Creepy - The Trouble with Daphne

Episode Date: December 5, 2022

Relationships can be tricky...***Written by: J.T. Seate***Content warning: abuse, mutilation***Bonus Episode: "Smile" Written by:  CowboyKenny and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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with us on Instagram. Thank you all so much for listening. This show goes on because of our listeners, whether you're on Patreon or using promo codes from our ads or just tuning in for the occasional episode. Thank you for having us as a part of your day, night, or whenever you like to listen. 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 Trouble with Daphne Written by J.T.C. Once upon a time I heard this weird tale about a woman who loved her dainty feet. She liked to lift her legs to admire them. I possessed the narrowest, smallest, most exquisite feet anyone has ever seen, she supposedly

saying in a sing-song voice. Many commented on the beauty of her feet, and some even adored them. Ten little piggies shining with painted toenails of flaming color. When she dressed her feet, she wore frivolous pumps with small straps to show as much of them as possible. Only a few people, men and women alike, the special ones, understood how important her feet were to her. They were the ones allowed to caress them and make the woman's painted toes wiggle in blissful anticipation. The adoration her wondrous feet drew was of the utmost importance. They were the blessing that accompanied the curse of being armless.

I wasn't sure why that little tidbit popped into my mind when I cracked a window to displace the steam from a shower. A knock on the front door of our waterfront cottage followed. Daphne never knocked. She had keys. I threw on some clothes and answered. The sight of two policemen startled me, but I knew it was about my belief. beloved wife even before they advised me of Daphne's disappearance. I haven't reported her missing, I told them.

A friend of hers contacted us, one cop said, with a mourner's solemnity. Says she was supposed to meet him a week ago. Why haven't you contacted the authorities? I sighed. Women are such strange creatures. None more so than Daphne. Long ago, I had accepted the incomprehensibility of life with her. Before her, I was reasonably content.

My life was in order. When Daphne entered the picture, I was willing to give up structure, with the exception of my daily planner, the document that contained everything important, the record of my activities past, present, and future, although there was little in life to plan. "'Well,' said one of the interlopers standing at my threshold, "'I figured she'd finally met some guy who offered more than one night's worth of fun,

"'but that she would eventually roll home like always.' After observing my reaction, or lack thereof, "'the coppers questioned me about the last time I saw her. "'I haven't left the cottage for several days,' I told them. I am a writer, and my office is my home. Why don't you question her latest boyfriend, whoever he is? It's been over between Daphne and me for some time. They took the idea out for a spin, but I felt sure they didn't believe me.

But I couldn't have done anything to her. I'm sure because I checked my daily planner for the last week. Nothing. Writers by nature manufacture stories from dreams of all kinds, including nightmares. They have occasional weird moods and obsessions, sometimes blackouts. It is the reason I rely on my record keeping so heavily, and it has never lied to me. Not that my penchant for scribbling cut any ice with them. A wife disappears.

So who were they going to suspect? They'd only shown up because a body had gotten hung up in a nearby pier his piling's. Although it was severely damaged from the surf's poundings and nibbling crabs, they'd hoped to have an ID soon. My planner doesn't lie either, I assured them. With quizzical, no, with suspicious looks, the two officers left. What advised they'd be back. I studied this situation as they departed.

It was still before noon, but the visit sent me to my liquor cabinet. The sun had to be over the yard arms somewhere in the world. After the police car pulled away, I finished my drink and walked to the coastline. There's something idyllic about the place where the sea meets the land. That's where I've always lived. It's also the place where my carefully planned life, derailed. Daphne Monroe was her name.

Busting men's balls was her game. I inhaled a salty sea breeze as waves broke upon the shore, but the ambiance felt different. The ocean, the gulls. Everything seemed muted, less dazzling. And there I say it, less alive. The waning vestige of a morning fog hung up. above. I scanned the shoreline. A few vacationers danced in the surf while locals waited for the sunshine that would eventually break through. Later they would head for a seaside bar to drink

and hook up. It would be very much like the night Daphne crossed my path. How many men had there been before and after me, I wondered. With a final wistful look at the beach, I returned home. Sometimes wanting is better than having. Since men first drew on cave walls, more battles have been fought, more duels dueled, more poetry written, and more lies told in pursuit of women than any other endeavor. How could I have been so naive when it came to Daphne, considering man's never-ending adversary role with the fair sex?

But you didn't know her. A man would be a fool to get involved with such a woman. Was a fool. To see her was to want her. The kind of woman men would leave their wives for. She held the ancient weapon of sex and wielded it with calculating abandon. She was effortlessly attractive, an exotic bird spreading her wings. Her blouse cut low enough to display her come to Jesus,

cleavage. Her face was angular with cheekbones that could slice into a man's soul, and her laughing talk garnished a lot of double rums with coke. I was soon buying her drinks and lighting her cigarettes. Don't say much, do you, hon, she said after a couple of drinks on my tab. I like that in a man, the strong silent type. She studied me a while, looking around the joint and must have decided I'd do. It was then she took me by the hand and led me out to the beach. Her past was sketchy, but I'd been smitten, drawn to and captivated by this free bird who liked to take refuge at the water's edge.

She worshipped the sea's seductive call. She and I first made love under a myriad of bright stars. The memory remains as clear as the biblical burning bush. Her eyes flickered with specks of moonlight lifted on a wave of infatuation, awaking my every erotic thought. Greedy discovery filled her voice with a rough undertone that was seedy and schoolgirl at the same time. She told me how good I felt as we trembled on the precipice, at the velvet edge where body and soul unite.

For me, it was as if the planets were aligning in my favor, a transcendental experience of kindred spirits merging that all lovers longed for. I was sure nothing on the palate of human experience could be finer than this. I also knew this was a woman I'd do almost anything for, even knowing my existence could be at risk. afterward and on the quiet stretch of sand hauntingly reserved just for us. Daphne stood naked. She arched her limber back and braced it with her hands as if she were offering her torso to the dark horizon.

A landlocked mermaid as statuesque as the figurehead on a sailing ship. Then she reached toward the heavens as if a trapeze might magically appear and carry her away, all peaceful and heaven-like. Wavlets of foam curled around her ankles like Medusa's snakes before receding into the sea. For a brief shining moment I thought her the most wondrous creature, almost ethereal, fanning an ember of desire that transformed a woman into a goddess. Within the resounding chambers of my heart and mind, I was blazingly happy. I presented her with my name.

Why the hell she agreed to become a missus was anyone's guess. Blame the starlit night to the ocean's spell. Maybe she'd married me for financial stability or because she couldn't think of anything better to do. But something you want badly always comes with a price. I want a true love. Love that didn't backslide. I got Daphne instead.

A tire blew out on our love bus quickly. Our relationship going askew after the first night when I believed my wife's attention was for me alone. I'd since accommodated that impossibility like a chronic ache. Daphne was a woman who got her way with little effort. Restlessness rolled off her in waves. Her physical appetite had. had no bounds. Her scent could catch the nose of any male within 50 yards of her.

Whenever she abruptly left the house, I most often found her sitting on the beach, a silhouette on the shore next to her latest pickup, the echoes of their voice ricocheting around in my skull. An indistinguishable babble of rivalry and laughter with marimba music maddeningly floating on a breeze. the two-sum would wriggle out of their clothes and join in flagrante delecto. From a distance they look like one mutating creature with its limbs in motion, forearms and legs squirming about like a confused crab. It's a crude comparison.

Yet there it is. And a front to all that is decent. Following her barbaric couplings, She would eventually come home. Her lipstick chewed away or smeared up one cheek. Our home life was little more than a glossy veneer slapped over rotted wood. I don't have to explain jealousy. It's a wicked emotion that can flare up and burn white hot and leave something mean behind.

There's nothing worse than to carry around the bitterness of betrayal. But, despite of my elemental, passion of insulted manhood. I never intruded upon her faithlessness, treachery, perfidy, whatever word you care to use to properly address her Simeon beach grinding. I never revealed my pain choosing and said to camouflage the damage. It would have been admitted weakness, a characteristic I chose to withhold from her. Life is riddled with contradictions.

Daphne could flirt with a man one minute and treat him like he was a stain on the floor the next. She used them like a tissue, discarding them when they were no longer needed. She owned a sirens allure in which her victims enjoyed steering themselves into the rocks. A longing not much different from that of a moth to a flame, or an infant to its mother's breast, I suspected. I knew her liaisons meant no more than flickering. light in a prism, changing with a tide. But she still had made vows that were in violation of her actions. For her, life was a game to outmaneuver others,

a woman who liked to pull men into her orbit and tease, making them lie down and roll over like a well-trained dog waiting its master's commands if she so chose. Who could guess why she had married? me. She had made it clear she was a free spirit. I knew I'd been an experiment. Life is also full of compromises. She seemed more interested in provoking me than playing with me, but it hadn't stopped my attraction. In spite of her unpredictable impulses in my paralyzing bouts of angst that came with it, I knew she was captivated by how vulnerable I allowed myself to be.

measuring my worth by her behavior. It hadn't taken me long to realize how much she enjoyed her abilities. Happiness and sadness. Violent anger and dependence. All the human emotions withered except for my deep need for her approval. And maybe she cared for me a little. I used to perch on the toilet and talk to her while she bathed in the soapy, slightly bluish water of the bathtub. With her hair tied back and her buxom figure partially submerged, I felt on equal terms.

Catching an occasional glimpse of her body sometimes made me feel like a pervert beneath the bleachers of a high school fieldhouse, as if partially nude sightings were something I hadn't earned. That had been part of Daphne's power. I was but a prayer in her cathedral. Yet, in the end, her proclivities had also been strong enough to turn me from a callow man into one filled with silent rage. Wounds of the soul won't scab over, and my life have become an open wound forever bleeding. Love is a living thing, and living things must die. How many are there like me?

waiting for someone to come home, loving someone who does not return love. Eventually you want to destroy the thing that causes pain. Daphne was often so bewitching. I wanted to wrap my fingers lovingly around her delicate throat and choke her senseless. The last time Daphne left, I reached out for her as my dignity drained through the souls of my shoes. and undertow of the nagging dread of losing her. Please, don't go out tonight, with my cry for sympathy that went unheeded.

Jesus, don't bust my chops. Her irritation etched in the slight frown lines between her tweezered eyebrows. She was quaffed, groomed, and ready, not for a walk along the beach. but for a night spot. Hair fell loosely around her shoulders. Candy red lips moved in front of white teeth.

Glossy nails flicked a rouge-tipped cigarette. A white throat arched back from her collar almost saying, Bite me. I could see her braw through her silky sleeveless blouse in the magnitude of her bosom as prominent as a chrome fender encased like uplifted trophies. The sight didn't conceal the neatly displayed waist and curvy hips poured into tight slacks. She had never looked more vibrant.

Healed sandals revealing necrious toenail polish completed the ensemble, all combining to give her a sexiness that, on this night, proved aggravating. She walked towards me and placed her palms on my shoulders, pushing me into a chair like a trained pet. She gave me that tight, rueful, daffney's smile that could melt the poles. The jut of a nipple poked through the layers of bronze your fabric into my right ear. I smelled the perfume beneath her breast. I'm sorry, Fred.

She added in a cadence laced with honey and a pert toss of her head. I watched the curve of her lips become a smug smirk as she spoke. my hunger for her as intense as the need to end my suffering. An ember threatened to ignite the ready timber in my mind. I've got to be myself, and frankly, you're no damn fun. There was no complaint in her tone. She was merely stating facts while dismissing me, draining me like a bad joke in the midst of a disaster.

her eyes glinted as she added, You've become boring and predictable. Her words were a vulgar way to express her infidelity. Yet it was pure Daphne. After returning from my coastline stroll, I listened to the roar of the detective's absence and walked into the bedroom. How could I have missed notating Daphne's disappearance? I'm not a drinker or a druggy.

I'm usually a sharp guy, except when it came to my wife's intoxicating persona. Maybe I'd had blocked out an important event. In writer's terms, it's called a blind spot. Writing can serve as a doorway into new worlds. To conjure words out of whole cloth is a cathartic exercise where the possibilities are endless. My attempt to escape issues through fiction may have affected life's reality. If the words I created as a writer can draw me in where it becomes my reality, then I suppose the opposite can happen.

That is, reality, turning into mere fiction. While I pondered this possibility, a fragmented event from several nights before came sneaking back like an unwanted specter. The truth doesn't always set you free. Maybe Daphne wasn't missing at all. Maybe what I believed to be a bad dream was more than that. I flicked through mental pictures as if rifling through pages in my planner until I found a scene that seemed relative to the issue. I started to remember.

And then, in a chunk of clarity, it all came back. Daphne stood in the doorway. I sat on the couch, taking in her grandeur. On dateline, they always described. I'd describe a missing person as someone who could light up a room. Daphne's light flashed multicolored neon. I asked her not to leave, but she snickered at me, brushing my words away like dust on the floor.

Once again, I felt a persistent ache in my chest like a pulsating bruise. With this flippant cruelty, I became something feral, as if I'd just caught wind of an open sewer. I'd taken enough symbolic bullets to the heart. I wasn't a violent man, but Daphne's escapades had shaken something loose inside. Suddenly, I loathed her for threatening our fragile bond and for the longing she thrust upon me. I wanted to shove her insulting words right down her throat. I could imagine her voice harmonizing with the strangers, echoing tasteless and absurd words,

all platitudes and deviousness. Later, she would stake her back into the cottage smelling of booze in a man's musk mixed with her perfume, braying about what a grand old time she'd had without me, giggling over something some Lothario had said or done, or something they had done together. Still, she looked stunning, like a feline, both sensual and untamed, which made me a alien. which made me angrier. Her world played as an erotic movie. Mine was merely a sad documentary.

Facts are facts. Sorry, love. Daphne said, her words smacking with melodrama. She was like a cat in heat, retaining the added scent of a receptive female. The look she gave me was one of disgust and disappointment. I decided she would not pull another disappearing act only to flower in the limelight for some bum at a bar or on the beach. I slapped Daphne's face. Not as sorry as you're about to be. Blood bloomed in the corner of her mouth.

Instead of wiping it away, she ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her temples and tilted her head on the narrow column of her neck like a preening bird. Then she did the worst thing she could have done. She laughed. I gazed at Daphne's gunslinger eyes and the sexy lips that could be hard or melting soft depending on which mood was dominant. I felt as if I was no more than a hovering shadow on the periphery of her life, driving me to an inevitable climax. I fell upon her. Not so much with rage or revenge as in frustration.

with one swift hard downward stroke from a butcher knife retrieved from the kitchen counter. Blood the color of cranberry juice gushed from the chest wound between Daphne's breasts. My other arm supported her back while my tight grip pushed the blade all the way to the knife's hilt. Her eyes were wide with astonishment. The whites showing all the way around her irises. I said my face just inches from her. My voice is cool and sharp as the edges of the steel blade. As you like to say, just go with the flow.

Daphne squirmed and thrashed. We spun around the broom as droplets of blood leaked onto our feet in the floor. Her mouth continued to work opening and closing like a fish gasping for water as blood bubbled up and found its way to her lips. One of her hands pushed against my shoulder like a large white spider. Her expression changed from disbelief to panic. The gleams snuffed like candle flames in a gust of wind. One final intimate moment with me in charge. Finally, the gasping and her resistance ceased.

Her heart fluttered to a stop. I laid her on the floor. A few twitches, and I knew she was gone while my pulse continued to pound. Her staring dead eyes reflected not terror, only accusation. I didn't appreciate the accusation, which was a form of dismissal. I pulled the knife from her chest and stabbed her a few more times, watching the leaking blood saturate her blouse. The aroma of Daphne's perfume faded.

and was replaced by the coppery smell of copious blood that proved as dizzying as scotch on an empty stomach. I couldn't avoid a shiver. My vengeful attack had punished Daphne in the severest way possible. I'd killed the woman with whom I shared the most intimate acts, giving the evening an unexpected climax. It appears you'll be late for your rendezvous, I told her. Too bad you didn't appreciate what you had at home. I closed her eyelids.

I wiped away the blood and drool from the corners of her mouth. She looked as if she could be sleeping. I didn't know if I'd ever loved her more than at that moment of complete surrender. Under my control for once. Daphne dead! The concept snapped me back to the present, and it would take some getting used to. I understood that savagery is close to the surface, just lurking beneath a rock when given the right provocation. One of my dark fantasies had become not just a plot for a fictional anthology, but a fact.

Now I recalled what happened following her sudden demise. Longing had lodged in my heart like a splinter and I'd consider taking advantage of her since she was dolled up for a big night. Instead, I ran to the kitchen sink and vomited up, what looked like a major organ. After cleaning that mess up, I did what seemed logical to keep Daphne close by. Yes, I had done it. My pen records had not mentioned her disappearance. As for the act itself, it wouldn't have been written down because I hadn't planned what happened. Notes are not, that mischievous night rushed back into my consciousness like a tsunami.

me. All this during the short walk from the dying or living room into the bedroom. Had Daphne seen a wildness in my eyes or a grin of supreme control on my face as she breathed her last? Could I have left the house during one of my blackouts and disposed of? Obsession may not be classified as a mental illness, but its disorientation can cause irrationality. I remembered another walk along the beach after our day. dance of death. For a moment I thought I heard Daphne beckoning from the dark deep fathoms, but was merely the sea breezes mockery. The sea was her mistress, she used to say, so it was only appropriate that it should have been part of her. I removed a plastic bay

containing part of her from my jacket, something of Daphne to give the ocean she so loved. I flung her two middle fingers, easier than removing complete limbs like the tail of the armless woman, into the surf. Those two delicate digits, directed at me occasionally, drifted on the waves of an evening tide. I couldn't help but wonder if they would wind up in the belly of a big fish or shredded by tiny bottom feeders that scuttle across the ocean floor. Either way, they would become fish food quickly enough. What had I done with the rest of her? As bad as things might have been, I was determined not to be totally abandoned, alone and empty.

I rushed to a bedroom chest of drawers and opened the top one. I looked under my pile of socks to make sure what I'd seen before the officers arrived was no illusion. The object was still there. I would have to remove it before the police returned with a search. My planner had lied. Each of us live in a small lighted place surrounded by the dark unknown. From that impenetrable darkness of sins best left hidden, I took my new talisman, a little part of what had made Daphne Daphne, and studied it.

Should I toss it in the ocean along with her fingers, or conceal it for periodic use, to help remind me of better memories? Even if my record-keeping won't reflect my decision, it was a burning question I must soon answer. Next, I looked at the bed. Daphne's pillow was fluffed and convex, unslept upon for some time. I closed my eyes and tried to picture her on the sheets during one of her teasing moments. Her arms raised above her head, breasts exposed, one enticing leg out from under the covers, pouty lips and toes wiggling.

Her hair could take on a life of its own, darkening from gold and wheat to a fiery amber when we made love. Her husky laugh sometimes accompanied my frenzied actions. I never knew if it was congratulatory or served to mock me from behind a veil of contradiction. When my eyes opened, the bed was still empty. I walked to it. I bent over and grabbed the edge of the roll-away piece of plywood. I pulled it from underneath the bed, strictly makeshift.

Daphne used to say if there was a complicated way of doing something, I would find it. Its wheels squeaked like a haunted violin. On top lay a comforter. On top of the comforter lay what was left of Daphne. Gone was the sexy vixen. A doppel ganger with sinking eyes had to be able to beck. replaced her. I had straightened her corpse from a cramped rictus that articulated the ineffable of the beyond so she could lie nice and flat, her arms alongside her hips. In life, the only time

she seemed vulnerable was when she was horizontal. She was going rotten around the edges, just like our relationship. Around her current hairline, the tissue revealed rusty green splotches as if mud and seaweed had been part of her oily makeup. She'd always claimed to be part mermaid. Dry blood had turned black. Her formerly grand bosom could no longer rise and fall. Her breasts were becoming deflated pouches. The hot blood from her veins drained away. No more throaty murmurs or grumblings in her sleep or the occasional snore. Nothing left but cold meat in the absolute loss of modesty. Not that she'd ever had much.

Although she was drying out, the only unnatural flaws in the skin stretched over bone with a ragged rips of tissue on her torso and where parts had been removed. I could still appreciate Daphne's femininity. I stroked the hair and looked into sinking sockets where heartbreak emerald eyes used to be. Marriage is all about compromise.

you used to say? As I studied her remains, I hummed a tune Daphne had never liked, but her disapproving ways were over. Can't hide the TV remote from me now, can you? I was no longer a fly caught in her sticky web, wrapped in a cocoon of lost dreams while she sought fresh prey, the bees eager to pollinate her pretty flower. But even so, I'm not so.

miss the visceral pleasures she'd occasionally tossed my way. I thought about kissing what remained of her compromised lips covering the maw of a mouth, but she was becoming more mummy than Daphne. I settled for a peck on her forehead, because sentiment could be a dangerous brew. I only allowed myself small drops at a time, for it led to remembering how it felt to be heartbroken. Love and hate. Amazing how one could become the other. Daphne had only me now. No one else could want her now. In my high school anatomy book there were color plates showing the human body when its skin peeled off. Then its muscles removed, organs gone, stripping away layer after layer until nothing but white bones remained. That wouldn't happen to Daphne if I could prevent it.

Except for two missing fingers and most of her pubis, the rest of her would last for some time under my care. The internet provided information on preservation technique. No oblivion in her future. No coffin or ignominious hole in the ground either. I decided not for one who lived such a life as she. I pushed the panel beneath the bed, in control, at least physically. as I climbed on the bed above her remnants. My mind shifted to other women.

I would still do anything for her, it seemed. But I hoped a new era could begin whether or not Daphne approved. It was only a matter of time before the police sherlocked their way back with a warrant. Everything had gone askew. My planet alignment was all fucked up. Having a planner would be of little use now. had been of a little use since the night of our final dance. Was I sad?

Yes, I was sad. Not about killing her, but about having so little time to be in control. Dear disloyal, Daphne, I had her, lost her, had her again, and eventually others would have her for good this time. from a body bag to an ambulance to the morgue, then the undertaker's labyrinth into a coffin and finally into the ground.

I had pledged to keep her, to treat the flesh until it was only dry, leathery skin stretched over her bones. Losing that opportunity was what I was sad about. I will undoubtedly be remembered as a wretched human being. A man with no demons, just lame excuses for his axe. A sordid tale on the 10 o'clock. news. Insanity might be a term employed for my defense, but from my perspective, self-defense in the face of mental cruelty would be truer. What I did was payback, for a man can only

take so much. The officers led me out of my house. I went along with an air of nonchalant resignation overwhelmed by the constricting hands of inevitability. The sky was a bruising, purple with storm clouds prophesizing and patient rain, reminding me of my spouse's pallor. A squall kicked up and began to spit silver shards. It made me feel like my body was crying along with the heavens. I looked at Daphne's sea for the last time. It was gray on gray. Only the water's movement separated sea from sky.

But before we drove away, the sun broke through and turned. turn the placid bell surface into a glinting reflection like a shiny tin roof. I could almost see Daphne's naked image shimmering amidst the glare like Medusa reaching out from beyond death, having the last laugh, still in control of those unlucky enough to have crossed her path. The inside of the police car smelled like onions. Funny the things you notice when her life suddenly washes out to sea. I caught my reflection in the police car's rearview mirror and saw a haunted man, one who saw how nothing would be the same, except for the haunting to come.

Something in my stomach churned when I realized I would never be free of Daphne. She would forever be with me, calling, teasing, enticing, enticing, for however long my forever It doesn't matter whether you believe in ghosts, if they believe in you. The police eventually found Daphne, left alone to greet the uninvited guests. They also found pictures on a digital camera. Some were when she was alive and posing, but most were post-mortem positions in advancing stages of decay. The officers could only imagine what they might find in the left. top or in my planner.

One couldn't read too much in the facial expression on a corpse, especially one that had been dead for some time. But what an older cop who thought he had seen it all during his years on the foresaw on this corpse's face freaked him out. We had a regular Norman Bates thing going here, he told a younger cop who just shrugged unfamiliar with psycho trivia. Ain't no one. A mortician's going to get this one pretty again.

It's weird what he finally put on her, don't you think? The older cop added. A bikini swimsuit like she was getting ready to hit the beach. Just another crazy asshole of this guy. The officer wondered if he'd spent too much time studying the acts of madmen that some madness was rubbing off. For this corpus delecti wore an expression he interpreted as a small, more than a grimace, as if it had won some sort of victory.

For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents, Smile, written by Cowboy Kenny, and narrated by Daniel Hewitt. I had a slight pit in my stomach. I wasn't nervous exactly, just restless. I had been racking my brain for hours. hours in anticipation for tonight. I was eager for the night to begin. My closest friends had gotten to hold of some acid, you know, like good old LSD. I had heard different testimonies from many types of people. The rave girl said that it made the sky look tie-dye and the base drop sound harder.

The Grateful Dead Groupie said that he could literally feel the love man. Although many people people had said many different things that they experienced. The most popular experience seems to be the limitlessness of the drugs. They say that your trip reflects who you are, truly deep down. Your brain can manifest thoughts and feelings that you never even knew that you had. It was definitely not a drug for the week. This is the part that made me a little anxious. I was sometimes afraid of myself. I had moments where I would act out my anger and couldn't even remember what I did or where I was. My family had abruptly abandoned me as a child, and I had not heard from them since. My long-term girlfriend had just left me high and dry. She was my one true love. I had a grocery list of

traumas that I had been through that have molded me into this person. I had a pretty messed up past, and I was terrified to see what this trip would show me about myself. I guess. I guess. we just have to wait and see. My friends got to my apartment in around 9 o'clock that night. Apparently tripping at night was better. That was fine with me. I enjoyed the dark. We put the paper on our tongues and waited for it to kick in.

After about an hour, we started to feel the tingling in our spines. We couldn't help but smile as the drugs were finally kicking in. In fact, we literally couldn't stop smiling. That was another common trait that other acidators had talked about. out, the inability to keep from constantly smiling. My friends were giddy with their high. I watched them as they laugh and talked with their giant smiles. They were so at peace and relaxed.

I envied their ignorance. They hadn't gone through what I went through. All of them had loving parents, stable childhoods, just the typical white picket fence bullshit. They really didn't get it. I was getting in my own head again. I needed to just enjoy this time with them, even if they were clueless. The acid was hitting like a tidal wave at this point.

I could still feel myself smiling, but it felt force now. My friends still seemed to be jovial and upbeat, so I decided to go look in the mirror to collect my thoughts and check in with myself. I went into the bathroom. As I looked in the mirror, I noticed a change in myself. My smile was too big. It seemed as if my jaws were going to snap from the strain of keeping this constant toothy grin. I didn't feel like myself.

My eyes were wrong, too. They were piercing and dark. I remember my ex telling me that she was scared of me when I got this look in my eyes. I think maybe that look had something to do with why she left. I didn't want to think about that right now. My friends didn't seem to notice anything was off, and I cared more about them having a good truth. trip to my dumb bitch of an ex-girlfriend. I left the bathroom and entered the room that my friends are in.

I guess they had peaked already because they were all laying on the sofa and the floor. I don't know how they were being so still. I was still tripping balls. Someone had put a Pink Floyd record on, and they seemed to be listening to it intently. I guess I'd been in the bathroom for quite a while because I hadn't even noticed anyone turned the music on. I noticed that all my friends still had those two wide smiles like me. I just chalked it up to the music. Everyone knew Pink Floyd was the best band to listen to in your high. When my ex and I would fight, I would put on this album in order to relax.

The music would just make me forget what was going on. I really needed to stop thinking about her. About us. I decided to join my friends, and I laid on the available patch of floor and closed my eyes. I woke up at about five in the morning. I had to be coming down at this point. point. I was surprised that I had even fallen asleep. I had heard that you can't really fall asleep on acid. I laid there for a moment and collected myself. My body was so sore. My mouth was especially sore,

probably from smiling so much. The Pink Floyd record was done, and the needle was scraping the vinyl. I cringed and got up to pick up the needle. My friends were all bustled in blankets. I guess they fell asleep too. My brain felt fuzzy. I headed to the bathroom to see how disheveled I looked. I walked in and turned the lights on. There was blood everywhere. A pair of scissors was laying in the sink. The blades were bright red. The sink had long drips of bright red blood on it. I looked up at myself in the mirror. My face had been sliced open. The corners of my mouth had been cut, producing a smile that went all the way to my ears. I could see all of my back teeth. The lines were too choppy for a knife to have done this. The scissors would have been difficult to cut through my skin, but obviously

whoever did this didn't mind the challenge. I finally looked at the rest of my body. My hands were black and blue from bruises. My arms weren't much better. I thought about my friends. I ran into the living room and uncovered the first person I saw. It was my best friend Clay. His mouth was cut just like mine. His body was worse, though. There were dozens of stab wounds and bruises all over him. Who could have done something like this? My apartment was locked from the inside and my patio was on the third floor. I uncovered each of my friends one at a time. They all looked identical to clay. This all had to be a bad dream. I should still be tripping right now. Was this the notorious bad trip that everyone talks about? I needed to get myself out of this and try to get sober. I ran to the

bathroom and splashed some water on my face. It burned my stretched out smile, but I kept going. I slapped my face and pinched it. Why couldn't I get out of this torturous loop? I stared at myself in the mirror. I needed to lay down. Maybe if I just closed my eyes I could get out of this. I turned away from the mirror. My reflection didn't.

I screamed. She, no, me, stared back at me, bearing her mangled smile. She had those pears. piercing dark eyes like the ones I had last night. She let out a maniacal laugh. Smile! She screamed as I passed out.

I woke up in a straight jacket chained to a hospital bed. The nurse gasped at me, and I could see the fear in her eyes. Where am I? I asked her. Before she could answer, I passed out again. When I woke, cops were lined up next to my bed. They told me that a neighbor had. had heard yelling and thumping coming from my apartment.

He tried knocking, but there was no answer, so he called the police. When they opened the door, they found all of my friends mutilated in a pile on the floor. Every single one of them had that two-wide smile permanently on their face as they'd been cut like I was. They found me, sitting on the bed, holding a pair of scissors, and singing along to the same Pink Floyd album that was playing earlier in the night. when they went through the rest of my apartment they found my ex-girlfriend's body in a bag in the back of my closet she'd been cut into smaller chunks

they say that they think I have a split personality disorder I wasn't having a bad trip this other personality came out and did her damage according to the autopsies I had killed my friends pretty early in the night right before I'd gone into the bathroom. That Pink Floyd album was the soundtrack to my crimes. I subconsciously put it on when this other version of me came out.

Apparently I'd also killed my ex-girlfriend the previous week. I thought that she had just left me. I don't remember doing any of this. She must have done something to set her off. They had also figured out what happened to my parents. I don't know when I did this or where I put their bodies. I don't know who I am anymore.

And I'm scared of what I'll do next. I'm scared of her. 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. No portion of this podcast may be

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