Creepy - They Call Me Spacegirl and I Have A Gift

Episode Date: May 10, 2021

Spacegirl has something else to say...***Written by HeadOfSpectre***Content warning: attempted sexual abuse***Bonus episode: "My Mother Like To Sleep Around" written by HeadOfSpectre and narrated by Joe Stofko***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Produced by Steve Blizin***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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Now, this is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastas 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 They call me Space Girl and I have a gift written by head of Spectre, narrated. by Danielle Hewitt and Nate Dufort and produced by Steve Blissen. I need you to understand that I never wanted anybody to get hurt.

I don't know what's wrong with me, but I can't stop myself from doing it. My mom once told me that what I can do is a gift, but some days I'm not so sure. What exactly do you call it? when everything you draw or paint comes to life. My name is Megan Daniels, but people have been calling me Space Girl for years, and I've had my ability for as long as I can remember. I never really questioned it when I was a child.

On the contrary, I remember that I couldn't have been happier. I was by myself so often that it was nice to be able to literally make my own friends. My mom was never a bad parent, but she had a career to focus on as well. I know she made some sacrifices while juggling motherhood and her practice as a psychiatrist. She'd set up a home office when I was still fairly young

and spent a lot of her time there with her patients. While she was working, I usually just played in my room. My dad, on the other hand, was a bit of a different story. He wasn't home very often. So I didn't see much of him. I barely even remember what he looked like. And if it weren't for the few photographs my mom kept,

I would have forgotten everything, except his intense blue eyes. And the smell of alcohol that often clung like a cloud around him. I could smell it on his breath, every time he was close to me. And even now, years later, I can't help but think of him every time I catch a whiff of alcohol.

He worked a nine-to-five office job, but he usually wasn't home until long after I'd gone to bed. When I was young, I never understood why. My mom never talked about it in front of me, but I knew from the arguments that sometimes kept me awake. She was mad at him for it, since Dad was never around, and Mom was always busy. I was often left my own devices more often than not, and that was just fine by me. As I said before, I made my own friends.

Some of my earliest memories involve watching the sea creatures I'd drawn, float off the paper and swim around my bedroom. Crude fish and an octopus with only four tentacles swam around. dancing out of my grip as I chase them around the room, laughing all the while. I remember a portrait of my family, consisting of three stick figures, moving around on the page, all together and smiling, in a way that my own family never did. I remember them standing around my room, content to play with me, since I had no one else. Whatever I wanted?

I could create with nothing more than some crayons and paper. My work was crude back then. I was just a child, after all. The quality didn't matter. Just as I'd drawn them, my work would come to life just for me. Of course, everything would return to its place the moment I heard footsteps in the hall. I'd learned quickly that the things I'd created were shy. They were just for me.

and didn't want to be seen by anybody else. And while I told my parents everything, they just dismissed it as my imagination. One can't possibly keep a secret that big for long, though. When I was four, I got it in my head that I wanted a pony. And I did what any little girl with my ability would have done. I drew one. I remember laying out a sheet of lined paper,

I'm grabbing some of my crayons before I started on the landscape. As I drew, I imagined what my pony would be like. He would be noble, just and kind. He would be brave and strong. He would be a knight. No, a prince. A unicorn prince, in fact. I remember gleefully drawing his limbs and his horn.

giving him shape and making him real. I remember setting my crayons down and watching expectantly as my prince began to move. He shook his head, and if he'd had a mane at that point, it would have tossed around majestically. Instead, all he had were two dot eyes and a dopey smile. Didn't seem to matter, though.

He moved all the same, and just like everything else, he emerged from the paper. He wasn't quite as big as a real horse. At that age, I had no idea how big a horse really was. But he was still taller than I was. I remember reaching out to pet him for the very first time. His hide felt like paper, although it had a warmth to it. He remained still and even got down a little bit so I could ride. his back. His paper hooves thudded against the hardwood floor as he let out a bold

whinny. And I suppose, that was a little too much noise. As my unicorn print circled my room, I didn't hear the footsteps in the hall over the clop of my impromptu pony ride. I didn't hear my mom coming in to check on me. Not until I saw the door open from the corner of my eye. And even then, all I could do was grin at my mother and wave. Hi, Mom. She didn't smile back at me. Nor did she wave. Instead, her eyes went wide.

Her hand went to our mouth to stifle a scream. The unicorn prince froze. I remember feeling his body tense up before he rushed towards the piece of paper sitting on the floor. In an instant, it was gone, and I was on the floor. My mom raced towards me and scooped me up, pulling me away from the drawing on the ground. I didn't understand why she was so afraid. I couldn't. She frisked me, checking me for injuries.

And when she found none, she looked me dead in the eye. What was that? She demanded. Megan, what was that? He was my pet unicorn, mommy. I drew him. Where did it come from? I drew him. I really did.

I looked back at the picture on the floor. The unicorn prince didn't move. But I knew he was staring at me. Even in those simple dot eyes, I could see some sign of life. My mom fixated on the picture. studying it in silence, but keeping her distance as she processed what she'd just seen. She didn't speak for a few moments.

She just held me protectively close. Can you make him come out again? She finally asked. Her voice had a notable tremble in it. Slowly, she set me down again, and I went back to Neil beside my drawing. I'm going to hurt you. I whispered to my prince. She's mommy.

The drawing remained still for a moment, before finally starting to move. He didn't leave the paper. Not again. He was either scared or trying not to scare my mom. Even without stepping out again, though, just moving was enough. Mom stared down at him, eyes wide and disbelief. Can I take him outside and ride him in the park? I asked eagerly.

No. The response was, was a curt and automatic. No, no. Just leave him for now. Okay, honey? Mom brushed her hair back and looked at me. She still looked as if she couldn't quite believe her eyes, before shaking her head and forcing an uneasy smile. How about some lunch? She said, hiding the stammer in her voice. I'll make alfaghetti. Can my unicorn have alfagetty too? Maybe later, baby. Let's just talk about this first. She offered me a hand, and I took it as she led me downstairs. Did I ever tell you about great-grandma Ruth? She asked as I sat over a bowl of hot alphabet soup. Who's great-grandma Ruth?

I asked. Mom managed a sad smile as she sat down across from me. Well, she was my grandmother, she replied. When I was very young, Grandma and Grandpa sometimes let me stay over her place. I always loved it there. She had a cottage in the woods, way up past London. It was quiet. There was a big forest to play in. It was beautiful. Can we go see great-grandma roof?

Unfortunately, no. She's been dead a very long time. She liked to draw two, though, just like you. And when I was a little girl, I used to like to pretend that some of her drawings would come out and play with me. She paused, watching me carefully. I stared back at her, my eyes lighting up a bit. Did they really come out? Just like my drawings do?

I asked. I don't really know, baby. She said with a sigh. I used to think it was all my imagination. She died when I was young, and Grandma's gone too, so... I guess I'll never know for sure. What you can do, though, not everyone can do it too. Maybe great-grandma Ruth could, but you have to understand that this isn't...

Most people can't do it, and they might not understand it if they see the things you drew, coming out of their drawings. What do you mean? I asked. Mom tried to put on a reassuring smile. People aren't always nice, honey. and when they see something they don't understand, sometimes they get scared.

I need you to be careful with your drawings. You're going to be starting school soon, and people can't see them move. They don't like it when people see them. I said, and that's good. We just need to make sure it stays that way. Are you mad at me? Mom's eyes widened.

No, no, sweetie. Absolutely not. Why would I be mad at you? I'm not mad at you, I promise. I just want you to be safe, that's all. It's best we don't tell Daddy about this, though. It'll be our secret. You and me, she said.

Why can I tell Daddy? I asked, and she hesitated for a moment before giving me an answer. Daddy, Sometimes he doesn't think and says things he shouldn't. We can show him one day. Just not right now, okay? Okay. I said, and gave a slight nod.

Even now, I'm still not sure I fully trusted her tone. Mad might not have been the right word to describe how I think she felt. Afraid might be more fitting. And I suppose, if it were me and her position, I would have been afraid, too. At the time, though, I hardly knew any better. I was so sure that she was angry with me. And I wasn't quite sure what to do about it. For the next little while, I didn't play with the things I created.

Even if my mom hadn't intended it, the idea that my ability was somehow wrong had entered my mind. and it wouldn't go away. But just because I wasn't playing with them, didn't mean they stopped being alive. When I was in my room, I could see them moving around on the paper, watching me. I'd hung the unicorn prince up on my wall

and can see him pacing around restlessly. His simple facial features betrayed a look of unease that was impossible to mistake. And beyond that, a look of concern. I think that my own emotional state might have rubbed off on them. They knew that something wasn't quite right. And so they stayed in place, moving less often and rarely coming out. And remember that part of me felt relieved that they could be normal.

And yet a part of me missed them. It's not easy for a child to go from having something so magical in their life that having nothing at all. And without the things I'd drawn, I had nothing. I think it was obvious that it wasn't going to last. Maybe my artwork knew it too. I can't say for sure.

But it wasn't long before I couldn't help myself. When I told my mom, I wanted to go outside and play, I only took one drawing outside with me. It was carefully folded up in my pocket, and the choice was an obvious one. I'd never had a chance to, properly ride the pony I'd drawn. And since it was an overcast day, I thought I could slip out and do it while Mom was busy. Our yard backed on to a small park. There was only a chain-linked fence

and a little gate separating us from the park itself. And I remember that day was glum and foggy. No one else was out and about, and there were enough trees that I probably wouldn't be seen. Mom had told me to stay in the backyard, but I knew she had a patient and wouldn't check on me. I knew I had time. As soon as I knew she wasn't looking, I opened the gate and stepped out into the park. I remember that giddy feeling of doing something I knew I wasn't supposed to be doing. Tasting a forbidden fruit, as it were. I didn't understand just how dangerous it was for a four-year-old to be running a

around unsupervised. And being a four-year-old myself, I simply didn't care. I took the folded drawing from my pocket and opened it, smiling as I looked down at my unicorn prints. You can come out now. I whispered to it and watched with a familiar excitement as he bounded off the paper. I remember thinking that he looked happy to see me as I pet his neck. The light rain didn't seem to have much of an effect on his paper hide. And after examining his surroundings, he knelt down before me, offering me a place on his back.

I felt like the queen of the world as I climbed on. I said as I held on to him. Run! And he did exactly that. The park was abandoned, and we were lucky for that. My prince might not have been as fast as a real pony. But I did. didn't care. For a little while, I was completely free, and I will never forget that wonderful

feeling. Mom never cut on to my little adventures with the unicorn prince, which very quickly became my go-to activity. In a sense, he became one of my best friends, when we weren't outside. I spent my time drawing newer and better versions of him. My art style began to get better with practice as my prince slowly began to resemble a real horse. It was always him that came out of the newest drawing. No matter how he'd changed, he was always the same. When we were together, he and I would linger by the edge of the park, in a small spot covered by trees and away from prying eyes.

That small patch of woods wasn't much, but for me, it might as well been my very own fantasy land. I only got caught outside of the backyard once. And even then, Mom had no idea that I'd had one of my drawings out with me. Once, I remember that I'd brought out two pictures of the unicorn prints.

I'd been hoping that maybe I could create two of him. Although he only came out of the newer drawing. I suspect that was only because it was the better one. And he seemed to prefer looking good. He was a vain one. But I suppose, I made him that way. When I looked at the paper, both of them only showed the background.

The prince himself was absent. It's how I knew that no matter how many times I drew him, so long as it was meant to be him, he was the one who'd come out. That didn't mean I couldn't draw other unicorns, though. I only tried it once before, deciding that if I had too many unicorns out at once, I'd probably get caught, and Mom would get mad.

It was on one of those overcast days when I saw the coyote. I'd finished my newest drawing of the unicorn prints and wanted to see how he'd turned out. As soon as I knew Mom wasn't watching, I slipped out the back gate and ran for the trees, hiding my drawing under my raincoat. When I made it to the safety of the trees, I took it out.

and watched as the prince stepped off the paper. He was still a little cartoonish, but I was sure that he looked better than he had before. The prince lowered his head to me, a gesture of respect, and I bowed in response before moving to climb onto his back. Before I could, though, I saw something moving through the trees out of the corner of my eye.

It looked like a dog, Although I couldn't quite identify the breed. I remember thinking, and it might have been a husky. Only it had a gray coat with spots of brown. Its ears were triangular and folded back as it crept towards me. I got the impression that it looked a little shy. Nowadays, I'd recognize it as a coyote. But at that age, I doubt I even knew what a coyote was.

I said and took a step towards it. It shrank back, bearing its teeth at me as it did. I didn't take the hint, though. Behind me, the prince protectively moved to my side. From the corner of my eye, I saw him watching the coyote carefully. It never occurred to me that the animal could have been dangerous, though. I just saw a dog and wanted to pet it, not understanding that it didn't want to be petted.

When I reached out for it, a coyote snapped at me, or darting to the side. It didn't bite me, but I leapt back as if it had all the same. And that seemed to be the only provocation the unicorn prince needed. When he moved, the coyote tried to get out of the way, but the prince was faster. I remember hearing the crack of its bones under the prince's hooves. I remember seeing its body distort as it was pulverized.

It died instantly. And I suppose that was for the best. I'm not sure how I would have handled watching it suffer. But the sight of the thing that I'd drawn, trampling the life out of another living thing was hardly much of an improvement. As the prince rammed its horn into the broken corpse, goring it in a show of violence,

that was like nothing I'd ever seen before. I screamed and stumbled backwards. I lost my footing and fell as I stared in horror up at my unicorn. He looked at me, big, colorful eyes, soft and kind, yet his hide was spattered with blood. I stared up at my prince, looking at him and shaking as he stood over the corpse. He shook its head, shaking some of the blood off before he advanced on me. I tried to crawl away, tears streaming down my cheeks. No.

I stammered. Don't hurt me. The prince stopped and looked down at me, studying me. I could see in its eyes that he knew I was upset. I could tell that he was thinking on what to do about that. And after a moment, he just bowed his head and knelt down in a gesture of submission. For a few moments, neither of us moved. I was still shaking and crying.

The prince waited for me to make the first move. And when I did, all I could manage was to quietly take out the paper I'd drawn him on, so he could go back. He stood up and approached me slowly. He didn't go back to the paper, though, not at first. Instead, he lowered his head down towards me and gave me an affectionate nudge,

silently asking if I was okay. I looked over at the pulverized carcass of the coyote, and I remembered the way it had snapped at me. I realized that it would have hurt me if it had gotten the chance. And if that was the case, then my prince had done nothing but defend me. I looked over at him and finally reached out to pet the side of his face. He nuzzled into my hand before returning to his drawing.

I went straight back into the backyard. Mom didn't know I had been gone. I had no intention of telling her either. I didn't go on any more adventures after that. I think it goes without saying that I didn't spend much time around other children when I was young. Mom had a few friends who'd bring their kids over every now and then. That was it. Mom had told me she wanted me to go to preschool,

but my dad was adamant that it was a waste of money. I'm sure they fought about it more than once during the occasional fights I'd overhear as I lay awake in my bedroom at night. That lack of socialization, though, made it so much more difficult when I started school. I won't pretend to remember every single detail, but I remember the fear. I could handle being on my own. I'd been alone for more of my life than I probably should have. It was being around other people that was hard. I preferred to simply avoid the other kids.

During playtime, I'd sit on my own and draw. I'd bring a notepad to school and fill it with crayon drawings of fantasy lands, mermaids, and the like. That isolation made it difficult for me to make friends. And I suppose it made me an easy target. People can be cruel. But children? Have a special kind of cruelty to them. I know that the bullying started early.

If it wasn't my Coke bottle glasses they made fun of, it was my frizzy red hair. But more than any of those, they teased me because I wanted to be by myself with nothing but my notepads and sketchbooks. I think it was around the second grade when someone first came up with the name Space Girl, because I was always spaced out. But I don't remember exactly who used it first. Either way, it caught on to you. to the point that people called me that more often than they called me by my actual name. And it wasn't long before some people started taking it further.

It was a few months into the second grade that Chris Burton took my sketchbook. I usually spent my recesses out in a field behind the school. If the weather was good, I'd sit down beneath one of the trees and draw. Sometimes people bothered me. But my mom had told me to ignore them, and that's what I tried to do. Chris was a couple of grades above me, and I was one of his favorite targets. He just loved trying to get a reaction however he could.

Sometimes he pulled grass out of the ground and sprinkled him my hair, trying to get a reaction. I usually just brushed it out and moved to a different tree. On that day, though, I guess he wasn't going to accept being ignored. I could see him from the corner of my eye as he came towards me. flanked by a few other boys. What'd you draw on today, Space Girl?

He asked as he reached me. He leaned against the tree and tried to peer over my shoulder. I didn't give him an answer. My mom had said not to vindicate him with an answer. He gave me a light push trying to get my attention. Hey, Space Girl. Space Girl. I still didn't reply, even when the question started.

Are you ignoring me? Don't you talk? Do you know how to talk? No answer. I just continued working in my sketchbook. I was nearly done with the drawing of the unicorn prints. You know that unicorns are for babies, right? I kept my head down, trying to at least finish my sketch before I moved. I never got that chance.

Before I could react, Chris had snatched my sketchbook from my hands, and with a manic grin on his face, He took off. Give it back! I yelled after him before I scrambled to my feet. Chris already had a head start on me, and I was barely even up before someone else had pushed me over. As I hit the ground,

all I could do was watch Chris as he took off toward the school. I scrambled to pick myself up again and give chase. I wasn't as fast as him. There was no way I'd catch up in time. He was already inside the school by the time I got to the doors. I had no idea. where he'd gone. He couldn't have been in one of the classrooms.

Could he? Maybe he'd gone to hide in one of the bathrooms. I knew that technically I wasn't supposed to be in the boys' bathroom, but where else could he have gone? Hey, Space Girl. I heard him call from just down the hall. I turned, and sure enough, I saw him standing in the doorway to one of the bathrooms. My heart skipped a beat as I began to dread what he'd done.

I took off after him. I didn't see my sketchbook in his hands, and I tore past him towards the boy's bathroom. The smell was the first thing I noticed. I could see one of the stalled doors hanging open. I came to a stop in front of it, already knowing what I'd see. Chris had thrown my sketchbook in the toilet.

Pages were soaked, and it stank like piss. Behind me. I could hear Chris laughing. as if he just played the greatest prank in the world. I gagged as I took my sketchbook out of the toilet. The pages were soaking wet when I pried the book open. Most of my drawings were ruined. The things that had been on them didn't move.

They were still and lifeless. And that sent an unfamiliar stab of panic through my chest. I flipped over to the incomplete sketch of the unicorn prints, expecting it to be damaged as well. That page had been spared the worst of the damage. But I could only see the background I'd drawn. No sign of the prince himself. See? I made some improvements.

Chris teased. From the corner of my eye I could see him hovering over my shoulder. My heart raced, and I felt a flash of rage. The next thing I knew, I'd punched him. You ruined them! I cried. You ruined all of them. Chris stumbled back a step, no longer smiling.

I could see a thin trail of blood, running from his nose before he hit back. We were both on the ground, hitting each other when a teacher found us and broke us up a few minutes later. Chris and I were both sent home that day. And I never got my sketchbook back. I imagine that one of the teachers threw it out. It was ruined anyways. It was my dad who picked me up from school that day, not my mom. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought that was punishment enough.

It was something of a blessing that I barely saw him. I never felt comfortable when I was around him. As we left, he seemed quiet, not angry, just quiet. It wasn't until we got in the car that he said anything. So you hit that boy back, huh? His tone was gruff and made me a bit uneasy. He took my sketchbook, I replied. Dad just chuckled.

Well, boys'll be boys. I guess he had a crush, huh? When should I be expecting you to bring home your new boyfriend? I shifted uneasily in my seat. I'd expected him to be angry, but something about the way he was talking seemed off. I could smell the familiar smell of alcohol on him. As he keyed the engine and pulled out of the parking lot.

Chris is a jerk, I said quietly. Most boys are, kiddo. You'll learn to like it eventually. You'll notice it more when you get older. You're going to look a little like your mother. Legs for days. He lit up a cigarette as we drove, and I looked out the window,

quietly shrinking away from him. I could feel him looking at me, and I hated it. Mom was waiting for me when we got home, and as soon as I got through the door, she had me wrapped up in her arms already fussing over me. Megan, what were you thinking? Did he hurt you? What happened?

Chris threw my sketchbook in the toilet, I said quietly. I'm sorry. I got mad, and I hit him. Relax, Annie. It's just kids being kids. Dad said, brushing past her to head to the kitchen and get a beer. There's no point in making a big fuss over it. Sounds to me like it's just a little boy of the crush.

Mom looked over in his direction, glaring daggers at him. She watched as he took two beers out of the fridge. Kids being kids? she repeated. Did you look at her? She has bruises all over her arms. It's a bit of rough-houseing. Nothing to worry about. Dad said with a shrug.

He opened one of the beers and took a sip. Did you even ask what happened? How many times has she told us that the other children were bothering her? We need to set up a meeting with the school. Don't you think that's overreacting? Dad stood in the doorway of the kitchen. This kind of thing is normal. The school will tell you the same thing.

Stop worrying. It'll toughen her up a little, make her socialize. God knows she could use a kick in the ass. Excuse me? Mom snapped. Her tone of voice made me flinch, but my dad hardly seemed to notice it. He just took another sip of his beer. I could see the rage in my mom's eyes as she tried to figure out just what to say to him.

Her attention shifted to me for a moment. Megan, why don't you go upstairs to your room? Daddy and I need to talk. Why are you coddling her? She's a big girl. She can take it. Dad asked as I headed for the stairs. The argument had already begun before I even made it to the top. She's six years old, James.

Do you really think she deserves to be harassed? They're kids. This is what they do. It's natural. It'll help her grow a thicker skin. Just relax, will you? I took off towards my room and closed the door behind me. My hands were shaking.

Even through the door, I could hear the muffled sounds of my parents screaming at each other. From the corner of my eye, I could see the drawings I'd put on my wall. shifting around, sharing in my discomfort. I could feel them watching me. I pulled away from my bedroom door and went towards a recent piece I'd done of the unicorn prince. I needed him, if for no other reason

than to have something I knew I could call a friend close by. But as soon as I approached the picture, I saw that it was empty. The prince was nowhere in sight. He'd left his drawing, and the sight of that gave me pause. He'd never left his drawing without me before. I looked around. None of the other subjects from my artwork were missing.

It was just him. As my parents argued downstairs, I felt alone, sick to my stomach. Somehow, in my gut, I knew something was wrong. Something bad was happening. I didn't know just what. Not yet. But I could sense it. And that alone was enough to scare me.

The unicorn prince was back in his drawings the next morning. I remember seeing him standing, just as I'd drawn him in the picture. He didn't move when I looked at him. And I didn't have the time to bring him out. remembering his absence left me with a lingering sense of unease though and it wouldn't go away I was back at school that day although I didn't see Chris in the recess yard at all it was that morning that we were told that recess would be indoors for the next few days in spite of the lovely weather the teachers didn't tell us why that much I overheard from a few

of the students. During the first indoor recess, I could hear one of the other girls, Sasha, talking to some of her friends about how Chris Burton hadn't quite made it home the other night. My dad works at the hospital, and he said that he heard that Chris and his mom were attacked by an animal yesterday. He said that they're probably going to die. There was a glee in her voice that didn't quite fit in with what she was describing. I didn't listen in for long.

I couldn't even if I wanted to. A hollow feeling in my stomach overtook me, and I suddenly felt sick. I was a child, but that didn't mean I couldn't put two and two together. The prince had been out of his drawing the other day. And it just so happened that Chris and his mom had been attacked by an animal. A vivid memory of the coyote lying dead on the ground flashed through my mind. I remembered its bacon eyes. and caught myself wondering if Chris would have looked the same if he died.

I sat still, the color draining from my skin. I couldn't even bring myself to look at the fresh sketchbook I'd brought. How could I, knowing that one of my drawings just put another person in the hospital? The other kids in the classroom around me paid me no mind. The teacher didn't even seem to notice my trembling hands, as I tried to comprehend the truth that I couldn't avoid. My drawings had nearly killed someone. That sat on me like a weight, and I didn't know how to handle it.

I felt like I could barely breathe. The next thing I knew, I was crying, and I couldn't tell a single person the truth as to why. I didn't know what to do about what happened. When I got home after school, the thought of ripping every drawing of, off my wall and tearing them to shreds had crossed my mind. But when I tried to make myself do it, I couldn't. I could only stare at them as they watched me, waiting for me to do something.

These were my creations. I had given them life. Could I really bring myself to take it away from them? I remember looking at the newest drawing of the unicorn prints I'd made. I could see myself tearing the paper. But even if that didn't kill him, I'd have felt guilty for even trying to hurt him. The prince just stared back at me, a quiet resolve on his face. And I knew that even if I could destroy him, it wouldn't be what I wanted.

I knew I'd need to do something else, and I wasn't quite sure just what else I could do, aside from draw. Maybe in hindsight, it seems like a bad idea. My art had put Chris and his mother in the hospital in the first place. Sending him a drawing probably would have seemed more like a threat than an apology. But I still convinced myself it was a good idea. If nothing else, maybe it would make me feel better. I looked up at the drawing of the prints again.

My brow furrowed. Why did you do it? I asked. Why'd you have to hurt them? He just looked back at me before stepping off the paper. I took a step back as he stared me down. You can't just hurt people whenever you feel like it. You can't.

The prince just huffed. I'd never imagined a fake unicorn could sound so dismissive. But he somehow pulled it off. He tossed his mane before nudging me with his head. I pulled away from him. You're never going to hurt anyone else again, I said, my voice shaking. Do you understand me? Never again.

My eyes darted around the rest of my drawings. I could feel them all watching me. None of you are going to hurt anyone. I got no replies. No sign of agreement from them. Just uneasy silence. The prince quietly turned away from me and stepped back into his drawing. What he meant by that?

I wasn't quite sure. I got myself some fresh paper and started on a handmade card. I can't say I ever knew Chris particularly well. Aside from harassing me, I didn't know what he liked. So I stuck with something simple. I drew a picture of him. People liked seeing portraits of themselves, right? Spent almost an hour working on it, drawing him from memory.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my other drawings moving around on my wall. On the inside of the card, I wrote a simple message. I'm sorry that you got hurt. I hope you get well soon. Just writing that made me feel a little bit better. I looked at the drawings I made of the prints. He was still watching me intently. as if he had a problem with what I was doing.

I'm apologizing, I said defensively. You hurt him. I have to do something. The prince just huffed. The same dismissive sound as before. I'll take the card to the hospital. And when he's better, maybe he'll leave me alone. It's better than just... Just attacking him.

I checked my clock. Maybe I could get Mom to drive me before he's. it got too late. I know she'd been in her office when I got home. I imagined she was probably still there. I held the card I made for Chris close as I went downstairs. Mom would understand. She'd probably be happy to help me make amends. As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I heard the TV blaring from the living room. Maybe mom wasn't busy. Even better. I wasn't greeted by the sight of mom sitting and watching the television, though. She was nowhere to be seen.

Instead, it was my dad on the couch. He'd taken off his tie, and I saw a half-empty bottle of scotch on the table in front of him. He was in the midst of nursing another glass. Hey there, kiddo. He said, he didn't even look away from the TV. Hi, Dad. Where's Mom? She went out for a bit, uh, shrink work, you know?

He finally looked over. over at me. What do you want, kiddo? Could you drive me to the hospital? I want to visit someone, I asked timidly. Oh, so you got a friend now? He asked playfully. Come on, sit down. Why don't you tell me about him? I hesitated for a moment before I sat beside him. What'd you draw? Dad asked, noticing the card I was holding. He snatched it from me before I could stop him. Boy, huh? Your friend from the other day? Oh, is his name? Chris? Yeah, it's for Chris. I murmured as I sat down beside him.

Dad studied the card. A smile on his face before he chuckled. Isn't that cute? Guess you got yourself a boyfriend then, huh? I feel bad because we got into a fight yesterday and now he's sick. Yeah, yeah, I get it. He said. Hey, he's a lucky guy.

You're gonna grow up just like your mom. I can already see it. I could feel his eyes on me. And it made me uncomfortable. Can you drive me to the hospital? I asked again. Oh, it's too late for that. I'll take you on the weekend.

He said and downed his drink. I'd like to meet the young man who's got my little girl all worked up. Hell, you look all shy now. Isn't that cute? He pulled me closer to him. And the stink of alcohol was almost overpowering. I didn't want to get closer, but I didn't know what else to do. The card was tossed onto the coffee table.

So, did you steal any kisses from your new boyfriend yet? He asked, grinning, as he fixed me in that hateful stare of his. No, he's not my friend. It's all right, I get it. You're growing up, you're getting to be a big girl, and you're beautiful, just like your mom. He gently ran his fingers through my hair. And for a moment, he looked thoughtful. Just like your mom.

The next thing I knew, he'd lean in to kiss me. Not in the way a parent should ever kiss a child. The stink of alcohol was overpowering and it made me sick. Every nerve in my body wanted to pull back, but I couldn't. Even if he would have let me. I was too scared of what he'd do if I did. It's all right, baby. You can trust Daddy.

He whispered, but I knew he was lying. I knew something was wrong. But for all the fear I felt, I couldn't fight back. I didn't know how. I could feel his hands on me as he tried to pull me onto his lap. And it was then that I resisted. Stop!

I stammered as I finally tried to pull away. Put his grip on me, tightened. I saw a flash of rage in his eyes. That was enough to break whatever terrified defiance I had in me. However, what he might have done to me was nothing compared to what was about to be done to him. From the corner of my eye, I saw movement on the coffee table. Fresh panic kicked in as I struggled to get away.

I saw hands reaching out of the card and pressing onto the table. I could see the drawing I'd made of Chris, beginning to pull itself out. I knew it was about to happen. In a panic, I pulled away from my dad. I kicked at him and scrambled up off the couch. There was confusion on his face. Followed by a look of realization, remorse. Then came the terror.

When he at last noticed the living illustration of Chris that now reared out of the card onto the coffee table. He screamed and froze, eyes wide as he looked at the drawing. But he didn't run. He didn't fight. As the impossible loomed over him, all he could do was scream. I covered my eyes as the hands of my drawing gripped his throat.

I couldn't watch it. I didn't want to. I could hear it, though. The screams. I could hear a terror, deeper than anything I'd heard before. And that was enough. There were screams, and then there was silence. It was a while before I allowed myself to look.

Picture of Chris was gone, and in its place, I saw one of my dad. The art looked like mine, but I hadn't drawn this. His mouth was open in a scream. His eyes were wide with terror. And he was completely still. He didn't move like my other pictures. He just remained there. Lifeless.

My heart was racing. As afraid of my own father as I'd been a moment ago. I wanted him to move. I wanted to see some sign of life. I held the card, silently begging for something to happen. But nothing did. And I remembered the quiet, creeping realization. But he wasn't going to move again.

He was gone. I never wanted anybody to get hurt. I mean that. But the choice isn't mine. I learned that the hard way. Perhaps they deserved what they got. The things they did were not by accident after all. Chris chose to bully me.

My dad chose to try and hurt me. and so many others have hurt me since then. But that doesn't mean I wanted the same for them. Over the years, I've done what I can to keep myself in check. They react to my rage and my fear. So long as I control those, I can keep them at bay, but every now and then, I slip. Someone pushes me too hard, and I can't bury the rage or the fear.

It gets out. And when it does, they react to it. And people die. I thought I could do it forever. I really did. But I have my limits. Well, not anymore. Bonus episode.

Creepy Presents. My mother liked to sleep around. written by Head of Spector and narrated by Joe Stofco. I won't pretend that Catherine Lawrence was the greatest mother. With all of the drinking, the late nights,

and the strange men in her life, I'd say that I spent more time raising my siblings than she did. But I could never quite hate her for that. No, she wasn't a good parent, but despite her flaws, I loved her up until the end. Dying, surrounded by family and loved ones,

is what everyone seems to strive for, and our mother succeeded in that much. Before us, she'd been alone. No family to speak of, no living parents or grandparents, brothers or sisters. No one. Mom didn't often talk about her life,

but my understanding was she'd been orphaned when she was young. it had always been just her against the world. Maybe that explained why she slept around so much. Maybe she was afraid the men in her life would abandon her, so she abandoned them first. Maybe she just liked being the center of attention during a new romance, or maybe it was something else entirely.

In 32 years of life, I never once thought to ask, And even if I had, I doubt I'd ever have gotten a legitimate answer. My mother kept a lot of things to herself, and there were parts of her she'd never share with anyone. I understand that now more than I ever did. She was 57 when she died, and I'd still say she died young. Before cancer wore her down, she could have still passed for being in her 30s with her long dark hair and reserved demeanor. I'd always thought she'd end up out-living all of us, given how healthy she'd been. She'd worked blue-collar all her life, mostly construction,

and it had left her with a surprising strength. That woman didn't look like much, but if she hid you, you'd still feel it the day after the next. That said, she was also a lifelong smoker, and when that caught up to her, there wasn't a damn thing anyone could do to stop it. She'd spent the last few years of her life fighting for her life, staying with my brother Lucas, who helped her as much as he could during her decline. Cancer might just be the cruelest way to die, the way it shreds a person down until there's just a shell is nothing short of horrifying to watch. I visited Mom and Lucas as much as I could, and each time a little more of her was missing.

When the end came, it was almost mercy. Her death didn't come as a surprise. We'd had years to prepare, and during her final days in hospice, Lucas and I made sure that the family was all together. Mom had grown up alone in this world, but we wanted to make damn sure she didn't die alone. There were eight of us. The family resemblance was hard to see sometimes. Most of us had come from different absent fathers,

scattered around different parts of the country, but we were all hers. As the oldest, I'd helped raise just about all of them. I can't imagine our family dynamic was the healthiest, but I know that most of my siblings look at me almost like a father figure, and I do my best to be there for them. Lucas had made space for us at his place. Eight people, plus Lucas's family,

was a lot, but we may do. They only allowed a handful of people by her bedside, so during those final hours, most of them waited at his place, as Lucas, myself, and our sister Nancy stayed at her bedside saying our goodbyes. When she flatlined, it was sudden, and without ceremony. She died in her sleep.

One minute she was there, the next she was gone, and the room remained silent. The funeral was nice, but there were only a few of us there, the eight of us and our families. Since it was just us, there really wasn't much of a reception.

We'd gone back to Lucas's house and sat around in his backyard under the indifferent May sun. As I stood on his deck, looking out at my siblings and their families, I felt a tragic sort of nostalgia. It had been years since we'd all been together. I'd watched most of these people grow up for my entire life. As the oldest, that was my duty. Lucas had been her second son. At thirty, he'd done all right for himself, and he stood beside me, watching all sorts of familiar faces in his backyard with a pair of beers in his hands.

At a glance, you might not have guessed that Lucas and I were brothers. He had dark hair and darker skin. I was white and blonde as they come. As I said before, our mother slept around. The men in her life would stay for only a few months before she'd moved on. Then, more often than not, we'd find ourselves with a new sibling, on the way soon after. Hate to see the gang back together under these circumstances, he'd said.

His voice was quiet and grim. Yeah, at least we knew it was coming, I said. Awful as it is, we should all be so lucky. He offered me an open beer, and I took a swig. In the back of my mind, I remembered the first time I'd had a beer with Lucas. Mom had been out, and we had just gone through her fridge. I'd been about fifteen back then. He'd been terrified she'd somehow find out, but she never did.

The memory almost made me crack a smile. Are you heading back to the house tomorrow? he asked. There was hesitation in his voice. I took a sip of beer and nodded. Yeah, might as well get a head start on cleaning it out. I'm sure there's things we'd like. like to keep. For sure, for sure. Let me know what you find, he said. I saw a ghost of a smile cross Lugas's face. Hey, you know, it's funny. Back when we moved into that house, scared this

shit out of me. I was still like, I don't know, ten, eleven. You remember how I had that room by the kitchen? Yeah, with Jack and Kyle, I said. My eyes flitted to those two siblings in question, both in their mid-twenties, and starting their careers after college. At that moment, they leaned on the fence at the far side of the yard, probably having a conversation not too dissimilar to the one I was having with Lucas. I used to think that house was haunted. I could hear the house settling some nights. The spot I was in right in the corner just banged and groaned constantly.

If that house had had a basement, I would have thought something was living down there. Might have been an animal under the foundation, I suggested. The mention of a basement made me pause to think for a moment. Did any of the houses we lived in have basements? Lucas paused. I don't think so. Maybe the one in Kentucky?

I think there was a window near the backyard, but you couldn't see anything through it. Mom said they'd filled it in. I shook my head and took another sip of beer. "'Weirred,' I said. Lucas nodded in agreement before he gave me a pat on the shoulder and left me on his porch. Mom's house wasn't as big as you might expect a house that raised eight kids to be. It was a ranch-style home that sat on an unassuming suburban street. The exterior was a little more run down than the others.

No one had really taken much care of it over the past few years, and just like Mom it had deteriorated. The driveway was empty as I pulled my rented truck out front. I still had my key, and I knew that going through her things would take a few days. Lucas would be along to help me after most of the rest of our siblings went back home. The house didn't need all of us in it again. A musty smell invaded my nostrils as I set foot inside the house again. The floorboards creaked under my weight. Lucas had only provided minimal upkeep to the place while Mom had been with him. He'd had more pressing concerns.

I brought a few cardboard boxes with me, so figured I'd start with the kitchen. If there was any food left in there, it probably needed to be thrown out. Otherwise, I could probably take stock of the appliances, the ones in better shape could be sold. I was a little surprised to find that the house still had power, when I tried the lights, although I noticed the fridge had been unplugged and emptied. There were a few perishables left in the pantry, but not many. What was left was covered in dust and rat shit, meaning it was definitely trash, so I focused first on getting rid of those.

Mom's kitchen barely had enough room for all of us. Space had always been a bit of an issue. When we were younger, we'd slept in bunk beds and shared rooms. Privacy wasn't much of a concept, but Mom didn't seem interested in stopping any time soon. She kept having kids, or at least trying to. The eight of us were the ones who'd gotten to grown up. One of our siblings had been stillborn, two had been miscarried, and one had died in the crib. We'd moved every few years, although I couldn't say why.

Mom said she got bored of her surroundings. We lived in several different states, Texas, Washington, Louisiana, Oregon, and Kentucky. And I don't even remember which state I'd been born in. As I emptied the pantry, I let myself reminisce on old houses and good memories. I cleared out the top pantry first before I moved to her little walk-in. It was shallow, and I remembered she'd put it up herself shortly after we'd moved. It sat in one corner of the kitchen, and it held. sturdy. Mom had always told us not to go fishing through it since she was afraid it might collapse

on us, but I can't see why. She'd clearly known what she was doing. Still, she'd once blown up and screamed at Lucas when she caught him looking through it. There were few perishables in there, so I spent less time cleaning it out. I went from top to bottom, picking out everything and dropping it into a fresh garbage bag. Most of them were old soups that zero out of eight kids wanted to eat. I had no idea why mom bought them. I spotted the corner of one can near the back and reached in to grab it. My finger brushed something cold and metal as I did. For a moment, I thought it was another can, but it felt different. I didn't think too much of it and reached back in to get. it. Whatever it was, it was round and smooth. I tried to tug it, but it wouldn't budge.

It jiggled, though, almost like a doorknob or something, but there was no way in hell she'd keep a doorknob in the pantry. I bent down, peeking into the dim light, but my senses hadn't been deceiving me. What I'd felt was definitely a doorknob. It sat near the edge of the panty, and I'd sat near the pantry, as if the whole thing was meant to cover up a door. I turned the knob and pulled. The entire pantry opened towards me. The hinges creaked a bit, and I watched in confusion as the door the pantry had been built over opened up. I stopped at it for a moment, a little dumbstruck. How the hell had that been there for so long? And I'd never noticed it. My eyes shifted downwards toward what lay behind the door, and I saw stairs leading downwards into a basement.

I stared at them in quiet disbelief before I approached the stairs. They were concrete and sturdy, which hopefully meant they were safe enough to walk on. I took my first step down and began my descent. Why the hell had Mom hidden the basement from us? This didn't make any sense. What could she possibly have to hide down there? I knew I'd get my answer soon enough. At the bottom of the stairs was another door.

It was open, although it looked as if it had been designed to be locked from the outside. I only lingered on the door for a few moments. What interested me the most was what was beyond it. The room on the other side was bare cement. I saw bricks where basement windows had once been, and an old metal cot with a moldy old mattress in one corner. It stank of mildew. Standing in that room made me feel claustrophobic, and yet, as I looked around, I felt my pulse begin to race. What the fuck had Mom been doing down there? That room was clearly meant for someone to live in, I think, although it seemed more like a torture cell than anything else.

My eyes were drawn to the concrete walls. I could see scratches in them near where the windows had been. Dark, rusty smears were near one of the windows, as if someone had tried to dig their way through the mortar, and they'd worn their fingers away to bloody nubs in the process. My heart raced as I stared at them. I felt dizzy and uncomfortable. I felt like the walls were closing in on me, and I backed towards the door immediately.

I half expected it to slam shut and lock behind me, but thankfully it didn't. I ran up the stairs and burst into the silent safety of the kitchen. My hands were shaking. My skin had gone whiter. I didn't know what I'd seen. Not really. Part of me didn't want to know. Part of me wanted to let Mom take that one last horrible secret to her grave. but I knew I needed answers. I wish I could have let it be, but I needed answers. I didn't tell Lucas about what I had found, not immediately. I didn't even go back to his place. Instead, I just found a place to sit quietly as I wrote things down, things I remembered like

our old addresses. It took a bit of research to find the phone numbers for the most recent documents, but I had all afternoon. I remembered what Lucas had said about the house in Kentucky, how he'd seen a basement window, how Mom had said it was filled in. I wondered who had filled it in. Naturally, I started with Kentucky. The man who answered the phone had a pleasant accent,

and he answered my questions about the basement, and as he spoke my body felt colder and colder. He said that the door to the basement was at the back of a closet. It had been unfinished, and the windows had been bricked up. He said nothing about supposed blood smears or an old bed frame. I can't imagine Mom would have left anything too incriminating behind. I got a similar answer when I called our old house in Oregon,

although the homeowners weren't nearly as polite. I didn't want to call anyone else. I didn't have it in me to go through each and every. every old house. I was born in Idaho in 1987. I never met my father. Mom told me that his name was Malcolm Donaldson. Malcolm. She'd even named me after him. I looked him up once and didn't find much. Strangers, politicians, nobody it made any sense to reach out to. Way at the bottom of the list, though, was a man named Malcolm Donaldson, who had disappeared. in late 1986, a few towns over from where Mom had lived when I'd been born.

I might not have gone through all the addresses, but I looked up the name of every man I remembered Mom bringing home. I found most of them, or at least reports on most of them. The reports say they're either missing or dead. For the ones they found, the cause of death was almost always starvation. I'm not sure why Mom chose that, letting people waste away alone in the dark. I'm not sure about anything anymore. I don't know what I'm going to tell my siblings.

This is all too much to process. It's not that Mom was a serial killer, no. No, as horrible as that is, I find that I can accept that. I can even accept the fact that what she did to her victims was nothing short of sadistic. The part I can't process, the part I can't accept is the fact that now I know what we were to her. She didn't have us because she wanted us or even because she was too stupid to use a condom. No, we were mementos of her sick crimes, fond reminders of the atrocities she had committed. information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, please visit

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