Creepy - There's A Baby Crying & Clarke

Episode Date: November 10, 2022

There's a Baby Crying***Written by: Pancakes-and-Waffles and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***Clarke***Written by: DawnCreekRancher1883 and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Content Warnings: mentions of rape, human trafficking, addictions, child and animal death***Tickets for the "Creepy" live show can be purchased at: https://bit.ly/BloodyFM***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.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.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. Hey everyone. Some might have noticed that last Sunday's episode didn't have any announcements. Some might have been happy about that. And if so, I recommend patreon.com slash creepypod. I was on a trip to my favorite place, New Orleans for a few days, taking a, I'll call it rest, after the 31 days, before heading out to Chicago for our live show. This is just a quick reminder that tomorrow, November 10th, 2022, at Shoe at Shoe at Shoe. Chicago's Music Box Theater.

We'll be performing one night left to live, a live performance by SCP Archives, scare you to sleep, and creepy. Tickets are still available at BIT.L.L.Y. slash Bloody FM if you're in the area. We'll get back to our regular routine this weekend. Until then, 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 violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents. There's a baby crying. Written by pancakes and waffles and narrated by Megas

McDuffy. It had been 27 years since I had a baby in the house, but I still hopped out of bed, like I was a brand new mother when I heard the familiar crying. I was out my bedroom door and down the hallway when my brain caught up with my feet, and I remembered there were no babies here, and I lived alone. Chills ran down my spine as the sound continued. Hello? I called out, no response other than sobbing. My skin felt clammy and my legs were shaking as I made my way downstairs. I walked around the house, making sure the TV was off. No radio had been left on, and that the sound wasn't coming from my phone.

Nothing. And then, the crying stopped, and I was left in stillness. The quiet did nothing to calm my nerves. It was 2.37 in the morning, but I found I couldn't fall back asleep. I lay in bed for what felt like an eternity before giving up and making coffee. Nothing else happened for a week. I was beginning to wonder if it had been a dream. But then, on the eighth night, it happened again.

The baby sounded so desperate, and the sobbing near broke my heart, even as panic clutched at my heart. This time I opened my front door and my search, but the sounds weren't coming from outside. As I shut the door, the crying stopped. It was another night of sleeplessness for me, so I pulled out my phone and tried to find out what might make those sounds. I knew I didn't have a little.

baby, and there wasn't one in this house, even if it was hard to separate that logic in the moments when I heard the crying. Did you know bobcats can sound just like a crying baby? I didn't either. I also didn't think it was a bobcat that had made its way into my suburban home. On the other hand, I learned criminals will also use babies to lure their victims. I felt a bit stupid for opening the front door and stepping outside now, and in the middle of the night in my nightgown.

Carol across the street had a doorbell camera that recorded any movement. She was always bragging about it. I'm pretty sure she'd have a sight to see when she checked it in the morning. Regardless, neither of those things made a whole lot of sense, since the sound would have been coming from outside my house. And this was definitely something inside. I called my son when the hour was a bit more reasonable and talked it over with him. I tried to focus on the crying and not the way it made me feel.

Haunted. Like a worried mom. in one second and like I was prey in the next, helpless all the while. I know he probably was chalking it up to something all in my head, but he was nice enough to keep that to himself. He said it was possible that something in my house was picking up the sounds from a baby monitor. That confused me, but he seemed pretty certain it could actually happen. I was relieved for any type of explanation.

He offered to come by and check the house, but also suggested turning off the Wi-Fi when I go to bed or when the crying started to see if it made a difference. Well, when he stopped by, he couldn't find anything that looked like it was picking anything up, but we had a nice lunch anyway, and I told him I would try the Wi-Fi suggestion. It was another two weeks before I needed to test it out. Unfortunately, when I popped out of bed and turned off the wireless internet, nothing changed. The sobbing intensified, if anything, I searched my house and couldn't find the source of the sound. I know I had told my son I would call him when I heard the sound again, but I didn't want to bother him with my problem.

As much as it disturbed me, it only happened occasionally, and wasn't really hurting me, just a little loss of sleep. I'd probably think I was just more lonely than normal and trying to get him to spend more time with me. The crying increased. Every night I awoke to the sound of sobbing, desperate sobbing. The baby sounded so hungry. I wanted to comfort it. I wanted to keep it from touching me. I wanted it to stop. My motherly instincts were at war with the rest of me, though, because that sound gave me chills. I knew there was no baby. There was no baby. No baby. But there was sobbing and crying and dread in my heart every single

night. I looked everywhere, places that didn't make any sort of sense, in cabinets, and drawers, behind and underneath furniture. I checked through all of the boxes in my attic and basement. Sometimes the sound seemed to be louder in one area. On those nights, I thought for sure I would finally find my answer. I didn't. Some nights I just stayed in my bed and cried to myself. I'd squeezed the pillow over my ears, but the sound still bounced around in my skull. I started napping in the afternoon and stopped going out. I theorized that someone might be coming in and planting something that was causing the sounds, one of my neighbors playing a mean little trick on an old lady,

probably the little boy that always cut my grass. I peeked out my window and watched him walking down the sidewalk. They waved at me. I scowled. I'll be honest, I lost track of how much time had passed and how long we had been in this horrible pattern before my son came to visit. I had completely forgotten to call him. I was sleeping on the couch when he came in.

Apparently he had been knocking for a while, but I was just so tired I completely slept through it. I sat on the couch and looked around the living room. He was staring at it with something that looked a bit like horror, and I realized how bad it must look. The rooms were all completely torn apart, and the furniture had mostly been moved to the middle of the rooms. Picture frames thrown on the floor, shards of glass and dried blood next to them. Had I done that last night? Or had it been longer? I didn't remember feeling any pain as I had stormed around the house, but a glance at my feet confirmed I had definitely stepped in the glass.

Mom, are you okay? It's just that I can't find the baby. He's here somewhere and I can't find him. He cries so hard at night and I can't help. They needed him to understand, but the look on his face told me he didn't. I think we should go see the doctor. You don't understand. It's real.

There's a baby here crying every single. night. Mom, stay tonight. Stay a few nights. If I hear it and you don't, then we'll both know that it's something I need to get help with. But if you do hear it, you have to help me. Or at least no, it's not something I'm making up, sweetie. My son agreed. Jason had always been my helper. While my others had moved to other parts of the country and didn't always remember to call me, Jason usually called once a week or so, and we had a monthly dinner together. He was here when I needed my gutters cleaned or always helped to put my decorations up. Normally, he would have helped me move the furniture, too, reminded me that it was too heavy for me to try to move on my own, and that I would

hurt myself. Or something big like that, he might even bring his friends with him, and then I would have a full house again. Their childhood hadn't been all sunshine and roses, especially after their father had disappeared on us, but I missed it so much. I missed having the house full of noise, and I missed cooking for a huge group of hungry people and sharing a meal and hearing about everyone's lives. Kathy called fairly regularly, too, even though I knew she was busy with her own family now. She would sometimes video call me while she ate lunch, and we would eat together then. That night was silent. It was the first night in so long that I had not been awoken by the sounds of crying that I woke

myself up around 4 a.m. The quiet felt wrong. I almost got up to look anyway, but like any exhausted mother, I went back to sleep. Hadn't I always been told to sleep when the baby sleeps? The next night was the same. Well, it was nice to have Jason there in his old bedroom. I knew he was doubting me even more than he had initially. Did you hear anything last night, Mom?

No, it was perfectly quiet. In the evenings, he had started to help me put the house back together, and I would cook him one of his favorite dinners. I wondered briefly if I had been hearing the crying because I was lonely. Maybe I should get a dog to help fill the emptiness in the house. On the fourth night, we met in the hallway with the sound of crying surrounding us. You don't have to tell me. I should have trusted you. His face was pale as a ghost. Goose bumps coated his arms.

He searched the same way I had. He turned off the Wi-Fi, searched outside, moved furniture. Over coffee, and after the crying had finally stopped, he suggested I move. Mom, we know it's not really a baby Or it's a baby and it's not really in this house I can see it at the point but refused to move There was something in this house that needed me I wanted to be needed more than I was scared of what it needed from me And I had weathered harder storms than this one

Without losing my home I wasn't leaving just because of whatever this was As I write this I want you to know that I still feel that way I can't run from my home just because things get hard. The crying continued every night, as if it had just waited to introduce itself to Jason, and now it was back on its previous schedule. Mom, I don't want to scare you, so I'm warning you now. I'm checking the walls.

For the baby? For a baby monitor, or speaker maybe. We talked about this. There's no way it's an actual baby. So, should we start moving stuff to the center of the rooms? That's the other thing. Kathy, Mary, and Brian are all going to be here tomorrow night, and they're going to help you move. I know you don't want to, but at least temporarily. You can stay in my guest room. We'll put your stuff in storage for the moment, so I want you to pack a few boxes with the things you want to bring to my house, and we'll pack up the rest of your stuff for storage. I told you, I don't want to move, Jason. And I told you, I'm going to start tearing down your walls, Mom. It's going to be a construction zone here.

and it won't be safe for you to live in. Will you help me move back once you've torn it all apart and we get it rebuilt? Absolutely. Although, who knows, maybe you'll like living with me. You could make the move, Garmine it, if you wanted. Honestly, that sounded so nice to have one of my children under the same roof as me again. And as annoyed as I was that he went over my head and told his siblings, it warmed my heart that they were all taking the time to come help me.

We'll see, I said. through a smile. Now I'm going to go to my house for the night so I can be ready to start the hard work tomorrow. Want to come with me? No, I want one more night here before we get started. I'll see you in the morning. I ran my hand down one of the walls as he left. I left my home. I loved the way it looked and the way it made me feel. It had always made me feel safe to be here. The crying had changed that. I felt anxious every night, knowing that somewhere in my house was a cry for help and I I could do nothing. Maybe Jason was right about something being hidden in the walls.

We'd check the entrance to the vents before, but if it had been all sealed up, we'd have been none the wiser. Soon we would know. I started to pack up the things I needed in my room and went down to the basement to grab more boxes. The crying started, louder, this time that it had been before. In the far corner, I saw a door. Now I have left in this house.

for 35 years. I know every square foot of this house by heart so well I could navigate it in the dark. That door was new, new to me at least, because the thing itself looked old. The frame was wooden and reminded me of the logs after a bonfire had been put out. I walked towards it and placed my ear to the door. The sounds of crying were coming from behind it. I've been sitting on the basement stairs, typing this story very slowly on my phone. I know if I tell Jason or any of my other children, they would stop me.

I don't want them to think I've disappeared on them like their father did. I know that was incredibly traumatic in their formative years, but there is a baby behind that door, and it needs me. The crying and sobbing has been getting more intense, and I have tears running down my face, just thinking about it. I'm going to open that door and I'll go in, but I don't think I'll be coming back out when I do. My children, I'll miss you.

I think you have a new little sibling who needs me more now. Maybe someday we'll come back so you can meet. Creepy Presents Clark Written by Don Creek Rancher 1883 And narrated by Rissomontanaz Clark had never given much mind to the consequences of man. Her mother said that it was due to her having been born

during the Dust Bowl years. The devastating drought, dust storms and erosions, all had welcomed her into the world, corrupting any early childhood memories that she imagined other children had. Her father, though, said that it was due to her own mother's sins, that the heavy alcoholic drinking, amphetamines, and hoaring, had sunk so deep that it corrupted her before she came crawling out of the womb. Clark didn't have much of a belief in it herself, though. Consequences were usually the best part, the messy part, which made for a rather interesting thesis, especially when, by whatever account it may derive from, Clark, in the end,

was unholy. And the most unholy, aside from dictators and rapists and pedophiles, were murderers. The Dust Bowl had swept through during her birth, and by the time she was stuble, and by the time she was 10, although it had left, the Great Depression hadn't. Poverty ate away at the people as if it was a virus, and the people themselves were a part of the contagion. Her family, sick like all the others, starved, just the same. Food was always hard to come by, no matter where she looked, and although she could tell just by looking at them, and the only way that a child can, Clark knew that the rest of her family was affected by it, more than she was. Her mother would lean over the sink at night and sob until her shoulders shook with the force of an earthquake. The faded floral dress that Clark

loved so much hung across her body until the bones in her spine press against it, the fabric sinking against her flesh like a sheet over a corpse. She never would make a sound on these nights, and Clark always found her mother pressing a thin lip smile by the next morning. her bloody nails would dig into the washcloth just as she set down what would be their breakfast onto the table it was as if the heavy weight of wondering how the bills would leave so little food left on the table didn't haunt her then there was her father and brother

they were the same from their looks right down to how they saw the world they never bothered to hide how hungry they were Starvation and gluttony carved their hearts And also Hallowed their cheeks They'd give Clark the same look too As if they were trying to keep something from her Some deep family secret only spoken between the three of them

As if Clark was unworthy And that same cycle would repeat From the time she was ten Until the day she finally awakens to an empty home Her family, gone and any semblance of who she had been before that time was nowhere to be found. If you take a look at any history book recalling the Great Depression,

you will no doubtedly find at least one line mentioning the unholy horrors, fathers killing themselves as their family suffered, mothers selling their children, women selling themselves. Clark actually witnessed it firsthand from the back of her father's pickup truck when they would stop to buy one. They'll help tend to the crops.

Mother always reassured her, just as father took them to the shed. Do not mind them. Her brother would follow up with this once their mother walked back inside. Many don't make it, just like the livestock. We can't afford such things in this life. Not even people.

Clark always agreed in the same way that a child, growing up in an environment such as her own, always agrees, just to avoid conflict. She didn't protest during the days to follow either. If it brings any comfort, Clark would try to recall her childhood in a manner that was recommended by a war veteran, someone that she met in a run-down diner just along the Mississippi. She'd take out her well-worn journal and write down a year, narrow it down to the seasons, then try to piece things together from what she already knew.

In the autumn, in a year that she cannot recall, she went stumbling into the dark one night. A coyote had been hit by a car with its spine twisted beyond belief. Its body was already frozen in time and layered in crop dust from where her brother dragged it from the road. Fascinated, she had gone to it as the stars dusted the sky overhead. Poked and prodded at its corpse with her fingers until she remembered her hands sinking into its skin and flesh. She hadn't killed it, but it was the beginning of a sequence within her mind. Something inside of her. Snap.

In the winter, the days were shortened, and the nights were ungodly long and a manner that had her mother praying before their fireplace. Father would give sermons since they couldn't travel to church. Her brother took her out to the shed. A sickness killed off all of their chickens in one day. Then they celebrated Christmas and the barest of ways, in the same way they always had, a tree in the corner,

handmade or traded gifts. Father would drink to avoid looking at any of them while all their mother did was look. Her brother took her out to the shed. The following weeks were spent in brittle isolation within her own room. She wanted to say that this all happened due to an illness, but she could not recall ever being sick.

In the summer of 1954, Clark had found herself in the heart of Blues Country, walking along the fields of northern Alabama and southern Tennessee. She carried a suitcase that was mostly filled with knick-knacks and souvenirs. Her beloved worn journal sat tucked beneath her arm. Field workers would pause to watch her go by, and med would stop in their cars to offer her a ride. A welcoming trend, she found, one that typically came, when she dressed well and played the part. Not that she always accepted. Do not mistake her for a hitchhiker.

Clark just loves seeing the world, walking the land, grazing upon the people that fell within her arms. She treated herself as a character upon its grand stage, a pretty young brunette girl with a pretty floral dress and heels, and a hat that covered her face well enough to lure them all in. walking through dirt roads and fields, hollows and city streets, her face masked by sunglasses and makeup that she imagined her mother would have worn, had they been wealthy. The men who would

stop, old and young with all manners of life, usually would ask the same questions. Why is a pretty woman such as yourself walking here? What are you doing in the middle of nowhere? Was you like a ride, ma'am? I'll take you anywhere. And Clark, sweet, innocent Clark, would peer at them from beneath her own shade to tell them that she was fine, that she knew where she was going, and that she was where she needed to be, and, because she hated the term of being called a hitchhiker, she would only accept if it meant she could deal with the problem at its source. Get them to accept following her towards an old rundown mill or restaurant, get them to dance with her to Arthur Big Boy Kredup

or to whatever Beale Street singer she could hum a tune to. Because at its source, men were just as unholy as she was with impure intentions. Because at its source, Clark figures that if one of them was truly evil, then getting rid of them before they can do harm upon an innocent girl is certainly the least that she can do.

In the spring, the last spring, that she spent with her family. She recalls that death had been more prevalent than in the previous years, unless she is remembering it wrong, which she was told by that war veteran was equally likely. Their mule died out in the fields. She would catch mother picking up crow after crow that had fallen from the sky all around their house. The dog down the road that she liked to think that she actually liked was put down due to old age. The path between the house in the shed was filled with a river of dead serpents that her father would pile up and burn until his alcohol bottle was empty. The mouse that squired within their cabinets had finally died

from a trap that was placed out ages ago. An owl would be seen every Thursday with its face bashed into the glass of her brother's window. Death after death, it seemed, surrounded their family farm as if the land itself had decided that it wasn't worthy to harbor life any longer. And in truth, Clark cannot recall a previous spring before she turned ten, so perhaps she was exaggerating a bit. The shack, though, would remain empty, and Clark couldn't figure out why or when, but the fear lingering within her family's eyes was better with the shack empty than it had been when it wasn't. And in the summer, three months before she would awaken to an empty home, Clark would recall a pivotal day when the sun was at its peak,

with her mother sobbing over a grave that her father and brother refused to look at, one that she could not visit, as if it had been her own. Clark walks and roams and dances, luring and drinking, until eventually the years become decades, and the decades become years once again. Her thesis on the reality of things shifts ever so slightly, Though she doesn't change in her belief of consequences and unholy things, not even when she has filled every piece of her journal with the same entries

that she always has, and the old diners on the road sides of fields, have been replaced by industrialization. She is fond of the barest of gifts of humanity, though, amusement parks and circuses that she could not have experienced as a child, the sweet scent of cotton candy and animals and the taste of popcorn. the continuing evolution of music and entertainment and automobiles, man touching the moon, man trying to find God through the continuity of war, the pet snake she found in a pet shop,

the way the clouds appeared in April of 1973. She tries to record it all, but eventually settles on the knowledge that eventually she'll have to look back. That old veteran from the diner all those years ago had recommended traveling back for closure. It had just been the last thing that she had wanted to do at the time. In 1989, inside the record office of Morton County, Kansas, Clark found herself with a pile of history sitting right before her.

The lady at the front desk had assumed she was some upbeat college student from the east, or a journalist looking to make a quick buck, quickly waving her towards certain sections and pulling out others from some. storage when Clark informed her that it was more or less for a family history project rather than to fill in missing gaps of memory. All of her journal entries were the same, after all. What remained of her memories, from before, were all the same. I apologize for the wait. I have never had to dig these out aside from what a few authors come stumbling through here for. The lady at the front desk gives her a half-witted smile as she carefully sets files down.

Her name tag, reading in fine letters that Clark had not noticed before, said, Evelyn. That's all right. I haven't been here in a long time. Please, see it. Clark offers, but secretly demands. Offering Evelyn an apple that Clark never truly intended on eating anyway. Evelyn gave Clark a hesitant smile,

as if she was thrown off guard or having to overcome her own hesitations before accepting the offer. Evelyn took a seat and then took the apple, finding it as refreshing as the water in dirt roads and old blue streets. Thank you, Evelyn says, crossing her hands together as she rakes her brown eyes across the documents and county records. You said this was for a family history project? Do you mind me asking how you are related to them? Distant relatives. I finally completed a therapy exercise that I had to be. have been doing for quite some time. I figured that it would be in my best interest to just come back to the source. Find out what I can. Evelyn nodded along as if she had nearly forgotten something. You mentioned you had come from Boston, of course. Well, I can tell you what the rest of everyone in town

knows if that's any help. That family might as well be a part of our folklore. American folklore is an odd thing. Well, we haven't been a country for two. long? When people were forced here and immigrated here, it's only really logical that we would get what they brought over to and make it into our own. Evelyn let out a huff of air then, her shoulders sinking as if she had caught herself in a horrendous sack that Clark had seen one too many times. Sorry, I ramble a lot. Most who come here don't ask me for help. Oh, certainly, of course. Clark lets herself smile before she can help it. Tell me what you want to know. I don't mind the talk.

Evelyn clears her throat, peering towards the aisle of books and folders as if someone would walk past and catch them, as if the words upon her tongue were taboo. The family is one of many, really. Our area was hit hard during the dust bowl, and the Great Depression affected everyone. What made it stand out

was that during the late 50s, the property had been dug up with the intention of placing a building there. Land contractors didn't even dig deep, before they found the graves. Family graves! Women and children. There isn't much.

Most of it's just speculation, but county record showed that the last owner and his son had been arrested for assault and... They didn't do much about rape back then, especially when one could say that they paid the woman for the service during a time when everyone needed money like air.

It's said to be believed that the father and son had been taking them in, sexually assaulting them, raping them, and then leaving them to die. There was a record of the daughter, too. Only the entire family disappeared around 1949. We just have this statement here from a neighbor that caused the death records to be recollected by the county court system. Evelyn slid the paper over to Clark, and Clark allowed her gaze to settle on it, eyeing the old-fated newspaper.

Lily Clark, daughter of the Clark family, was found with a grave marker indicating that she had died, but no remains were found within the coffin. Clark read, tasting pennies and rotten apples within her mouth, just as easily as she could recall, the sand against her feet. Words had been marked across her birth certificate, found hidden behind the sink, resulting in town speculation of what could have become of the little girl, although most simply believed that her remains, were placed with the same. the others. And sitting beneath that statement, copied from a photo of the original document, was a series of titles, unholy and true. Consequences of men just as she was,

because when it came down to it, Clark knew in whatever heart she had that all of it was true. 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-Lite licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production.

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