Creepy - The Thing Pretending To Be My Daughter & A Mother's Love

Episode Date: March 17, 2022

The Thing Pretending To Be My Daughter***Written By: Summer Harris and Narrated By: Alicia Atkins***Content Warning: Attempted Murder Of A Child***A Mother's Love***Written by: Shey Carden and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Content Warnings: graphic detail of murder and child killings, decapitation & dismemberment***Find our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***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 Thing Pretending to be my daughter. Written by Summer Harris and narrated by Alicia Atkins. I had always looked forward to being a mother. As an only child, raised mostly in the company of adults, I had always yearned for a sibling. Once I grew older and gave up on that idea, to my single mother's relief, I began to think about the day that I would one day have children of my own. Although I was in no hurry to have children young like my mother before me, I would often daydream of the day I would hold a precious bundle of joy in my arms who would call me mommy.

I helped out with the younger girls at my cheerleading camp all through high school. I babysat regularly for my history professor during college and always volunteered to help out in my children. church's nursery. My husband, Scott and I, married just out of college. He quickly landed a job as head chef at an up-and-coming restaurant, and I began teaching kindergarten. We soon bought a small three-bedroom house within walking distance of the elementary school I taught at. It was only natural for us to discuss starting a family together. Fast forward a year, and we were in labor and delivery, getting ready to meet our new daughter. I thought that I would feel an instant wave of love and connection when I saw my daughter for the first time. Instead, I felt what could only be described

as repulsion when the nurse placed her in my arms. I felt the bitter taste of bile rise up in my throat as I stared down at the thing they told me was my infant daughter. It looked like an average squashed-up newborn baby, but the eyes. Looking at them was like looking through the very fabric of the universe into some hellscape of pure evil. I turned to you. I turned to you. I turned to you. I turned to I turned my head away from the creature's knowing stare as I vomited off the side of the hospital bed. Scott snatched the baby out of my arms as the nurse hurried to my side with a pink plastic pan. Oh, dear. Nausea can be a side effect from the pain medication.

Not to worry. I'll get you some anti-nausea meds and you'll be right as rain. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was imagining things due to the combination of medication and exhaustion from labor. I drifted off to sleep in a restless slumber. When I awoke from my nap, I felt no trace of the nausea from earlier. I scanned the room and saw Scott was passed out in the recliner beside the bed on my right. Poor guy, I thought, smiling to myself.

He had had a long night, too. I turned to my left to see the baby, my daughter, asleep in one of those clear plastic crib things. I sat up gingerly, wincing at the lingering soreness between my left. legs as I slowly stood up. I looked down at the sleeping infant. This time instead of just the revulsion from before, I now felt terror building within me. The creature seemed to radiate fear, despair, and hopelessness.

I managed to hide my expression of panic quickly as Scott awoke and moved to my side. She's perfect, isn't she? He whispered to me, his arm around my shoulders. Of course, perfect. I replied after a split-second pause. I didn't know how to tell him that this thing was not, could not be, our daughter. How could I explain to my husband

that the child we'd been so excited to bring into this world was a monster? My mind raced, trying to make sense of it. I had made no packs with the devil, had left no misguided offering to the fay. While not particularly religious, I had never put faith in that other shit either. There was no rational explanation for my reaction to my daughter,

other than that there must be something wrong with me. I hid my feelings as best as I could, going through the motions and putting on the appearance of a happy new mother, while my daughter, named Stella after my husband's grandmother, still both terrified and repulsed me. I was able to mask it by limiting my time alone with her as best as I could, could. I kept us on the go to everything from baby jimbery to play dates. Anything to keep it from being just the two of us alone in the house together.

Scott was more than happy to take over when he got home from work, and I was able to use him as a buffer between me and it. A discussion with my doctor at my postpartum checkup earned me a diagnosis of postpartum depression. I said only that I felt slightly disconnected to Stella, and that I was having trouble sleeping, nothing more. I was afraid if I told her everything, she would have me locked up as a madwoman. She prescribed me an antidepressant, assured me that it was very common and completely normal, then told me to follow up with a psychologist if symptoms became worse, or if I didn't see an improvement with the medication.

The antidepressants took the edge off a little bit, sure. It made life feel blurry. That was something I couldn't afford to be, not around that thing. I never did schedule a follow-up appointment. Although the symptoms, if that's what you want to call them, became extremely worse as Stella grew. Odd things began to happen around the house. Scott thought I was overreacting and just being a scatterbrain. Sure, the things happening were small, but obviously they pointed to something very

wrong in our house. For example, I lost my keys yesterday, only to find them in the freezer hours later. Or this morning, I started a pot of coffee only to find it empty and unplugged when I came back to the kitchen. That's not me overreacting. And little things like that happen to me constantly when Stella is around. When I glance over at her, I can see nothing but those soulless eyes staring out at me from the cherub face the thing pretending to be my daughter wears. Scott doesn't notice anything wrong with Stella. Neither does anyone else. Anytime we go out, everyone always ooze and awes over her.

They comment on her blonde ringlets, her chubby cheeks, and especially her beautiful blue eyes. When I look at her eyes, they appear only black, like the evil inside her is peering out at me. That thing may have everyone else fooled, but not me. How it's able to not only trick everyone that it's human, but also of my flesh and blood? I don't know. Why is it that only I am able to see the darkness threatening to spill out of that creature?

How can everyone else be so blind to this disgusting thing? I don't know if it's a blessing or a curse to be the only one who can see that thing for what it really is. is. I tried hard to keep up the charade of good mother while I search for answers. I had Stella baptized. I researched everything from changelings to golems to paranoid delusions, but nothing seemed to fit. This problem couldn't be all in my head. It just couldn't be. If I was crazy, I wouldn't stop to wonder if I was crazy. Everyone knew that. Plus, it wasn't just in my head that the refrigerator door opened by itself when I left the room, or when the TV changed channels when I hadn't touched the remote.

This went on for the first few months of Stella's life. I still had to struggle not to dry heave when I touched her or had to hold her. I was able to hide it well. Scott had no idea. He was still floating in that proud new dad bubble of bliss. I shuddered every time I was. watched him plant a kiss on those soft pink baby cheeks. Stella's eyes would dart over to meet mine over Scott's shoulder during those moments.

The darkness in them mocked me. Something had to be done. We couldn't live like this. I couldn't live like this. The monstrosity that was masquerading as my daughter needed to be eliminated. If no one else could see it, then I guess it was up to me. Maybe that's why I was cursed to see the vile thing. Maybe God or whatever higher power you want to believe in chose me.

It was the only way. Once the Stella thing was gone, Scott and I could go back to being the happy young couple we were before. The only thing standing on our way was that creature. With it gone, things could go back to the way they were. The morning started off like any other. Scott woke up and got Stella chains and settled into her high chair. The thing was making that baby babble that pulled the wool over Scott's eyes every time. He smiled down, laughing Estella cooed away at him while still managing to shoot me a glare that seemed to be both full of malice and amusement.

I turned away quickly and continued to make breakfast. That French toast smells great. Stella and I are starving, Scott said, shooting a smile. at me as the Stella thing continued to babble. Glad you two were hungry. I made plenty. I managed to reply cheerily while placing the Tower of French Toast on the kitchen table. We sat in silence at the table. I picked at my food in between sips of strong, bitter coffee.

The two of them smiled and giggled at each other. My resolve of wavered for a moment, seeing Scott so happy and clearly enamored with what he thought was his daughter. I wondered again if maybe I was wrong. If maybe there was just something wrong with me, and I needed help. Then I caught sight of Stella's face as she smiled up at Skahn. Her lips were smiling as she laughed with him, but her eyes remained dark and cold and... Hungry.

She... No. It... Gazed up at him like a lion stares at the zebra he's a bee's a bear. to devour. I held back a shudder and forced a smile back into my face. I had to stay strong. Mustn't give either Scott or that thing any reason to think that there was anything unusual about today. I couldn't afford for them to get suspicious. I sent Scott off to work just after breakfast. I hugged him, a beat or two longer than usual. Not enough for him to notice, though.

I watched them from the front window, backing out of the driveway and heading off down our street. He would be upset at first, I thought to myself. But once that monster was gone from our lives, he would see that it was the only way. I had to rid our lives of the evil residing with us. Everything would be okay then. I turned abruptly from the window. I forced myself to face Stella. She sat quietly, staring up at me.

with those obsidian eyes. I placed my fake smile back on my face as I moved to pick her up. Nap time! I chirped as I went up quickly up the stairs with her to the nursery. When I stole a glance at her face, she seemed to be smirking at me. I placed her in her crib, lying on her back. I grabbed a fuzzy pink pillow from the rocking chair and moved back to the side of the crib.

The thing pretending to be my daughter began to squirm. malice radiating out of those dark eyes. I sobbed as I pressed the soft pillow down, covering its face and pushing its head down into the mattress. The tiny arms and legs jerked and kicked frantically, but I did not falter in my task. I was so absorbed in my grim task that I didn't hear Scott's car pull into the driveway. Didn't hear him call out as he came into the house

to pick up his forgotten cell phone off the kitchen. counter. Never heard the nursery door open, or him screaming at me. All I could do was gasped the word. No! As he threw me away from the crib, my head hitting the floor with a loud crack. He scooped that thing up in one arm as he fumbled for his cell phone with the other. That's the last thing I saw before I blacked out. I came to, handcuffed to a bed in the psychiatric ward at our local hospital. The days all blurred together in a haze from the medications they were pumping me full of. I don't remember much of anything about the trial. Only the sentence.

Life in a secure mental health facility. The doctors there were good. I was lucky in that way. After a couple of years, they even said that I was over my psychosis enough to see Scott, and the now almost three-year-old Stella. I hadn't seen Stella since the night of my breakdown. They wouldn't even allow me photos for the first year.

Scott came occasionally, but I could tell he hadn't forgiven me for what I tried to do to our daughter. I understood that. I didn't forgive myself either. On the day Scott was bringing Stella to see me, I sat behind the plexiglass divider, waiting for them to walk through the heavy double doors. I couldn't wait to see my girl, to finally see those beautiful blue eyes my delusion had hidden from me before.

The moment came, and my heart leapt in my throat, and I began to smile as Scott carried our beautiful toddler towards me. She had her head buried in Scott's shoulder against the fluorescent light's glare, but as he sat down with her on the other side of the glass between us, my smile faltered, and I began to scream. For Estella lifted her head and turned to look at me. Instead of those baby blues I was expecting, all I could see was deep, Black pits where her eyes should be. Creepy presents. A Mother's Love.

Written by Shea Cardin and narrated by Rissa Montanez. I never believed the allegations against my mother, even after the trial and her conviction. Twelve counts of first-degree murder and eleven counts of kidnapping. The prosecution laid out the evidence victim by victim. The first, being my father, whose body was found at his job site when I was 10. Then the 15-year-old boy whose remains were found on the outskirts of town later that same year. Then the 12, 9, and 10-year-olds, whose remains were found when I was 13 in various states of decay and dismemberment.

Her alleged victims ranged in ages 16. 15, all killed and tortured in different ways. All local children whose dismembered remains were found scattered throughout the town and surrounding wilderness over a six-year span. I remember crying out as the judge read the jury's finding of guilty, cursing them and the jury for being so blind and sending an innocent woman to death. I remember how composed and graceful mom was, as they read her verdict. Only letting a few silent tears fall as she looked at me and gave the smallest of smiles. I was 24, and had lived with my mom my whole life. Even when I moved out of her home, I only lived three houses down from her. She was fun, loving, and kind. She didn't have a mean streak in her. I visited her

every opportunity I could while she waited out her death sentence. We never talked about the trial. her alleged crimes, or the future. I showed her pictures of my life on the outside. It was always painful, though, knowing she would never be out to see it. Regardless of how much I screamed and pleaded and tried to prove her innocence, the legal system made it clear.

They didn't care. They had their criminal, and the public was safe from the monster who could commit such evil crimes. Trust me, I fully believe these crimes are horrific and that someone should face the death penalty for them. I mourn for the families and the young lives lost, but it wasn't my mom who did it. When would she have had the opportunity or time when she was caring for me and working to support our small family? After Dad's death, she didn't have time to mourn.

She had to pick up his burden as the breadwinner, as now she was a widowed, single mother. Besides, surely, I would have noticed. How could someone murder another person, let alone several? And those closest to them not have any suspicion? I just don't think it's possible. While she had received the death penalty, and she had resigned to her fate, it still shocked me when I was notified of her passing.

She had only been in jail for a little over six months. a heart attack during the night. I opted out of a traditional funeral to save her what dignity I could. If anyone would have come, it would have been to curse her name. She deserved better than that. And since she never got any peace in life,

I'd be damned if I didn't do what I could for her in death. And now, I'm here, in my attic on a random Friday morning going through her things. It took me a good month to get to this point. But I wanted to feel closer to her. I wanted to feel her wrap me into her arms and tell me she loved me again. But that wasn't going to happen.

Not now. Not ever. I took a sip of whiskey and Coke before bringing down the box I had gotten from her attic before they tore our family home down. I'll admit, I had probably had a little too much to drink for how early it was. And full disclosure, I've probably been drinking more than I should in general, since her death. But I needed the extra strength for this. I need the help to get through her death and everything that has happened to our family. I deserve to give in to my feelings for this. I owed it to mom.

I had these boxes put up here since she went to jail. I had packed up what little of her belongings was left after the police freighted her home for evidence, and sorted through the important and the replaceable, only saving what I had room for in my tiny attic. The boxes weren't mine to go through, so they've just been sitting here, collecting dust since her sentencing. I always hoped we would prove her innocence one day, and I could return them. But now, there's no returning them. I wiped the dust off the top of the first box as I sighed and opened it. It was full of picture albums. Mom and Dad's Wedding Album,

filled with pictures of the two of them smiling and surrounded by family and friends. They were so happy. I smiled as I flipped from page to page, looking at the pictures, from them getting ready for the ceremony, all the way to Dad removing Mom's garter using his teeth, then showing his famous shit-eating grin. Their first dance, rubbing cake in each other's faces,

all smiles. You could feel the joy in these pictures. The following albums had pictures of mom during her pregnancy, me when I was born, and pictures of family vacations and holidays throughout my childhood. The last picture album was just my mom and I with some shots of my dad's funeral. flowers surrounding his coffin, his gravestone, a picture of me leaving flowers on his headstone on his birthday.

Mom didn't have time to scrapbook or keep up with albums after Dad died. She was too busy playing Mom and Dad for me. I took another sip of my drink, resting the book on my lap and thinking back to his death. I don't remember much about it. Other than getting checked out of school and Mom telling me in the car, that dad had an accident. I was old enough to have a vague understanding of death, but not really understand the full weight of it.

My father was a construction worker and was working on building a new home when he died. He was found by other workers in the basement of the home when they came onto the job site to start work after a long weekend. When they found him, it was obvious that it was foul play. Medical reports show that he had seven broken ribs, a broken leg, and skull fracture. I was never able to wrap my head around the brutality, especially because my father was never a fighter, or someone who ended up in predicaments that could lead to something like this.

It didn't take long before his case went cold. And honestly, I don't think our small town could afford the resources it would take to solve it after the first few weeks with no leads. They never found his killer, or a reason for his death. I sighed, taking a large drink from my glass. Now I've lost both of my parents. I brought the next box down, going through mom's clothes and knick-knacks she had gotten over the years. I paused on the snow globe she had gotten

when we went to New York for the ball drop on New Year's. I remember being in awe of the city and its towering buildings. I continued looking through, reminiscing on our life together. As I was about to close the last box to put everything back up in the attic, I found another photo album. Unlike the others, this one was under several clothes in a box separate from the other albums, and it was not marked. The album was large and black, with an off-color black leather binding.

The book was dirtier than the other. had been and looked as if it had been sitting in dirt for years. I flipped the book open, and a search of nostalgia filled my heart. The first page was pictures of my dad that I had never seen before. He was smiling, looking past the camera at who I assume was mom. There were several shots of him smiling, playfully moving closer to the camera. The next pages were newspaper clippings of his murder. and the investigations.

Local man's brutal murder shocks community. Police looking for leads in local man's murder. Wife of murdered man named as person of interest. My breath caught, as I didn't remember mom ever being considered a suspect in dad's murder. I thought back to the police coming to our home and questioning mom. She had sent me upstairs, so I never heard what they had talked about. I remember the officers looking around the home and coming back from time to time. I brushed it off, thinking that it was obvious they would look for clues at his home because that's where he lived.

I flipped to the next page, and my breath caught in my throat. It was more pictures of my dad. The picture at the top of the page showed his face. His smile was replaced by a frown, brow furrowed in confusion, and his eyes registering something. The next was Dad on the ground, with one black eye that was barely open, and the other eye reflecting horror

as he reached up towards the camera. He had streaks of blood on his forehead, and fresh blood staining his shirt. In the next picture his eyes were closed, face swollen, and more blood spattered on and around him, streaming down his face only broken on his cheeks, where tears streamed.

I slammed the book shut, frozen in my own shock. What the fuck? What? The actual fuck did I just see? Tears started to fill my vision and roll down my cheeks as the pictures I just saw sank in. Why would she keep something like this? Why would she have these pictures? I sat back, spiraling out the possibilities before landing on the most obvious explanation.

These were photos recovered at the crime scene. They had to have been. How would Mom have them otherwise? Maybe she kept them to look for clues about who was behind the camera. That had to be it. After several moments and drinks later, I shakily opened the book back up. I took a deep breath to steal myself to continue looking through,

not knowing what to expect, and foolishly hoping it would be things she had found trying to identify his murderer. The next page was blank. The following page had another news clipping. The first boy, Thomas, who went missing just a few months after my dad's death. Thomas was a friendly 15-year-old who was well-known in the community. While he was nice, he had a niche for getting into trouble. The clipping was from where he went missing,

detailing the searches and rallies held to help find him. The next page had the clipping of when his remains were found. He was discarded in the woods, bordering the next town. He had been dead for three weeks before they found him, and his death was chalked up to his increasing troublesome behaviors. His ribs had been broken, head bashed in, then removed. I flipped to the next page, catching the bile in my throat. It was Thomas.

In the first picture, he was knelt down by a flower, smiling widely at the camera. The next was Thomas on the ground. His shirt covered in bloody holes. His face shocked. In the next picture, his blonde hair was dyed red with wet blood, and an obvious dent in his head. At the bottom of this page was a piece of tape holding a thick cutting of hair that had blonde coming through the hard, dried blood.

I couldn't stop flipping at this point. It's like looking at a train wreck. With all the horror and disgust bubbling up my throat, the tears streaming out of my eyes, I couldn't look away. I flipped the pages faster and faster, the pages filled with newspaper clippings and pictures of all the children who had gone missing and been found murdered. The first pictures were always of themselves.

smiling, followed by pictures of them in various stages of abuse until finally the picture of them in death. Thomas's was the only one with hair attached, while others had pages littered with small thumbprints left in blood. Thomas, Anna, Emma, Jacob, Rebecca, James, Tyler, Clara. All of the kids that had gone missing. Twelve people and mom's hidden photo album. These pictures all seem so familiar, but I couldn't place my finger on it. I know I had never seen this photo album before. Had I? I ran my fingers over the worn leather spine, staring at the pictures of dead and dying kids. It was like the feeling of watching a train wreck. As awful as what I was looking at was, I just couldn't look away from it. I flipped. I flipped

another page to find it empty. More and more empty pages until there were several pages taken up by pieces of notebook paper in my mother's handwriting. Annie, the letter started. If you are reading this, it means you know the truth. Let me start with this. I am so sorry. I am so sorry for never telling you. I am so sorry for keeping so much from you. I am sorry that you are learning about everything this way and that I never got the courage to tell you or get you help. Please know I never wanted to hurt you, nor those kids and their families.

I know the things I did were awful, but everything I did was for you. you, even if I were, misguided. Mom wrote about a car accident we were in when I was nine. She stated that we were both lucky to be alive afterwards, but it wasn't without injury. Mom detailed how she had several broken ribs and a concussion, and I had a broken arm and traumatic brain injury and spent several months in the hospital. She told me that after we had returned home, I started having fits.

She detailed how the fits started out, only lasting a few moments at a time, and progressively got longer and longer, periods lasting up to hours and during them, I became increasingly violent and angry with no recollection after the fact. Mom stated that she had attributed it to the brain injury and didn't want me in a hospital or on medications all my life, so she never got it checked out. At this point in the letter, Mom wrote again that she was so sorry for not getting me help

before it got out of control. Mom continued to write about how one morning she woke up and went downstairs to start breakfast. She stated that once she had it done, she hollered for me and dad, figuring he was in a shop and I was in my room. I heard you come from the basement while I made your plate. When I turned to bring it to you,

I saw you just covered in blood, covered in blood and dirt, sitting in the kitchen chair like it was nothing. I thought you had hurt yourself, Annie, she wrote. Her writing becomes sloppier as it went. I ran to look you over, hollering for your dad when I noticed your Polaroid pictures drying in front of you. I remember the scream I let out

That didn't even phase you The pictures Your dad The blood Mom went on to write how she ran to the basement And found my father Mom said she cried And tried to make sense of it

And didn't know what to do Mom stated that she heard me call for her From the top of the stairs She said that when she heard my voice She knew what she had to do to protect me. She took me upstairs and told me to go lay down, as the spells usually end with me being tired. While I slept, she cleaned. Mom said that night, while I was asleep, she took Dad's body out to his job site, as it wasn't far from our home, and she knew it would be empty. She left him in the basement

of one of the houses they were building and rushed home to me after. Mom stated that she was relieved when after months I didn't have another bad fit. Until Thomas. Do you remember Thomas coming and helping in the garden after your dad passed? He was such a sweet boy, even with his issues. You two were in the yard. You were taking pictures of the flowers he was showing you while. I ran inside to change clothes and grab a snack for you and Thomas.

When I came back, Thomas was on the ground, blood staining his shirt and you had the garden shears, smiling over him. Thomas cried out to me to help him, and before I could react, you brought them down on his head. Then you kicked him over and over. Thank God we didn't have any close neighbors to hear the screaming. I'm sorry, honey. she apologized for writing too much of the details, stating that she knew what she had to do again. Mom told me about how she took me inside

after coaxing me to put the shears down and got me to watch TV while she went to clean up my mess. And later that night drove Thomas to the edge of town to dispose of his body to avoid bringing suspicion to us. The rest of the letter talked about how I had killed all of them. Anna.

Emma. Jacob. Rebecca. James. Tyler. Clara. All of the kids that had gone missing. How she cleaned up the mess and disposed of all the bodies.

How, when they finally connected the dots to our home and our family, She knew what she had to do to protect me. She knew she had to say she did it. The letter ended with her telling me how much she loved me and apologizing for not getting me help or planning ahead. I don't know what to do now other than pray for you, Annie. She concluded the letter. I love you so much.

But I can't clean up for you now. I don't know how to stop the fits. I don't know how to help now that I can't. I love you so much, sweet girl. Please forgive me. Love, Mom. I felt the hot tears dripping onto my chest and stared at the pages frozen in shock.

How? How could she say something like this? How could she have these pictures? Why save them? Why? I slammed the book shut, trying to make sense of it. Black outfits? How would I not have known? Losing time like that? I thought to look at my phone. 1 p.m. Saturday, May 8th, 2021. But that can't be right. It's only Friday afternoon. I shook my head. Maybe I have been drinking too much. The thought of it made me instinctively reach from my drink. As I brought it to my face,

I dropped the glass as my heart dropped. Blood. Dried blood on my hands. What? Who? My mind flashed to my kids. Before I realized that they were at my mother-in-laws this weekend. They were safe.

I sighed in relief. My hand still trembling. I closed my eyes trying to think and remember, but I couldn't. I couldn't remember anything. I couldn't see anything except the pictures. And the photo album. I stared at the black book in my hands, remembering. It wasn't in a box with mom's stuff.

I remember digging it out of the shed in the backyard when I cleaned out her house. I remember when we first got it on my ninth birthday. and how excited I was to make my own photo album, like Mom did. I remember the Polaroid camera they gave me the next year to take my own pictures for the album. After sitting on the floor for what felt like in eternity, I slowly got to my feet and steadied myself. In what felt like a dream, I climbed down the wooden ladder from the attic and walked towards the living room.

Walking down the hall, I could smell the fire, burning in the fireplace, and felt human for the first time since finding the book, the smell of pine wood burning, and something else that was familiar, but I couldn't place. I don't know if it was because of the liquor, crying, or what I had just learned, or even a combination of it. But the world around me spun and I felt nauseous as I rounded the corner to the living room, I stopped, taking in the scene around me. Blood soaked the recliner my husband spent most of his evenings on and pulled around his body on the rug. The TV was still playing softly in the background.

My husband, Keith, was face up. His mouth open and crooked with what looked like a broken jaw. his face was swollen, with blood pouring from his head. The fireplace poker laid beside him. The tip drenched in blood. I cautiously walked over to him, noticing the Polaroid pictures laying on the couch above him, and carefully crept closer, and then slowly sank onto the floor next to his body.

Keith, I whispered. tears still falling from my face as I reached out to touch his cold body. My mom was innocent. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast. are done so through Creative Commons Sherrillite licensing or with written consent from the authors.

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