Creepy - The Holders 137 - 139

Episode Date: July 13, 2024

137. The Holder of Submission***138. The Holder of Denial***139. The Holder of Entertainment***Stories can be found at: https://theholderseries.wordpress.com/***Additional Narration by: Danielle Hewitt***Sound design by: Samii Taylor***Music credits: S, Severndroog, Sacrifice by Lucas King Music Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures 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 Holder's Series

Number 137. The Holder of Submission. In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls himself, the holder of submission. Should the workers sneer in utter confusion? tempt at you. Then you've come to the right place. The worker will lead you through a series of hallways. Should you try to make any conversation, he will invariably cut you off with a rude remark or insult. Do not bother. And certainly do not try to argue with or one up him. It's best

to remain silent. Eventually the worker will point at a door that looks no different from any other you might have passed earlier. He will then continue walking deeper into the institution without another word. There is no turning back. Open the door and plunge in before you even see what is inside. You will fall for about ten feet before slamming onto a marble floor in a massive throne room. If you break bones due to the fall, then there is no helping you. The throne room in which you will find yourself is not only enormous,

but lavish, with heavy obsidian pillars leading up to a massive sprawling throne, draped with heavy black cloths and lined with fine gold designs. The throne is so large that it can accommodate the several dozen scantily clad women, all chained by ankle braces to the floor, seated all about in addition to the warrior king on the throne. The warrior king is a towering muscular man with a bearing of a proud, comfort. and predatory warrior. He wears nothing but a loincloth,

exposing his rippling muscles and countless battle scars. His force of will is so great as to be physically palpable. This warrior king has clearly seen many battles and is strong enough to slay a thousand men with ease. He will fix you with a stony glare of utter contempt. Be quick, for the warrior king has been quick, for the warrior king has little patience. Ask him,

To what power will they submit? The warrior king will roar with laughter, not of mirth, but of condescension directed at you. He will boast and no entity is more powerful than he, and that he cares not for the holders or the objects, or him. He will demand that you cease your quest and become one of his lieutenants, that he will provide you anything you need, no matter how outrageous the request.

So long as you never leave his palace or think or speak of the quest for the objects ever again, the warrior king's power is so great that even the staunchest, most determined person will be swayed to submit to him. Nevertheless, if you are truly determined to collect the objects, you must stand strong, and not bow to his immense presence. Instead, firmly repeat the question. This time, the warrior king will roar angrily. His concubines will be scattered and smashed

against the obsidian pillars by the force of his outburst, and the very foundations of the throne room will tremble with his rage. You will certainly be sent sprawling, but do not allow yourself to be cowed by the warrior king's rage. This time, the warrior king will call you a fool among commoners, and that your best hope is to abandon your quest to become his servant, cleaning up whatever mess he leaves behind after the violent battles and large orgies he has every day. Once again, fight his alluring aura to shout the question one last time. Now the warrior king will grow silent and look you in the eye. If he deems you unworthy of his true honest answer, then he will cripple you on the spot and seal you in his palace to be his waist cleaner for the rest of eternity.

If you are worthy, however, the warrior king will tell you softly why he fears him and why he fears the gathering. What he tells you will fill you with terror to the very core of your being, for anything dreaded even by this. fearless and powerful warrior king is beyond human comprehension. Many fall into insanity upon hearing the warrior king's true answer, and others beg him for a swift death. If you maintain your sanity and will to live, however, then a sudden gust of wind will blow through the hall, dissolving the warrior king's throne room into nothingness. You will fall into a void for a few moments before finding yourself suddenly standing in

front of the institution's front desk. The visibly annoyed worker will be holding one of the ankle braces that confine the warrior king's concubines to his throne. That ankle brace is object 137 of 50038. Number 138. The holder of denial. I've worked in halfway houses and mental institutions all over the country, in countless cities and towns. The work isn't bad, and it pays a bit better than most menial jobs I've held.

I try to be a good girl, to be kind and polite to others. But my job has affected me. To help the sick and broken, you need to harden your heart and accept unpleasant truths about people. except that some addicts don't want to get clean, that what seems like compassion can sometimes be indulging the delusions of the mad, and that some people really do need to be restrained for their own good. I won't say the name or location of the place I work now, only that I've been here for a long time. When I was first hired, the pay was low and the hours were short.

and I was not in a position to complain. I'd been working reception for a week or two when a man came in, walked with purpose to my desk, and asked to see the holder of denial. A look of confusion must have come over my face because he grew suddenly impatient. He screamed at me, and I flinched. He banged his fist on the desk and insisted that he see the holder of denial.

I was still trying to calm him down when my supervisor came forward. Mr. Musil took one look at the man, and the man fell silent. Mr. Musil nodded to me and said, It's all right, and led the man down a hallway that I must have passed a hundred times without ever noticing. The man glanced back at me with a grim smile on his face. I glared at him. There was no excuse for rudeness like that,

and I was irritated that he'd calmed down so quickly for my supervisor. It had made me look incompetent. Others came after him, all demanding to see the holder of denial, all screaming and making a scene only to calm down once Mr. Musil arrived to take them away. I walked after them once or twice, just out of curiosity, just to see what they were doing. Each time, Mr. Musil led them through a door, locked them in, and walked away. He smiled at me when we passed each other. Once he left the key in the lock behind him, and I nearly used it to open the door.

But when my hand touched the key, I felt a sick sense of guilt, a hard chewing feeling in my gut that I'd felt before. When I knew the mess I was about to be punished for was my fault and my fault alone. I pulled the key out and returned it to Mr. Musil's desk. He'd left early that evening. It wasn't until the next day that I heard what happened to him, how he'd driven his car with his wife and son in it, off a bridge, how the windows had been rolled down and the seatbelts buckled, and how it seemed that none of them had tried to get out of the car. They'd all sat there while the filthy river water rushed in and drowned them. The next time someone came in demanding the holder, I hid. I can't stand to be yelled at.

So I ran to the back room and hoped that the red-eyed pregnant woman at the front would go away and look for her holder of denial elsewhere. She'd been shouting for eight solid minutes when I went to Mr. Musil's desk and found the key I'd left there. I led her to the door at the end of the hallway without the slightest feeling of unease, though I did wonder if Mr. Musil had been in the habit of going back to let them out later in the day. He always locked the door behind them, so they surely weren't getting out on their own. There must have been some other exit they were using. That seemed likely.

I didn't worry about it. After the pregnant woman, the next person to ask for the holder was a young man who'd only started his shouting when I cut him off, saying, I'll only take you if you quiet down and ask politely. He looked around uncertainly and repeated his request in a more civil tone. He trembled as I led him to the door, as did the next few. you who came to see the holder. All were at a loss in the face of a few words they hadn't expected.

From then on, I took care of the sad-eyed, determine ones who asked to see the holder. They were mostly men, but there were a lot of women, too. Almost all of them wore a dry, haunted look on their face. And a few who didn't smiled so brightly that they frightened me. I took the ones who wore piles of rags and the ones who wore tailored suits. I took the ones with the scars and the tattoos, with the long beards and tight smiles, with the pale skin and the dark skin and the veins that bulged out of the surface. None of them came back. I felt such a tenderness toward the quiet, broken-looking ones.

With them, I felt like a mother putting a sick child to bed. The arrogant, cruel-eyed ones, I sent through the door laughing inside, feeling an inexplicable, mean satisfaction. For the life of me, I couldn't tell you why. After all, they'd asked to go through that door, hadn't they? I must make it sound as if these people come in every day. But that's only because they've blurred together over the years. Really, they arrive occasionally and randomly. Sometimes months will go by without one arriving, and then two will come on the same day, just hours. apart. I've only seen a lot of them because I've been working here a long time. The bad habits that used to keep me from holding down a job, tardiness, absent-mindedness,

my tendency to slip out the back and sneak secret joints that led to the absent-mindedness. None of these things bothered anybody, so long as I kept leading the seekers to the door. I took longer hours. People covered for my mistakes and started looking at me strangely. The way I used to look at Mr. Musil. By and by I began to feel a nagging doubt. I wondered. What if there was no second door? No exit for that room.

I'd never seen anything but darkness inside. Never taken more than a second's accidental look. How big could it possibly be? All those people going in and never coming out. It must have begun to get crowded in there. it might be better if fewer people ever entered the door. Around the time I started entertaining these thoughts, I began to notice a button under the front desk.

I don't know if it had been there before, hard and jeweled and amber-colored, but if I pressed it when a seeker came, the lights in the room would flicker and go bright. And while I was blinded, I'd feel something soft moved past me and smell something foul. And when the lights returned to normal,

the seeker was always gone. Sometimes they'd leave a tear in the carpet or a dark stain which I had to clean. But at least I didn't have to send them all down the hallway. I pressed the button on the seekers who hadn't learned that I value politeness, and on those that didn't ask politely enough. When I saw something smirking and contemptuous in the seeker's eyes, I would press the button hard enough to break the skin of my palm. I began to take comfort in the cleanliness of light,

and the muffled cries that sounded like songs. I took any excuse I could to press the button and not send a seeker down the hall. Those I did send still didn't return. Until one day, when one man did return, I didn't like him from the moment he entered, with his sharp suit and sharp smile and empty, empty eyes. I went for the button before he reached the desk,

something stopped my hand. He nodded and asked me very politely to see the holder of denial. Some people I lead to the holder tremble with visible fear. Others hide it. And a very small number seemed to be able to suppress it. But this man? Simply lacked it. The way a story might lack a proper ending.

It chilled me. I was relieved to send him through the door. He gave me a too wide smile and a wink and disappeared into the darkness. I locked him in, stumbled outside, and smoked until a thin excuse for calm returned to me. Then I went back to my desk and pretended to busy myself with paperwork. I heard footsteps coming down the hallway that I must have walked down a hundred times without hesitating on. And the man with the empty eyes came out. He was carrying something in his hands.

Something covered in hair, or perhaps made of hair, long wet strands of hair that trailed down through his fingers. I tried to press the button that would bring the clean white light, the light that was pure and that would cover this ugliness. He stopped me. He moved faster than my eye could follow and stopped me, keeping my hand held in his, grinning a devil smile and clucking his tongue.

His grin was too wide. I was sure it would swallow me up. Terrified. I only asked one question. What are you going to do to me? I thought he would kill me. What he did was much worse. He explained things to me.

He told me what happened to each person I had sent down the hallway. Told me in great detail the tests that they failed and the tortures they had suffered. He told me what happened to the seekers under the blinding light that kept me from seeing the things that set on them, that tore them apart and dragged them into the white-hot filament of each light bulb. He told me about the thing I had been helping to guard, and the thing that helped me guard it. He made me see what I had done. He left. I didn't. Seekers still come asking for the holder of denial.

Some I send down the hall, some I press the button on. I don't know if there's anything there for them to seek anymore. No others have ever come back. I try to be a good girl, kind and polite to others. But my job has affected me. To stay whole and healthy, you need to harden your heart to unpleasant truths about yourself. To tie your thoughts down, be your own good. The Chirkeno Bezor, the man carried out, is object 138 out of 538.

Number 139. The holder of entertainment. In any city, in any country, go to any movie theater you can get yourself to. You must drive to the theater, for if you fail, you must go fast enough to escape the horrors that will chase you. Go up to the box office and ask to see the film called The Holder of Entertainment. If the worker calls for security, then run to your car and drive out at the state and don't come back for a month. Only then will it be safe to come back. If she, and only a she, nods and hands you a blue ticket, go inside and find a theater that doesn't look like it belongs there.

It shouldn't be hard to find. Go inside and you will find a lone seat. Sit down and wait for 20 minutes. If nothing happens, then you will be sealed inside forever, and it will be as if you never existed. However, if a film starts playing, then you've made it. The screen will display every war, every man used for the sole purpose of destruction for another man's enjoyment.

This will go on for hours, days, maybe even weeks. Keep your sanity, stare right into the screen while this is going on. Then, after it's over, simply walk out of the theater. Drive to your house and live your life. Keep the blue ticket with you. After three days, sit on your bed at midnight. Wait there quietly. Turn off your cell phone, TV.

Anything. When you hear a growl, get out the blue ticket. The growling will get louder, and soon you will see a strange creature in front of you. It will try to lunge at you, but when it does, rip the ticket. Rip it in front of the creature's face and it will let out a horrible screech, die after a few minutes, then disappear, as will the torn ticket. On the spot the creature disappeared, there will be a ticket stub. The ticket stub is object 139 of 538. Written on it is one simple word. Remember it.

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