Creepy - The Visiting Chairs & My Husband Kept A Notebook That Told The Future And Killed The Past

Episode Date: April 21, 2022

The Visiting Chairs***Written by: Themascura and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***Content Warning: Death of loved ones***My Husband Kept A Notebook That Told The Future And Killed The Past***Written by: N.M. Brown and Narrated by; Rissa Montanez***Content warnings: child death, child abuse***Find our reward tiers and how to get your bonus magnet at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Title music by Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

This 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 Visiting Chairs Written by Themyscura

and narrated by Michelle Kane. I was five when I went to live with my Aunt Kegan. She'd always been my favorite aunt and she was the only one who was really in a position to take in a recently orphaned kindergartner. But that didn't stop the whispering around the funeral. The rest of our family was worried about how we'd get on together, just the two of us and them. I already knew about them. My dad had brought me around to see Aunt Kagan all the time before the accident.

But they had a new, jarring presence for me once I'd moved in. The visiting chairs. We put my bags down next to the one in the front hallway, the one beside the door. I looked at it, with its unique frame and fragile seat and the empty candle holder built into the right armrest. My aunt must have known where my five-year-old mind was going, but she got down on her knees and looked me in the eye and told me. It's not them, baby. Never, ever call them. It won't be them. Never move, that coin. For years, I did exactly. what Aunt Kagan said. I was a good kid. She was a loving aunt. We were two eccentric peas in a pod. I can't say I ever recovered from the loss of my parents, but we found a new normal and my grief

became less potent over time. For a time. My teenage years came in a rush, as they tend to, and all of a sudden those feelings they came back and forced. All around me, I heard kids complaining about their parents, how uncool they were, how many rules they had, having to spend time with them. And almost every time, eyes would turn towards me afterwards, and a hush would fall over the room when they remembered. My parents were dead.

Little orphan girl I heard them whispering sometimes And with every whisper I noticed the visiting chairs a little more I looked at them a little longer Aunt Kegan was always there Watching me as intently as I watched those chairs I think she knew it would cross my mind eventually

And someday it wouldn't matter how much she had warned me someday I'd want to know for myself. You know what to do if there's ever an accident and the coin comes off the chair. She asked me for the 50th time that Saturday, not waiting for me to answer, blow out the candle and say it's time to go home. Then get the brick dust from the hall closet and draw a circle around the chair. I know, Aunt Kegan. I'm going to be fine. Nothing is going to happen with the chairs.

Linda and I are just going to watch a couple movies and order a pizza, okay? I cut her off with a forced smile that I'm sure she saw through. She, hmm, suspiciously under her breath and nodded. Right, Linda's a good kid. She's got a solid head on her shoulders. Just be careful. Remlin. Accidents happen. Sweet, that she was still willing to call it an accident. She had such faith in me, such undeserved faith. I walked her to the car and waved until she'd backed out of the

driveway, and then went right back inside and called Linda. She's gone. I said without ceremony the second she picked up. Sweet, I'll be right over. Linda chirped back. She always sounded so chipper and sweet, and yet she was probably the most macabre girl I knew. She found the fact that I was an orphan fascinating, mostly because she found all things death-related interesting. Not for any particular reason, either. As far as I know, there was no trauma or family history or anything behind that weird fascination with the dead. That was just Linda. She was kind of weird, but she was also the only friend I had at the time, and she was more than willing to help me out.

She arrived 15 minutes later, leaving her bike propped against the side porch as I let her in. Whoa! Is that it? She gasped as soon as she was in the door. I nodded grimly, frowning at the chair. Part of me wasn't sure if I wanted to go through with it. I was scared. And with good reason, Aunt Kagan wasn't what you'd call the superstitious type, quite the opposite, in fact. But she was so cautious about these chairs.

She treated them like other people treated spiders and snakes. Not that she was afraid of those, either. It was pretty much just the chairs. But even that wasn't enough to stop me. We don't have to wait until nightfall, but that's when we're more likely to get results. I told her, putting my hands in my pockets and closing the door with the toe of my sneaker. So cool, she whispered back. Yeah, I agreed, even though I wasn't so sure about that.

We agreed to wait until sundown. We had all night, after all. Aunt Kagan was supposed to be back sometime the next day. pizza got ordered, movies got watched, we did everything I said we would. But in honesty, those things were just what we did to kill time. Sorry, poor choice of words. The sun wasn't fully set when we gave up the ghost. Sorry, sorry, when we moved the chair beside the door into the living room,

where there was the least amount of light. There was already a chair in there, so it was less work than trying to move one of the ones upstairs. They were big, heavy, solid pieces of furniture, and it took both of us to carry it, one carrying the legs and one the back. I was breathing hard by the time we got it into position next to the other one. Not shockingly, the coin was still in place. There was a little plastic pocket sewn into the cushion to keep it there. Someone would have to deliberately take the coin out, which always confused me a little because Aunt Kegan talked like one could get knocked free somehow.

Anyway, it didn't matter. I got the brick dust out of the hall closet and carried it in while Linda went around turning off all the lights. We met back up the chairs and exchanged a look. Okay, so do we have to do anything special other than to? taking out the coin? Linda asked. I shook my head solemnly. And Kegan never said. I don't think she'd tell me anyway. She says these aren't meant to be used anymore and that they never should have been made to begin with. I frowned hard, putting my hand on the arm of the chair and hesitating. What's so special about them then? Why not any other chair with a candle holder? Linda just wouldn't let it be.

I could tell she was looking for some kind of occult mystery. Unfortunately for me, I actually knew it. I saw some like it in a book once. Apparently, in the early 1900s, there was this big occult movement. Seances and stuff were all the rage. Everyone wanted to talk to ghosts, I guess. Some rich people had chairs like these made out of coffins they had dug up. I took a breath and bent down, looking the coin in the eye, so to speak.

I don't know if it's the same for these, or why my family even has all of them. Why so many? I'd always wanted to ask, but suspected Aunt Kegan wouldn't tell me that either. There was a lot about our family history she wouldn't share. She said I wasn't old enough then, and I suspect she really doesn't trust me now. That's fair. I wouldn't trust me either after what we did. Cool. Linda murmured again. I began to question our friendship. All right then, let's do this. I placed a photo of my parents on each chair and nodded at her. We pulled the coins at the same time. At first, nothing happened. I sat back on my heels,

struggling with a mixed feeling of disappointments and relief. And then something sighed right on my head. I felt it rush across my scalp, cold and damp. My heart almost stopped. I heard Linda whimper. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something thin and viscous run down onto her forehead. I looked up.

It was my father. but not as I remembered him. He was wearing the most beautiful smile, right beneath his empty ice sockets, rimmed by something wet and shiny. High, angel, he slurred, but his voice was right and warm and welcoming, even as the worms dropped out of his mouth. Are you ready to come home?

Oh, Linda, it's so nice to meet you. We've heard so much about you, my mother murmured. I could hear her to my left, but I didn't dare take my eyes off the thing, pretending to be my father before me. Every time I blinked, he leaned a little closer. I knew the brick powder was just to my right. I slid my hand across the floor looking for it.

But my hand encountered something else. A moldy brown shoe with four skeletal toes poking out. My eyes jerked involuntarily to the side just for a moment. But that was all it took. He grabbed me by the shoulders and dragged me toward his collapsed chest. All the breath rushed out of my body. I tried to scream, but all that came out was a wheeze. Linda, more than made up for me,

Her screaming suddenly filled the house And my ears and the putrid lungs of the thing hugging me I could feel it breathing against my shoulder And sighed as I began to flail desperately Something metallic cracked against the back of my hand It hurt so bad But something about it gave me some extra strength to fight And at just that moment its grip faltered

I spilled free onto the floor, yelling with all my strength. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye! And I kept screaming as I army crawled toward the bag. It wasn't working. Nothing was happening. Why? It's time to go home. It's time to go home.

Aunt Kagan's voice had a ring of steel to it. Conviction my ghoul must have felt. It dropped bonelessly. back in its chair. I flipped around and realized the candlestick had been broken in half. The candle was out. And Linda had stopped screaming. It's time to go home. Aunt Kegan repeated, crossing the dining room in swift, deliberate strides. When she reached me, she gathered a fistful of the back of the back of the thing, up to my feet. I saw Linda's limp, limp, legs sprawled across the floor and looked away. My mind couldn't handle the implications.

I just, I just stood there sobbing as my aunt grabbed the bag of brick dust from the floor and filled her fist with it, walking in one smooth circle around both chairs, and gathered more fistfuls of dust as needed, until she was done. She blew out the other candle. The light faded is slowly instead of all at once, and with it the twisted horrors in the chairs. And then it was just the two of us, alone in the darkness. Just the two. Creepy Presents. My husband kept a notebook that told the future and killed the past.

Written by N.M. Brown and narrated by Rissa Montanez. of you that know, really know, and those of you that don't, can't imagine. The mind seems to manipulate time under moments of heavy stress or devastation. I had gotten a series of calls from my husband, Brian. All unfortunately, ignored, due to a well-deserved afternoon nap. It wasn't abnormal for him to call me on the way home with little excuses to hear my voice. He'd ask me if I wanted him to pick up something specific for lunch Or tell me about something funny

Our daughter Kara had done while on their outing I called him back after a moment or so Figuring that this time would be no different Unfortunately for us, it was The first thing I noticed was the irregularity of the volume of his voice He seemed trapped between shouting hysterically and trying to whisper as if attempting consideration for other people. I'll remember the conversation until the blissful day that I die.

He had taken Kara out to a seldom visited community pool, 20 miles or so from the house, to celebrate the arrival of warmer weather. It was far away enough to give me a little break, to rest, or to catch up on chores, and let our little girl feel like her daddy had to take. taken her on a grand adventure upon returning. She wasn't as strong a swimmer as our first two kids. So he liked the privacy of the location as well. He'd be able to teach her to swim without worrying about drunks passed out on floats, with tiny matching inflatable cup holders to keep their drinks close and cool. There'd be no older children bobbing and splashing around to get in her

way as he taught her to safely tread water. You get what I mean. Well, as it happens, there were other people there that day. I'm not sure on the specifics. But in the end, I decided it didn't matter. Fowl play hadn't even been something that entered my mind. My husband had either gotten distracted for a little too long, or had a little too much confidence in our child. Whatever the reason.

I know playing the blame game is talking. at this point. The bottom line is Kara was underwater as long as she was because Bryant wasn't as attentive as he should have been. First, he said she fell, then she was already in the water. He said he was too upset to remember exactly. Our daughter didn't cry as the top of her head broke clear of the water's chlorinated surface. She didn't rub her eyes, or clutch her father's shoulders in terrified relief. Her body held no response at all. He'd been able to perform CPR successfully,

and before long she was gasping through tears as the color returned to normal on her little face. He said he'd never been so scared in his life and hugged her tightly in a bundle of towels all the way back to the car. If only the call ended there. The scare prompted him to drive out of the way to get her ice cream before heading.

home. It's something I think most of us would have done, given the situation. He wanted it to be a surprise, and admitted that he was too wrapped up in his own mental guilt to carry on much conversation with her on the way there. He was almost relieved to see her peacefully sleeping with a makeshift towel headrest in her big girl car seat. Until she wouldn't wake up. I have no idea how close they were to the hospital or why he didn't scream for help right there or rush her inside to call an ambulance. But he didn't. He got back in the car and sped to the ER himself. That's where he was when I had called him back. I can't explain the myriad of feelings that took hold of me on the drive there. Like I stated earlier, those of you that know, really know, and those of you that don't, can't

imagine. The essence of time seemed non-existent. The last time I saw my daughter, she was still alive. And depending on how quickly or slowly I walk through those hospital doors, that fact held all the difference. I stopped for what could have been a split second or several moments frozen in place in front of the doors, savoring the insanity of the thought that maybe if I didn't step inside, nothing would have to change. Brian's back was turned to me. I could see him clearly through the layers of clear glass. He was speaking to a doctor,

and the mask covering the lower half of his face hid all inflection of conversation. The moment the doctor met my eyes, it was like a force shoved me through the front doors. Before I knew it, I was face to face with the doctor that told me my daughter had died. But that's not why I'm telling this story.

I'm telling this story because today I found a notebook hidden deeply within Kara's things. It wasn't a composition notebook. It was the kind with the spiraled side. Brian's American History Notebook was written across the front cover in bold black letters. My husband had dropped out in 10th grade. and had done so over a decade ago, in another state at that.

My mind couldn't grasp why the hell he would ever need an American history notebook. He wasn't an avid fan of the past, or current events, in America, or anywhere else in the world, really. He said all the news he was interested in took place within our four walls. Even more bizarre. was that the few pages that were filled contained events that had happened in our family since the birth of our first child. Over 11 years ago, a thick crease held crude family drawings, all with one member cut or crossed out completely.

They all created a makeshift family of four. Carr's life insurance paperwork lay nestled in the back quarter of the book, pressed so thin that I barely saw it as I flipped between the paper. pages. The last scribbled page contained dates that hadn't happened yet. In years, far ahead in the future. There were home repairs to things that hadn't broken yet that could have been attributed to preparation for future maintenance. But there were also car accidents and broken bones. Things that couldn't possibly be anticipated. The back of the ink-beaten page revealed a scribbled family tree. Revelled a scribbled family Obviously in my husband's handwriting, something about it bothered me enough to flip back through the rest of the book.

A terrifying in inconsistency nagged at me like a freshly tongue sore, and that's when I noticed. In all of the drawings, plans, incidents, as well as our family tree instead of three children. Brian only ever acknowledged having two. 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 Share-A-Life licensing, or we'll written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast

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