Creepy - The Man in My House Is Not My Husband & Bedtime Story

Episode Date: November 20, 2025

The Man in My House Is Not My Husband***Written by: Richard Langridge and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Bedtime Story***Written by: XB Hart and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea 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 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. Be able to tell I've got a little bit of a cold this week. Nothing bad, mostly just a sore throat.

No big deal. I guess it's been going around a bit lately. Like I said, it's nothing bad, but when it comes to podcasting, it can cause some delays. Hopefully that won't be the case here, but I'm just going to get right to the show and get some rest. And yes, I've found some more Eddie Graves stuff I'll share later. But first up, written by... Richard Langridge and narrated by Daniel Hewitt. Creepy presents.

The man in my house is not my husband. So I feel a little silly posting this. But I've been at my wits end lately, and I feel I need to tell someone. For context, I'm a 58-year-old woman from North Carolina. Two weeks ago, my husband, we'll call him Dawn, disappeared while working in the Pisgah National Forest.

He's a senior wildlife biologist for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. He was tracking a family of red wolves when he failed to radio in for the evening, and a search was promptly called. They searched for over a week, and I was told to prepare for the worst. But then, on the 10th day, he was found. At a truck stop in Bervard, no less. He'd wandered right out of the tree line, apparently, and I guess people must have seen the state of him or whatever, because they'd called for an ambulance right after. Naturally, I was overcome with relief when I got the call and promptly headed over to Mission Hospital in Asheville.

Finding my husband bedraggled and confused, but very much alive. Still clad in the survival blanket, the paramedics had wrapped him in when they found him. He'd lost 20 pounds and was suffering from severe hypothermia to the point where nobody on staff could explain how he was still alive. By all accounts, he should have been dead. Furthermore, it was clear that at some point, he'd also taken a fall. His body peppered with fine scratches and scuffs, though he couldn't remember.

Couldn't remember anything. in fact. Not what happened, nor where he'd been for the better part of two weeks. The doctors kept him under observation for the next few days. Before finally, we were allowed to go home, which brings me to the reason for this post. So, a little bit about Don.

He's a complainer. Even from way back when we first started dating. Over 40 years ago now, if you can believe it, The man has complained about everything. The heat, the cold, if someone's running late, if it's raining. Not in a mean way, of course, and always subtle. A grumble here, side eye there. Sometimes we'd be out to dinner and I'd catch him gazing down at his food, and we'd share a look.

And even though he wouldn't say anything, I'd know he was annoyed by something. He's what my Grammy would have referred to as a sourpuss. Anyway, I bring this up because ever since we got back. He hasn't complained a single time. I know that might seem like a small thing to you. But given how much of a prolific whiner he usually is, to say this is out of character for Don is an understatement. Mostly now he just sits in front of the TV,

watching rerun after rerun of old sitcoms and TV shows. something he'd previously would have a board doing, figuring the act akin to watching paint dry. Then, of course, there's the other thing. I spoke to his psychiatrist yesterday, a doctor Weiss. Nice lady. She said it's not unusual for people to experience memory loss following a traumatic experience,

and that his memory would likely return in time. And while I can understand this, That doesn't account for the fact that I get the feeling Dawn is lying to me. Although I cannot for the life of me, think of why this would be. I know my husband. Ask any long-married wife. A woman's intuition is never wrong. Why on earth would he lie about something like that, though?

I have no idea. I mean, I get he's embarrassed, but still, I'm his wife for Christ's sakes. I tried talking to him about. it, but he's adamant he doesn't remember a thing. I want to press him further, but not sure if I should. For instance, I read an article only this morning in psychology today, which suggested that memory loss after a traumatic event might, in fact, be linked to the brain's natural inclination to wanting to protect itself.

I don't know what to do. I feel like ever since he got back, he's like a completely different person. I suppose that's to be expected, given what he's been through and all. But still, am I crazy? Anyway, any advice on this matter would be greatly appreciated. Thanks in advance. B. Update number one.

So before I begin, I just want to say a huge thank you to everyone who replied to my last post. It's so nice knowing I'm not losing my mind. Also, to the woman who said I was being insensitive posting about my husband's ordeal, kindly blow it out your ass. Now that I've gotten that out of the way, I have updates. First and foremost, we got the last of Dawn's blood work back from the hospital on Tuesday. And aside from his white blood cell count being a little low, as expected, I'm pleased to announce everything appears normal.

So no infection, no lingering effects. at least, not physically. For example, I was just getting back from the grocery store yesterday morning when I'd returned to find Don not in the house. There'd been a moment's blind panic before I eventually found him out back, standing by the tree line that marks the edge of our property. Our yard backs on to the Piscan National Forest, which was actually one of the reasons we had bought it in the first place.

He'd just been standing there in the rain. staring over at the tree line, totally still. I had to call him a good half-dozen times before he'd finally snapped out of it. I felt terrible, of course. I was on observation duty after all. And what with Don being a fully grown man, I just assumed he could be left for 30 minutes without riddling himself with yet another bout of hypothermia. Apparently not.

When I asked him what he was doing, he just mumbled something about getting some fresh air, and then gone back and sat on the couch like nothing had happened. I mentioned this to Dr. Weiss later, who seemed concerned but not alarmed, and again assured me that everything was fine. Oh, another thing. He's been getting up in the middle of the night, something that's especially strange,

as not once in all the years of our marriage can I recall him ever having sleepwalked before. And if he'd done so as a kid, his mother had never mentioned it, something she absolutely would have. God rest her soul. I have no idea what to make of all of this. A part of me wants to put his behavior down to head trauma. But we'd had a CT scan done back at the hospital and everything came back clear, so it can't be that.

I know, I'm probably coming off like a complete hypochondriac here. And you're no doubt sick of listening to me ramble. I'm sure I'm just overthinking everything. Anyway, that's all for now. We'll update again once I get a chance. Thanks again. B. Update 2.

I don't know how to start this post. So I'm just going to come right out and say it. Something is wrong with my husband. I followed him last night. One of Dawn's great sleepwalking adventures. I'd gotten up to go to the bathroom. and was just heading back to bed when I'd noticed Don's bedroom door standing ajar. We sleep in separate rooms on account of Don's sleep apnea.

I found him stood in the kitchen by the sink, once more with his back to me. For the longest moment, I thought he had to be looking out the window at something, a raccoon perhaps. But then I'd caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window and realized what he'd actually been doing. which was Don had been talking to himself. Only, that's not quite right. His mouth had been moving, yes.

But no sound had come out. It reminded me a little of those ventriloquist dolls. The blank, glassy eyes, the forceful way his jaw slapped shut after each mimed word. And as I stood there, watching from the whole, hallway. A peculiar idea had struck me. Practicing, I thought. He's practicing. Why that thought, exactly, or what it meant? I have no idea. All I can say is that standing there in the dark for whatever reason, it had felt correct. This morning, I dragged him over to Dr. Weiss's office.

I'd confronted Don about his behavior over breakfast, only of course he didn't recall a thing. had seemed genuinely taken aback when I informed him about his little midnight escapade. I didn't tell him about the kitchen part, though. All other things aside, I had spent the remainder of that night trying not to think about it, and had no specific urge to relive it again. And besides, it would have only upset him. Dr. Weiss tried to play it off as a simple case of sleepwalking, of course. Or somnambulism.

as she called it, again. Not uncommon following incidents of significant distress. I'm not sure whether she believes this, or if she's simply trying to ease my mind. It's 11.58 now, and things have gotten worse. I can hear Don moving around out in the hall as I write this, grunting and running up against my door like some kind of wild animal. I have absolutely no idea what to do.

I considered briefly calling the police, but what would I tell them? That I'm afraid my husband isn't my husband anymore? If someone else has experienced anything similar, or if you have some idea of what's going on with Dawn, please let me know. I'm seriously worried. We'll update as soon as I can. B.

Update three. Okay, first things first. I think I may owe all of you an apology. Skimming back over my last post, it's clear I may have exaggerated a little in my distress. So remember that whole sleepwalking thing? I spoke to Don's sister yesterday and turns out there is in fact a history of sleepwalking on his side of the family. So I guess that explains all the midnight walkabouts. Also, Don and I talked.

Turns out the hospital had him on some kind of crazy anti-anxiety sleep aid. And one of the side effects is acute parisomnia, things like sleepwalking, sleep talking, acting out dreams, and so on. I googled it. And sure enough, it's right there in black and white. I feel so silly. I showed him those posts and he laughed, called me a daft old bird. Ain't that the truth? So yeah, he's fine. We're fine. I don't know what I was thinking. Anyway, thanks for all your comments. And for putting up with my worrywart routine, you gals are awesome. B.

Update 4. I don't know where to begin. So much has happened since I last posted. And I'm still struggling to make sense of it all. I got a call from Mr. Hanley, Dawn's boss yesterday evening. Don's dead. They found his body in the woods, about 40 miles from the sector he'd been working in when he'd gone missing.

He'd stumbled into a ravine near Laurel Gap and broken his leg. Exposure had done the rest. He had been entirely naked when they found him, what they'd initially taken for paradoxal and dressing, before quickly dismissing the idea. due to an evident lack of any nearby clothing. Initial talk is that he's been dead for some time. Which, if you've been following these posts,

you've probably got questions. If Dawn's been dead this whole time, who's been living in my house? I can't explain it. Not sure I'd want to even if I could. I found Dawn in the bathroom last night. He was hundred, over the sink, shaking and moaning.

His naked body covered in a sheen of sweat. I could hear what sounded like bones cracking as his body twitched and contorted. Of course, I see, his body. Even with his back to me, I noted the familiar wideness of his hips, the thin lengths of gray blonde hair hanging down his back. I caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror's reflection,

the face it was wearing. was mine. I had barely enough time to scream before the dawn thing turned on its haunches, and in a single movement threw itself through the bathroom window. I raced over to the ledge, catching one fleeting glance before it passed into the tree line, huffing and keening. And right before it disappeared, I swear, I saw its outline shift. Into what? I can't say.

I don't know what to believe anymore. I've spoken to my sister in Spokane and we're going to go stay with her and her husband while I prepare Dawn's funeral. This will be my final post. Just now, as I was finishing this, I heard a laugh from the tree line. It sounded like mine.

From writer X.B. Hart and narrated by Owen McCune, creepy presents. Bedtime story. Putting his hand in the fire was the first mistake. No, not the first mistake. Stealing the antipsychotics was the start of it all. But again, that wasn't right, not really. He should never have quit treatment, or for that matter, let Allison divorce him. Before that, dropping out of college. Psychedelics in high school, while the first cigarette at 11 behind the feed store. Adam, Eve, stupid apple. He looked at his hand, red and pink, white and green, splotchy and puffing in places with nascent blisters.

But worse, far worse. He could feel it spreading now faster than ever. Just a couple hours ago, this had all the markings of a perfect evening. He was buzzing from the beers he'd been drinking and the joint he'd smoked as he drove up to the cabin, and he was just beginning to go through the little backpack to try to map out the progress, of this party of one. He twisted off the nail-polished cap and inhaled, just for the hell of it. He laughed at a dizzy laugh, then set it aside, along with the hairspray, the plastic bag, and the rag.

That stuff was for late night, if he didn't pass out before then, and was looking for one last silly rush. The rest of the contents of the backpack, though, required a bit more thought. He could pop the couple codeines right away for a sort of mellow base to everything. On the other hand, they'd be nice to have in the morning or when he woke up. He'd be grateful for that bit of self-discipline later. He set them aside, along with the Ambien, which was never really his thing. Having moved through those preliminaries, he had smiled.

Now for the real prizes. In the cloud, haze, and curtain-filtered last light of the evening, he set out the two prescription bottles, one nearly empty, and one nearly full. He'd gotten them, like everything else, except the joints and all but one of the beers, from a quick sweep of his mom's house. She'd recently changed the door code again, but she kept using birthdays, and it was only a matter of time and determination before he cracked this latest one.

First he tried old codes, because maybe. Then he moved on to more distant family, aunt, grandpa, niece. The hard thing was that for the most part, he didn't know exact days. and had to guess around, a process of a systematic and patient elimination. But after trying almost every date in January, 0-1, he finally hit on what he remembered as probably the birthday of Misty, his mom's terrier mutt. And when he did, it felt like his very own birthday,

the door swinging open. Getting into the cabin at the lake was much simpler, just a matter of shoing away some snow and turning the doorknob. There were only a few. other cabins around this link, and nobody would be coming up during the frozen winter months anyway, so his mom never locked the door. From car to cold to cabin was a cakewalk. Then inside the old family property passed down generations at good times. Finish the joint, start the fire, plan the party. But the party? He didn't know much about antipsychotics, so he had decided to start the fire, plan the party. But the party, he didn't know much about antipsychotics. So he had

decided he will go slow, let things progress naturally. He looked at the two bottles. Both prescribed a single pill per day, warned against this and that and on and on. So he swallowed down just a couple of each with a beer, lit a cigarette, and waited. The cabin was small, a single room with a kitchenette in one corner, the wood stove, a bathroom off to the side that didn't really count as its own room since it was no bigger than a porta-potty. He sat at the edge of the futon and opened the window a bit to feel the cold evening air on his face. He asht his cigarette into an empty beer can. Then he felt something.

It wasn't the breeze. It was his finger. He looked at the tip to see if a still glowing bit of ash had burned them. But he knew instinctively that wouldn't be it. It was in his finger. He shook his hand a bit, then held it still and stared again. He experienced a small shock as he processed how quick and certain was his understanding that something was in his finger, and that it was not something he had ever experienced before, and that it was significant.

And it wasn't the drugs. Was it? No, it wasn't the drugs. True, he didn't know much about anti-psychical. but he knew a lot about drugs. He understood the basic chemical processes that many pharmaceuticals act upon. He had an autodidact's knowledge of dosage and timing. He knew what hallucinations felt like.

This was not a trip. He jerked himself up off the futon and took a few steps in no direction in particular. Then he stopped. This feeling was so very small, and yet, There was something formidable about it, prodigious. He rubbed the hand against his thigh, clenched and unclenched it, then stilled it and pay attention. The feeling was still there, and it was advancing, up the finger.

Not advancing, exactly, but growing. It wasn't just moving. It was expanding, lengthening, slowly, like the swelling, stretching, elongation of a worm. He shuddered as he felt it, creeping from just under the nail and towards the first knuckle of his right index finger. A chill rippled through him. He lunged in the direction of the half-open window, slammed it shut.

Ice and snow fell from the pains, revealing the blue-black cold on the other side. What was happening? Just his finger, maybe his hand, and no pain, so to speak. Why was he reacting this way? way. He tried to shake off the vestiges of the beer and whatever else was in his system and wrap his mind around the sensation. He focused hard to think if he'd ever experienced anything like this. Certainly no. He wished ititched, or burned, or throbbed, some familiar nuisance that he could bemoan in some familiar way. It did none of these. It grew. The more he felt. He felt. The more he

focused on it, the more he felt it pulse in a way that penetrated every tissue, every bone, every synapse as it progressed. He looked away from it, searching restlessly for some way to unfocus now. He grabbed a ukulele off the wall. He strummed it, one stringed broken, the others untuned, it made a sickly concurrence of incongruous sounds. He stood there listening to the fading reverberations. Then in a manic burst, he raked rapidly back and forth across the strings with his right hand,

the hand that... He hacked at the instrument harder and faster, the cacophony increasing. He kept it up as he started dancing around the room, his hand flailing, his body clumsily smacking up against furniture. And as the harsh, discordant notes circled around him, he realized it was useless.

He could not shake the knowledge, It, working within, simultaneously tearing apart and crushing together and growing. He threw the ukulele on the ground and collapsed onto the futon. He felt warmer now after the burst of energy, and the closing of the window and the wood stove working, and he felt it more intensely than before, felt it in him than worse. him and worse felt himself becoming aware of what was happening inside of it the rush and the collision and chaos of the molecules or whatever composed the the what the pulsing through his hand now always expanding

steadily now into the wrist and up he squirmed trying to borrow into the futon he was completely sober now felt clear in a way he hadn't in months maybe yes years, and he was frightened. He wanted to get high to combat this reality, but he was in the woods, and he knew the supplies he had and weren't the right supplies, and there was no way he was touching those antipsychotics again. What was happening to him? In him?

All he knew for certain was that it was on the march. He looked at his hand, and then at the wood stove. He tried to dredge up some memory, something to take his mind off of this. What surfaced, inexplicably like everything else, was the time his mother had taken him to get a toy robot. They had seen it at the store months before, and since then he had saved every penny he came across. And when he had enough, on a day his father was out,

they had taken the bus all the way looking out the flat, clean glass of the window, watching streets go by. He remembered wishing they didn't have to stop at stop signs or red lights and wondering why I was taking longer than ever to get there. And then they did get there. Then he got his robot. He took it home and put the batteries in and it worked. He slept with it every night.

Then one day his father had made him so angry and frightened that he ran into his room and grabbed his robot off the bed and took it into his closet where he had a baseball mat. And he hit it and hit it and hit it until silver plastic pieces fell to the ground and he could see the wires and springs and the dull unpainted internal bits of plastic. Maybe he felt better. But that night he couldn't sleep. He lay there, looking up at the moon through the window above his bed

and had wished he could run away. He sat up for a moment, shaking. The hand. Then, before he could think any longer, he sprung to the stove, pulled open the door, and shoved the hand inside. The resulting howl continued well after he could no longer stand the burning and had fallen back from the stove and onto the floor. He cradled the hand, crying as he looked at it.

Oh, no, oh God. He confirmed with his eyes what he had already felt. had felt almost instantly from the moment hand met flame. It was spreading faster now. He watched. He didn't want to, but he couldn't stop himself. The hand was grotesque and drew the eye initially. But it was almost an afterthought as the arm now demanded attention.

He could see it barely visible and yet undeniably clear, growing, consuming everything inside, a million billion invisible tendrils reaching for... He writhed, not from the pain, but from the terror of awareness. Sobbing and convulsing, he felt the knowledge course through him. What could he do with this? He needed to try to do something. He at least needed to be distracted by some hope.

He caught his breath, got up, and stumbled into the kitchenette. The second drawer he opened contained what he was searching for, utensils, knives. The biggest knife was serrated, a bread knife, old and beat up and dull looking. He took it out and went to sit on the futon. Looking at his arm and the hand dangling below it, he knew he had to act to keep doing. But first, he grabbed the bottle of Ambien, opened a beer, and quickly swallowed down two tablets. Then he set the beard down, held the knife up near his bicep, pressed the tip hard against his long-sleeved shirt, and ripped. Several tears later, he had the loose strip of sleeve cloth clutched in his good hand.

The next part was even more difficult, and all the time he could feel it, the surging up the arm, the spread. But he pushed himself to move forward, step by step. He tied the shirt sleeve around the arm, just above the elbow. just above the progression. He placed the knife on top of the knot, then tied it into place with the loose ends of the shirt sleeve. He twisted the knife until he couldn't twist it any further and held it in place by pressing it between his arm and his body.

Then he removed a shoelace and secured the knife so that the tourniquet wouldn't unravel. The pain below his bicep was intense. The arm and hand were dead in places, but alive with terrible sensation within. But none of it mattered next to the knowledge of it. With his good hand, his hand, he hit repeatedly at the floor and cursed.

And now? He couldn't stay here with nothing more to unfocus him, waiting near hopelessly for the tourniquets and maybe change his situation, so he stumbled outside into the night. There were no paths visible, just snow, and trees, and a growing darkness as the last purple to the west dissolved into black.

He wandered out into it, the wilderness beyond the doorstep, and as he careened forward, away, it was mere minutes before he sensed it was no use. He went a bit further because he could. Then he stopped, surrounded by trees, and beyond them, mountains, and somewhere a lake, and everywhere the black sky above, all he was. could feel and see and know was it inside. The wide tree in front of him was a deep black monolith against the near black landscape. He closed his eyes, bent slightly at the waist and neck, and charged forward. The blood ran from the top of his forehead down over his eyebrows and nose,

and he backed up and charged again and again. He was in a house. He was in a house. His and Allison's house, one he'd never seen before, but that was entirely familiar. He completed addiction counseling, and whatever longings remained, lost out to a sustaining sense of purpose and clarity. And then there was a son, Joe, such an old-fashioned name. Born a toddler, in the yard playing, and Daddy watching so proudly as the boy animals about after butterflies. And then Daddy's smile fading.

and then his mouth twisting into a fissure as Joe's movements became erratic and broken, and then the terror of watching it spread like a storm shadow quick across a field, from the tips of the child's limbs to the core and the brain and the heart, and the eyes, the windows to it all. And then the scream. He jolted awake. The tree limbs above him looked like black arteries against the end of night sky, how long had he been out he was shaking from the cold or maybe from something else he sat up quickly

but almost immediately fell over and lay there in the snow again he was too cold to cry the pain from the tourniquet was almost unbearable he thought that he might have to remove it but as his head cleared a bit he realized this was the pain he had sought it was terrible but it It wasn't it. Not that it was gone. His groggy throbbing head registered it was not, but slowed, certainly, almost if he let himself be optimistic, contained.

He lay back in the snow and felt the stabbing cold throughout his body and the horrible pressure of the tourniquet and the agonizing pulse of his bloodied head. And a small, twisted smile curled his lips. He looked up at the just lightning sky, and lost consciousness again. The sunshine made him squint when he next opened his eyes. It was an automatic reaction, that squint, and not a conscious choice,

because his mind was consumed with other matters and would never, he sensed, be anywhere else again. Even in his just waking state, every brain cell and neuron was exploding with awareness of what was happening inside him. Warm. And his understanding that there was nothing between him and the sky. blue and perfect, and that the morning sun had already melted the snow that had been in the trees the night before, and that spots of green and brown earth were uncovered. All of these things outside of him, he understood only as a product of his nascent awareness of its inextricable link to inside him. The day felt almost spring-like, the new warmth, the bird song, and deep inside

him, it reverberated with a new ferocity, accelerated, feeding on warmth, reacting and creating, and always destroying, consuming. The birds screamed overhead. He watched one black line fall across the blue and behind the tree line. As his eyes dropped, he considered where he had run in the night, running from it, all the while running with it. The cabin was out of sight, out of his mind. The frozen lake, though. With what was left of himself, he grabbed the tree beside him and hoisted his body upright. The first steps were slow, but soon he was stumbling forward at a gamble, and then they, he and it were on the ice of the lake. The clear blue ice was no good, no cracks or signs. He scampered toward a gray patch as his whole body shook with combustion,

but he slipped and fell just before reaching it. He shimmied convulsively toward the spot like a short-circuiting animatronic, and reaching it, he hit at the surface with his fists, mustering what little power he could to fuel the attack. There was no use. The force was too little. He knew he had to stand. Thinking of it, he began to hyperventilate, as he curled his knees up toward where the takeover was nearly complete. In one final concentrated effort, he rolled onto his hands and knees and pressed upward. For a moment, he stood upright, head toward the sky.

Then he shuffled and was plunging, perfect, vertical, through ice and water into the lake. With his hands, he found solid ice and pushed against it, submerging himself and all that was within himself, and he slid through the icy waters under the smooth hard surface to a spot where his exhausted body pressed gently against the plane above him. The ice here was smooth and thick and clear, and as he looked up at the prismatized sunshine, he was aware that he was where he ought to be. He settled with it and fixed his eyes on the light through the pain, felt the freeze work its way through each layer and straight to the core, until his eyes saw into darkness

and the tiny glowing spot at his center and then he opened his eyes wide and wider and put himself to sleep. 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,

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