stuff that needed repair and a new coat of paint, but only ended up taking about a week or so in the end. It was during this time that I first found it. No, I didn't have the best memories of the old place, given how long it had been since I had stayed there.

But one of the first things I noticed while I was walking along the ground floor hallway was that there was a door that hadn't been there before. I stared at it for a few moments. More out of confusion than anything else before trying to push it open. It wouldn't budge an inch. I asked my brother if you knew what might be down there and he shook his head, saying, he hadn't even noticed it before now. My cousin said that she'd noticed a big old-fashioned looking key in the keyhole of the door the last time she'd come round to visit, but she had no clue where it might be right now.

I shrugged, not really thinking much of it at the time, just figuring that I had to get someone to bust the door down at some point before I got the house sold. The room none of us wanted to go in was Emerson's. It was weird. seeing all his old toys and coloring books still there, as if our mother had been trying to bring her son back by clinging onto the past. Emerson had always been our mother's favorite, the one who she'd lavish all her attention on,

and I saw that she had stuck his drawings up all over the place, drongs of pirate ships and odd, comical-looking figures with strange designs. My brother told me that when he'd stayed for dinner, our mother would still set up a place for Emerson as if she expected him to just show up out of the blue. I sent for all these years and she was still expecting him to come wandering through the door. That first night I spent alone in the house I didn't sleep very well. Crazy as it sounds, I kept thinking that I heard noises in the house. People talking to each other.

I must have checked each and every one of the rooms a good dozen times only to find each and every one of them empty. I even checked to see if I'd left the TV on, but it was still unplugged. I'd go back to bed, and then after a little while, the noises would start up again. Sometimes I was sure that I could hear music as well. It was around 4 in the morning that a thought occurred to me, and I went to the lock door in the hallway, pressing my ear against it and listening closely. I was sure I heard what sounded like a muffled tune coming from within. The next day I went into town to buy some food, and after the events of the last night,

I also bought a hammer to knock that old door down. It was while chatting with the cashier that I learned something unsettling about the neighborhood that I had temporarily moved into. I had casually brought up where I was staying after he commented on me being new around here and told him that I was planning to try and sell up. He let out a short burst of laughter before looking embarrassed about it, and when I had asked him to explain, he said the following. No one with any sense is going to buy that dump.

No one with half a brain would buy any house within 10 miles of that place. Why not? Seems like a nice enough neighborhood. I replied. Because of all them kids going missing, of course. He'd gone on to explain that for the past few years, there have been a sudden and disturbing rise in the number of children vanishing from their homes in the area.

There have been search parties formed. The police and the FBI have gone. involved but nothing had turned up. The kids had vanished from their homes with no signs of forced entry or struggle and no evidence left behind as to whom might have been responsible. People were trying to move away as fast as possible, but there were few who would buy a house in the area once they heard about what was going on. No one wanted to move to a place where a child kidnapper killer was active.

I have to admit, the story kind of creep me out, knowing that something so strong, Strange was going on near where I was staying made the odd things going on previous night. It seemed even more unsettling to me. And as soon as I got home, I decided to bust that door down. My neighbor, a fairly nice young woman named Charlie who I'd gotten to know, was working on her home's front lawn when I got back and noticed a hammer in my hand as I headed towards the front door in my home. Not really wanting to be alone when I broke the door down. I gave her an abridged version of events, leaving out the odd noises of last night, and asked if she'd like to join me in finding out what was in the room.

Mysterious locked door? Very skimby-do. She said as I grinned. Sure. I'll be Fred, you'd be Daphne. I replied. Happy to have someone with me. Her presence, making the nervousness I'd felt while listening to the cashier's story, start to fade a little.

Trust me, I'm more Vellman than Daphne. Once inside the house, I packed away the various groceries, pouring drinks from myself and Charlie before we went to the white door. It only took a few swings at a hammer to smash it open. The lock breaking beneath the assault and the door swinging open. Behind it was a staircase, laying down into a darken basement below. I stared in confusion at the stairs, not believing what I was seeing.

Our house didn't have a basement. I was sure of that. And yet suddenly I seemed to recall seeing this before. I could remember playing with Emerson one day, daring each other. Emerson had always been afraid of pretty much everything. And I, in the way of older brothers everywhere, had taken far too much pleasure in tormenting him. I seemed to remember the two of us stood at the top of the top of the same.

staircase, me daring him to go down into the dark while calling him a chicken. Come on, Emerson. I've been saying to him, You have to go inside. Charlie and I began to descend the old creaking steps toward the basement. The hammer's still clutched tight in my hands. I didn't know it would find, but I knew that I felt better being armed with something that could do some damage. As we reached the bottom of the stairs, Charlie began feeling around for a light switch.

finding one after a few moments and clicking it on. The room was instantly illuminated, revealing what was within. Oh my God, look at all this cool stuff. Charlie cried out. The basement was full of puppets. There were dozens of them, all lined up on various shells, all in very good repairs as if they were brand new. There were puppets of all shapes and sizes.

Some of them being very human-looking while others were Muppet-like animal creatures and others were more monstrous. There were props from what looked like instead of a kid's show, I guess. None of it had any dust on it, as if someone had been down to tidy up just moments before. I could guess what all this was from, but what it was doing down here? I had no idea. What is all of this? She asked if she picked up one of the puppets. A guy with a massive mustache and a monocle over one eye.

She grinned playing around with them, moving his limbs up and down. My brother used to work on a kid's show. Years ago. Pirate Place, I think it was called. I only ran for a couple years before it got canceled. I guess this stuff's all the old puppets and sets from the show. I said as we looked around at the room My eyes fell on a creepy-looking skeleton puppet

with a really weird mouth and a top hat on its head. Ugly looking thing, I thought to myself at that moment. No way. Do you have any idea how much some of this stuff might be worth? Collectors pay a fortune for things like this on eBay. Charlie said, sitting the puppet down gently on one of the shelves. I glanced around at the rest of the contents of the room. Apart from the puppets and the set pieces,

there was an old sewing machine set on a desk that was otherwise completely bare. There were no signs of anything that could have been the source of the tune that had heard before. Deciding that I must have imagined it, probably due to a lack of sleep and being back in the old place. I did my best to forget about my fears and concentrate on the opportunity before me now. There was just one thing that troubled me as I looked around. On the desk the sewing machine was set on, there were several odd red stains splattered over it.

As I stared at them, I was sure. Out of the corner of my eye that the odd-looking skeleton puppets' head had twitched in my direction. The next few days went by without anything odd happening, really. I put the puppets up on eBay and had a few people come to view the house. The only thing that was strange was when one couple feet the basement All the collar drained out of the husband's face When his eyes fell on the skeleton puppet And he just turned, left the basement

And then the house He went to the car, started it up and sat there Until his wife joined him After apologizing for his rudeness And the two drove away Later that night I was sure I heard the old sewing machine in the basement I wanted to go down and check it, and yet at the same time, looking at that darkened doorway,

I suddenly felt very frightened. When there was a knock at the door, the sudden noise almost made me jump out of my skin. My head jerking to the side towards the source and the noise. Taking a moment to steady my nerves, I walked to the door, opening cautiously to see Charlie standing there. We need to talk. She explained that she'd mentioned to a friend of her as about to find in the basement a few days. ago when she brought up the name pirate place he gone quiet and asked for

to describe the puppets he looked afraid she said as if he'd just seen a ghost he told her to move house to get away from me and from those damned things as he referred to the puppets growing increasingly hysterical as a conversation had gone on he repeated over and over that it wasn't safe to be around that they could see you through them. He rambled at length about physical avatars and the signal, none of which made any sense to her. Apparently he used to work in television and had known my brother.

He said that he'd sat down with Emerson in what he called the script room and then started raving about knowing where the stories came from. Charlie said that she had never seen him like this before that he seemed to be almost psychotic his eyes bugging out of his head his face glistening was sweat she'd been worried that he was going to have some kind of attack was your brother involved in anything weird

she asked me and I honestly didn't know how to respond to that Emerson had always been an odd kid No doubt about that. I couldn't imagine him ever provoking such a frightened reaction in anyone, let alone a grown man. I asked her if he'd said why the puppets were so awful and she shrugged. All the stuff he was saying wasn't making much sense.

He just said it's not the puppets. It's what they're made from. And then he just got up. He said he couldn't be in my house anymore and then he ran out to his car and drove off. I decided that as she shared her weirdness with me, maybe I could open up about some of the weirdness in my life right now. I explained about the odd noises, the music and the sewing machine seeming to turn itself on. And against my better judgment, we decided to descend into that pitch black basement once again.

I'm not sure what I expected to find, but I was sure that something would be wrong. So when we saw that nothing seemed to have changed or been moved, I think. felt an odd sense of almost disappointment. I kind of wanted, but there to be something strange down there. Just to prove that I wasn't imagining all of this. To prove to myself that I wasn't going crazy. And that's when Charlie spotted the door. It was when she flicked off the light as we began to go off,

casting one last look back into the darkness. I noticed that there was light coming from somewhere, not very bright, but nonetheless a light. light source. Moving swiftly, we shoved aside one of the shelves of puppets and felt along the wall behind it to confirm what Charlie had believed to be the case. There was a door behind it. Told you this was all kind of Scooby-Doo. Charlie said with a grin on her face, clearly enjoying herself. I smile, which was something I definitely wouldn't have been able to do if she wasn't here. It was nice to have someone to share this insanity with.

We felt along the wall trying to find some way to open the door, some handle or switch to make it open. From behind it, I was sure I could hear something. It sounded like music, circus music, a cheerful, upbeat tune, but also off somehow. As if there was something not quite right about it. I was sure that the puppet with a ridiculous mustache monocle had moved. And I realized how ridiculous that sounds. But I was certain of it. Just the tiniest movement.

A twitch of its head toward the skeleton puppet. As if waiting for orders. I thought to myself and then wondered why that had popped into my hat. With a bit of work we managed to strip away the wallpaper that was covering most of the door, revealing that it was a bright red color, the paint chipped in flaking in places, with a small keyhole and no handle. I assumed that it just pushed inward once unlocked, but perhaps slid to the side, as there was no place for handle to have once been either.

It was then that I noticed that Charlie had stopped smiling. In fact, she was staring at the door with what looked like a mix of confusion and fear, taking a few steps back from it. When I asked her what was wrong, she just shook her head and made excuses to leave. I asked her if she was all right and she told me she was tired and promised to help me try and find the key to the door in the morning. It was getting late, so it was plausible enough. But I knew that something was wrong here. For the rest of the evening, I looked through Emerson's old things in his room,

looking for some clue, perhaps, as to what it was that it inspired. I had such fear in Charlie's friend. For the most part, it was old toys and childhood drawings, nothing of much use. There were a few things that were odd, though. It was a picture that I guess Emerson had done when he was little. There was a crude drawing of a boy sat in his bed, and I think it was meant to be Emerson himself.

Around him were stood several figures. One was just a stick figure with a hat upon its head. Another was a portly man with a cartoonish mustache and teeth. And there was a third that was very odd. It was just a scribble in the outline of a person, a black shadowy scribble. There was a circle drawn above the three figures in the boy, and lines were shown coming down from it leading to the boy's head.

For some reason, looking at those lines, the word tendrils came into my, head, there was a picture of a red door. The words, where they take them, were scrawled in large letters beneath it. And the final picture was a stick man and the man with the mustache leading several smaller figures towards a third. This one was a woman, a rather well-drawn one in comparison to the crew of basic nature of the others except for the face. The face was just two dots for eyes and a line for a mouth. The words where they take them were written here as well.

There was a message on my answering machine from Charlie the next day. Hey, Jason. She said that she'd gone to stay with her girlfriend for a few days just to clear her head and apologize for leaving so suddenly the previous night. Her voice sounded odd, kind of shaky really. And she said not to bother with the door. Don't bother with that door. She tried to sound calm and casual when she said it,

but there was fear in her voice. She said it was probably best to figure it all about the whole thing and just cover up the basement. Not even mention it to potential buyers for the house. She said it would be a good idea to take the puppets off eBay as well. I should have just done as she has. I'll see Instead, I spent the rest of the day ransacking the house

searching for the key to that door I looked everywhere with little success until almost on a whim I decided to search Emerson's room more thoroughly And there, hidden in one of the old pillowcases Was a key I poured myself a drink to steady my nerves Sitting down to watch the TV

I remembered the old thing never picked up much when we were little. The channel's always being full of static. It seemed to be working better now, at least, and the news came on, talking about another disappearance in the area. A girl of 12 this time vanished from her home in the middle of the night. I flipped through the channels looking for something a little less grim while I finished my drink. Getting up, I headed down the steps into the basement,

striding toward the door, ready to open it. The skeleton puppet was sad at the sewing machine now. I knew I hadn't moved it, and neither had Charlie. And the other puppets, their heads seemed to be turned towards it, as if they were waiting for it to do something, to say something. God, it was a hideous thing. That awful misshapen mouth looking so awful. God knows why the prop designer had made it look that way.

Words, to grind your skin, popped into my head. I put the key into the door and sure enough, it unlocked it. The door pushing inward with ease, revealing the room that lay beyond it. It was illuminated by a single dirty bolt, making the contents of the room easy to see. Lowered the smell. The only thing worse was the sight of what was the light. littered around the room, children's shoes and clothes. Some spattered with old, dried butt were piled in a heap in one corner of the room. The floor was stained with large patches of red,

one of which as I stepped into it, I realized was still somewhat fresh, fresh and sticky like soda spilled on a movie theater floor. The room smelt of spoiling meat and burnt hair. It took all I had not to throw up as I entered it, wondering how the smell hadn't traveled from this room to the basement. There was a pile of old video cassettes in one corner of the room all labeled with things like Emerson's first bike ride and Emerson's first spelling bee. All old home movies, I guess. But mixed in with them were tapes labeled Candle Cove Episode 4 and Season 3 piloted

episode. I picked up a few and noticed that there were bloody fingerprints on several. There was a series of steps leading down further into the blackness at the rear of the room and I felt oddly compelled to go down there. How far down did this go? How was this even here? Beneath my family home without me ever knowing of it. And yet I felt like I did know about it. Looking at those steps, I felt like I remembered being in this room before. I was a child and it had been empty then and there I stood with Emerson. The foot of these stairs, I had whispered to him, taking delight in how terrified he looked. He'd gone down into the dark and my heart throbbed with pain.

It actually physically hurt to try and remember, as if something was willing me not to. had there been someone down there with us? I was sure I remembered there being someone in the room besides the two of us the more I thought about it. Our mother? Our mother. But another woman. Why couldn't I remember her face?

I began to take on steady steps down the stairs. The more I walked, the closer I got to another door. Another red door. The key fit the lock of this one as well and it opened with ease. There was music coming from within now and the sound of waves crashing against the shore. I felt it pulling me towards it, calling to me like a siren song. I had to go inside, I thought to myself. I had to go inside.

I wasn't alone in this room. I burned all the puppets later that night. Imagine it mattered. They've been destroyed before and it hasn't stopped them from coming back. They're just wood and paint and cloths. Nothing but a conduit. They allow them to come through. Allow them to walk through the door and come here.

I know where they go now. I know where they go, Christ, to help me, I know where they go. I saw it. I saw it. They took me there, the way they took my brother when he was a child. They need us. I don't know why they need us, but they need us. That's what he said.

Through that horrible misshapen mouth, those eyes rolling in his sockets wildly, they needed my brother and they needed me. My family's not safe. The signal needs us. Thus, the ship came to that cavern. Emerson was laughing and crying at the same time as he spoke to words I knew were coming. As he told me what I had to do, it was waiting for me. I saw the...

The following portion of the letter has been heavily crossed out, making it near impossible to read. A word that may or may not be mannequin appears at one point in the letter, and the word skin is visible at several points in the following two paragraphs. But could be faker or taker can also be made out in the second paragraph and ship in the final sentence. The letter resumes. I ran. You may think me a coward for not helping them, not even trying to save them. But I know where the ship is taking them now.

I know where the voyage leads and I know who's waiting at the end. I would pray to God, but no, that will do no good. I know now. I know things that no one should ever know. I know what Emerson learned. That day the signal found him. I know the things he learned in the dark places, where the music comes from.

Music played on instruments crafted of bone and organs wrapped in flesh. It's always there now in my head, playing on an endless loop. This signal has found me like it found Emerson that day. I made him go down those stairs, like it found our mother. Know why she did what she did. I know what she knew. And I know where Emerson is. I saw him on the ship.

My God, the ship. The laughing was the worst. I wish it would stop laughing. Nothing. I have sealed up the basement, but know that one day someone will go down there again. I write this so that when they discover the things I know they will find down there, they will know neither I nor my mother were responsible. And perhaps so they will have their courage to do what I do not and destroy this terrible

place and burn it to the ground. The only thing that holds me back is the fear that perhaps this place is not merely the door to their cage, but the cage itself. If the house would be destroyed, perhaps they'd be able to spread. I wish to apologize to my family. I hope they will forgive me for what I'm about to do. I hope they will understand. My brother, if this reaches you, please do not go into that house and do not sell it.

board it up and let it stand forgotten. A creepy old building for people to stare and wonder at. Maybe that will hold them back at least. The sewing machine is going at all hours of the day now. I know that it's him. Sewing himself new additions to that terrible cape. She lets him keep the skin, you see. He gets to keep the skin.

I'm so sorry. Emerson. I don't hate you for the things you did. I wish I could help you, or at least put you out of your misery. I know they won't let you rest. I know you cannot be free of them now. I see them out of the corner of my eyes sometimes. They're going to take me to the ship. I won't let them. I will die the way I choose. the sea will carry my body away hopefully far from where they can ever find it this letter was found lying beside a cassette tape the tape proved to be nothing but static although those who watched it repotedly felt a sense of unease and nausea and they tried to view it the grimes home was searched and the belongings of over twenty-three children who had gone missing in the local area were discovered within no trace of the children themselves were found with the children themselves were found with the grimes home was searched and the belongings of over twenty-three children were discovered within no trace of the children themselves were found within the house or near it, however. The basement and the secret room were both as the letter

described them. However, no stairs leading down into a further sub-basement were found anywhere on the property. The puppets all also appeared to be completely undamaged, despite the claim that they had been burnt. The tapes mentioned in the letter were missing. Two families have since lived in the Grimes' home. Neither has stayed for more than a few months, reporting strange smells, odd noises around the house and things going missing. One reported sensing something terrible in the basement, and her children spoke of horrible dreams about the ship taking them away, and the bony man from the TV, watching them at night. The house is now abandoned, having been purchased and then left empty by one Adrian Grimes in early 2011. The puppets and set pieces from Candle Cove,

mistakenly named Pirate Place by Grimes in the letter, an early working title of the show that Emerson Grimes later abandoned, supposedly vanished shortly before Adrian Grimes made the purchase. The whereabouts of Jason Grimes remains unknown. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us at Creepypod

on Twitter Instagram and Facebook or email us at creepypod at gmail.com All stories told on this podcast can be found at creepypastawikia.com

and are protected by a creative commons license some rights reserved unless otherwise stated.