Creepy - This Is How I Survived a Serial Killer Last Week

Episode Date: April 22, 2021

You do what you can...***Written by LuminousLionn narrated by Danielle Hewitt and David Darke***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

This is the bloody disgusting podcast network. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous, chilling and disturbing creepy pastors and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or, how simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories make important. graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy Presents. This is how I survived a serial killer last week. Written by Luminous Lion, narrated by Daniel Hewitt, and featuring David Dark. This is how I survived a serial killer last week. He'll never believe where he took me. They say when bodies are cremated, they contort and writhe in the fire.

And sometimes they sit up and scream. When temperatures reach about 670 degrees Celsius, 1,200 degrees Fahrenheit, the muscles contract, forcing the body into a pugilistic pose. The hands roll into fists. The head tilts. The body curls into a defensive posture. like a boxer protecting his chest from his opponent's blow. But the pugilistic pose only happens if the body is cremated

before the muscle tissue degrades. And before Rigamortis sets in, in case anyone wanted to know. Mark Lish, serial killer. When I went to work at the coffee shop this morning, posters of the latest serial killer known as the cremator appeared on every wall. And customers chatted about his most recent,

victims, Teresa Sanders, and Janice Richards. But my attention drifted toward a handsome stranger who had just entered through the back door and was heading up to the counter where I stood. He was about 25, and had classic good looks, athletic with sandy blonde hair, a Bradley Cooper smile, and brown eyes that were playful and mysterious. What can I get you? I asked when he approached the counter, feeling my cheeks flush. You is my dinner date tonight? He asked smiling. It was a deviously sexy smile, I must admit. Under normal circumstances, that line would have never have worked. But it did this time. Maybe, I said plain coy, but aren't you going to ask me my name first? You read my mind.

He said smiling. Matt. He said reaching out his hand. Tasha. I said, shaking his hand. Tasha, it's so very lovely to meet you. After work, Matt picked me up and drove us to a seafood place on the beach. We sat on the balcony to enjoy the view. At sunset, the pastel sky, along with the golden flames from the candle on the table, created a dreamlike ambiance. The white sand against the cerulean water looked surreal, like a mirage or a dolly painting. The fresh sea breeze caressed our skin and top. tumbled through our hair. We were having a moment.

I mostly listened as Matt talked about his job as a personal trainer and shared stories about his childhood. I was enjoying his company, but when I looked over, a busboy at the table next to us kept leering at me while pretending to polish an already immaculate wineglass. I cringed. Every time I looked away,

I felt his eyes lingering. In the shadows, His green eyes twinkled, looking sinister. He flashed an unsettling grin. Finally, he disappeared. After a moment, I excused myself to use the ladies' room. Be right back. But I only realized my mistake later.

After I dried my hands in the bathroom and opened the door to exit, I jumped back, startled. The bus boy stood, waiting for me, in the dark hallway. His green eyes taunted me, violated me, and chills rippled through my body like electricity. Hello, Tasha. He said, his lips curling into a slow smile. I'm Mark. How do you know my name?

I asked, dumbfounded. I heard your boyfriend say it. He placed his arm against the wall behind my head, trapping me there. I silently prayed for someone to walk by. A waiter. or another customer. But no one came. Only a few diners were still in the restaurant.

But they all sat outside on the balcony, far from the bathrooms, which were tucked into a dark corner near the back exit. The busboy reached into his pocket, pulled out car keys, and jingled them in front of me. You and me were going for a ride. He moved his hand to the small of my back and pushed,

forcing me out the back exit into the parking lot. Someone has to be out here, I thought. But no one was. No. Fear shot through me like lightning. My hands trembled. Beads of sweat formed around my hairline and trickled down my cheeks.

Mark directed me to a silver Honda and forced me inside. He secured my seatbelt, locked the door, and jumped in the driver's seat. I tried to unfasten the seatbelt before he could get in the car, but it was locked. When Mark got in the car, he dangled another set of keys in front of me like a carrot. Don't bother trying to escape. I have to unlock the seatbelt. So I'd be nice if I were you.

My stomach churned. He drove for miles, far past the main roads, until he reached a desolate, unpaved road that extended into the woods. The dirt trail looked like. like a hiking path, reaching into the dark abyss. Clusters of trees towered toward the skyline, like omens presaging some imminent misfortune. The end is near, they seem to say.

Mark flipped on the radio, and some eerie song played. One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small. And the ones that mother gives you, Don't do anything at all. He hummed along to the music. The hairs on my arm stood on end. Mark grinned.

It's my favorite song. White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane. It's a classic. Mark drove deep into the woods, then stopped at a small, unmarked wooden post that looked like some sort of landmark. But a landmark for what? I wondered.

I looked around. seeing only trees for miles. Not even a sliver of light peered out from a parked car or campfire. We were all alone in that comfortless expanse of darkness. Mark unfastened my seatbelt, then dragged me from the car. He handcuffed my hands behind my back

and pushed me along the dusty narrow path. Leaves and pebbles crunched under our feet like crushed glass. A bird cried, in the distance. It's a whale echoing into the void that surrounded us. I whimpered. Please, let me go. After a long silence, Mark said.

Not gonna happen, sweetie. I screamed and begged again for him to release me, as tears rained down my cheeks. I remembered the stories I'd heard on television, about people who claimed to have survived abductions by humanizing themselves to their captors. They'd say they were hungry or thirsty or that they needed to use the bathroom,

hoping to appeal to whatever empathy the captor may have possessed. I tried it. Mark, I have to go to the bathroom. Can we please stop? Walk. He barked, pushing me harder up the path.

So much for that, I thought. I cried again and begged again for him to let me go. But the more I screamed, the harder he laughed. This is a game to him, I thought. My fear amuses him. I fought the urge to spit in his face, remembering to stay calm. Staying calm was more important now than ever. I needed to think rationally and set fear aside.

It was time to mentally box up that fear and store it away like a box of old clothes in the recesses of my mind. The way I often did when I felt overwhelmed or angry. But this time was different. Out here, in the woods with this madman, how am I supposed to stay calm? I wondered. It's easy to think of the right things to do and say when you aren't in these situations,

or when some nut job isn't holding you captive in a forest. or when you're in the safety of your home watching scary movies. But in that moment, my mind betrayed me. In my terror, I had been reduced to my most primitive instincts and thought processes, reduced to screaming, whimpering, and begging. Just like all the idiots in the movies I used to make fun of. To think, I've been kidnapped by a psychopath. And I can't think of anything better.

than to scream and bargain with him? Moments later we reached the end of the dirt path, and Mark pulled out another set of keys, illuminated by his cell phone flashlight. Give me your phone, he demanded, patting down my pockets, then grabbing the phone from my purse and stuffing it in his back pocket. Where is he taking me?

I wondered, looking around but only seeing woods and trees. He fumbled around under a pile of leaves and branches, then grabbed hold of a wooden handle from a trap door. It looked like the door to a cellar buried under the foliage. No one would ever find me here. He unlocked the trap door and pulled the door up and open. The opening led to a landing area,

then a long, narrow, stoned-wall tunnel that sloped downwards into the darkness. The tunnel was damp, musty, and cold, like a well. Mark flipped on the hall light. casting a dim glow through the tunnel, then pushed me ahead. At the end of the tunnel, a concrete room that looked like a dungeon appeared on the left. It contained three or four rooms, separated from one another by metal bars. It looked like a row of cages, or a prison. Oh, my God! Help me!

But who would hear me in this remote, subterranean hell dungeon? The more I screamed, the more he laughed. He cackled like a demon. Why am I here? What are you going to do? I asked, not wanting to hear the answer. Built into the wall was a square-shaped opening that looked like a fireplace. The compartment opened and extended deep into the interior space.

Next to it, on the wall, was a power switch. And that smell. My God, what was the door? That smell! The smell was pungent, like something old and decaying, or something rotting, or something dead. Chunks rose from my gut to my throat. What is that? I asked, eyeing the box-shaped opening carved into the wall.

Oh, that old thing? That's my crematorium. You're what? But I heard him. I just didn't want to believe my ears. You see? Mark explained, after he'd lock me in one of the jail cells. He flipped a switch on the wall, and a sickening roar filled the underground space.

A scarlet light glowed inside the wall like an unholy inferno. Mark paced back and forth, talking. Some people say, when bodies are cremated, they sit upright and scream as they're swallowed by the flames. His voice was calm and controlled. He spoke with the nonchalance of someone ordering a sandwich at a drive-thru, saying, I'll take the chicken club with a side of fries. Calm and cool and unruffled. As he spoke, he kept pacing, back and forth, lost in thought.

Then he flipped another switch on the wall. The machine word louder, as though it was preparing for something. Mark continued. But when bodies are burned at around, 670 degrees Celsius, or about 1,200 degrees Fahrenheit. They go into a pugilistic pose, he said, punching forward into a fighting position. Pugilistic means, fighting with the fists. He gestured, like a boxer punching at the air.

The body's bend into that fighter pose, like a boxer does when he's defending himself against his opponent's punches. He punched at the air again. Pop, pop, pow! He jogged in place like a boxer preparing for a fight. I trembled in the cell, listening. Terror had rendered my body limp and numb. When I opened my mouth to speak, the words refused to come.

I glanced on the ground under the concrete bench where I sat. Rolled into a ball was a woman's white shirt, torn and tattered. It was covered in mud and something red. My breath quickened and my heart raced. I could no longer feel the pauses between heartbeats. Instead, my heartbeat felt like one long roll, like the heartbeat of someone overdosing on speed. Mark returned to the wall and flipped another switch.

The radio flipped on, and a familiar song played. A slow smile crept onto his lips as he listened. White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane. He flailed his arms like he was playing some air instrument. This is my James. Damn. He said, singing along to the eerie tune. Meanwhile, the oven carved into his wall, roared and blazed with a tangerine fire.

Mark continued. Before I put Teresa in there? He said, gesturing toward the oven. I had to calm her down first. She wasn't doing too well. He pulled out a syringe. See this? Mark said, flicking the syringe.

It's filled with a paralytic agent. one shot of this and your body's frozen. Can't move. Calms the body right down. Well, of course, you feel everything, but you don't jump around. I yelped, whimpering like an animal. But the downside is, you don't get to see all that cool squirming when the body's burning. My stomach churned.

Please. Please just let me go. Why me? My hands felt numb and loose, like silly putty or jelly. Why you? He asked, then paused. He shrugged. You kind of remind me of her.

He paced back and forth again outside my cell. Of who? I asked, my voice quavering. Teresa. Teresa reminded me of Janice. And Janice reminded me of Elaine. And Elaine reminded me of Laura. my train wreck of a first wife.

His face flushed crimson with rage now, and I prayed someone would bust into this dungeon and rescue me from this nut. I imagined a SWAT team descending out here, into the hinterlands, and bursting into this creepy layer, and whisking me off to someplace safe. Mark danced a white rabbit,

swaying with his syringe in his hand. Then he edged toward myself. Mark's footsteps were slow and deliberate like he was trying to taunt me. A bloodless grin spread over his face. He licked his lips as he unlocked my cell and moved closer. I cowered against the wall, curled up in a ball, as though I could protect myself from the needle. Panic surged through my body,

from some deep, primal place within me. I shrieked, putting all my force into it. The scream pierced through, the dungeon and pierced Mark's eardrum, causing him to wince in pain and draw the hand with the needle toward his ear. I seized the opportunity and pounced. I grabbed hold of the needle in his hand and wrestled against him, redirecting the needle toward his head. Then, using all my body weight, I pushed as hard as I could, pushing harder and harder, then shoved the syringe filled with a paralytic agent deep into his temple, forcing him to the ground upon impact.

After he collapsed, I fumbled for his keys, all sets of keys. I grabbed my cell phone from his pocket, then bolted from the dungeon, sprinting through the tunnel all the way to the cellar door, then fleeing out into the night, like a prisoner freed at last. As I ran through the woods, my blood-curdling screams pierced the darkness. Somebody help! I implored, but my voice was going hoarse. It was too dark. Where's the light? I need light.

My cell phone battery was dwindling, down to just 10%. I need light now. With fingers trembling, I dialed 911. The reception was patchy, but I spoke anyway. Please, trace this call and send somebody no. Now, I'm in the woods, and I've been taken captive by a man who's trying to burn me alive. The operator instructed, trying to stay calm herself. Yes, I'm here, the operator said, but the reception fizzled.

I stopped, panting. Finally, I thought, help was coming. At any moment, the police would arrive and get me out of here. They'd break into the killer's lair and handcuff that nut job and ship him off to the next prison. Then, a faint sound in the distance broke the silence. I panted listening. Oh, thank God, I thought. The police are here.

I ran toward the noise, shouting and waving. Help! Here! I'm over here! The noise sounded again. I paused. It was a faint sound, the faint sound of music. I kept walking, but as I drew closer to the sound, my blood ran cold, and my heart froze. I'd heard that song before.

I knew that song. I despised that song in those lyrics. One pill makes you larger. And one pill makes you small. And the ones that mother gives you, don't do anything at all. Go ask Alice, when she's ten feet tall. Yes, I knew that song.

White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane. I screamed into the phone, unsure if the operator was still there. Help! I think he's back. Send someone now! But the sound moved closer. and closer.

When a man jumped out of a car ahead of me, I thought it was over. I expected to see Mark standing over me with a syringe. I braced myself for the end. But steps ahead of me, parked near a tree, sat a police car. When two cops jumped out of the car, the door flung open and the song White Rabbit rang into the night.

Are you all right, ma'am? smiling and elated and breathless, I nodded, and collapsed to the ground in exhaustion. Yes, I've never been more relieved in my life. But when the cops finally got to the lair to arrest Mark, he was gone. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, please visit creepypod.com.

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