Creepy - To the Future Buyer of this House...

Episode Date: June 29, 2020

Buyer beware...***Written by J.P Marley***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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Creepy presents to the future buyer of this house. Written by J.P. Marley. We came to call it the visitor. We called it that because it never did anything more than, visit us. It never tried to attack us or kill us. Somehow, in some weird way, that would have been so much better than what it actually did. If that sounds confusing, you're not alone. The only reason we know it exists is because two months into moving into this house, we noticed a disturbing pattern play out. It always happened the same way. My wife and I had be woken up in the middle of the night by our two

boys, Levi and Judah, screaming at the top of their lungs. Those were always the nights where we'd wake up covered in sweat. Our throat so raw that it felt like we'd just swallow glass and slightly nauseated. The first time we thought it was just a stomach bug, but by the fifth or sixth time, we decided we should get professional help. We went to a mold guy, thinking there was mold in the house somewhere we didn't know of, but he couldn't find anything. Then we went to a doctor to see if there was something physically wrong.

But the only thing they found was that our throats were the rawest they'd ever seen. They told us that the wear and tear in our throats were consistent with someone screaming for minutes on end. They were the ones who recommended we try a sleep therapist since the symptoms seemed to be presenting themselves in our sleep. The sleep therapist, Dr. Hargrove, was very eager to take us on. She found our case fascinating and rare, because typically adults don't struggle with night terrors, as frequently as we were experiencing them, not alone at the same time. But in order to learn more, we needed to record our sleeping habits, so she gave us a video recorder. We actually never ended up watching those videos, though.

At least not the ones we recorded for her. We gave her the tapes after a week, and the day that we were supposed to receive a call from her with what she found on the tapes, we got a call from the police instead. Apparently, Dr. Hargrove's secretary phoned her in her office, in her chair, slumped on her desk in front of a computer that she had pulverized with a hammer, before turning it on herself and bashing in her own skull. They told us that it seemed like she'd tried to bludgeon her eyes out, as most of the impact sites in her skull were focused around the eye sockets. They called us, because they were able to piece together enough of the CD within the computer

to see our names written on it and wanted to know if we knew anything. We didn't, but we thought it was about time we did. So we got our own video recorder, and the very next day we saw it for the first time. At around 2.14 in the morning, the visitor strolled into our bedroom so casually it was like it was walking into a conference call. We wore a long black robe with no sleeves and a hood drawn over a face so white that it practically shone in the darkness. There were pitch black rings surrounding its bloodshot eyes, and a grin pulled across its face from ear to ear. But it didn't seem real. Like it wasn't a real face, but a man.

mask. The moment it entered our room, the video recording glipped and grew slightly staticy. It stopped at the foot of our bed, turned to face us, and stood still as a statue for ten whole minutes, unblinking, unbreathing. Well, that in and of itself is shocking. What truly appalled us was our reactions. True to the doctor's words, we watch the screen as darn I shot upright in our bed the moment it turned to face us and we just screamed. We screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed for the entire time it was there. We could see our bodies visibly trembling in horror, shaking like we were seizing and our shoulders heaving as we took deep breath.

But we wouldn't look away from it. Even though we were obviously horrified at the figure at the foot of our bed, it was like we couldn't look away. Like we weren't allowed to take our eyes off of it. For ten whole minutes, we screamed in terror. Then the visitor turned and waltzed back out of the bedroom into the hallway like it was late for work. The moment it left, Dar and I collapsed in our bed, only to stir and wake up 30 seconds later at the sounds of our kids screaming. I think we were confused at first, because out of all the possibilities it existed for what we were going through,

the visitor was nowhere near being on the list. Confusion gave way to dread when we realized that this was our reality, that we couldn't remember anything. This has been plaguing us for months, and we had absolutely zero memories of it, only what we saw in a videotape. It was like our brains were forcing us to repress the memories to protect us from the trauma of just seeing the thing.

But while our minds may have been protected, our bodies certainly weren't. The more the visitor came to us, the more our health was deteriorating. At this point, our hair was starting to go gray. Dred turned to panic when we had to deal with the notion that it might be visiting our kids in the night too. So we set up our video recorder outside their room and turned it to face down the hallway to our bedroom door. We left it there until we had an anomaly. night, as Dr. Hargrove called them. And then we watched it.

To our relief, we watched as it came up our stairs, walked into our room, left after ten minutes, and then walked out and back down the stairs again, leaving Levi and Judah's room alone. To our curiosity, though, it went up and down our staircase, which meant that it was coming from somewhere downstairs. We debated about whether or not it was a good idea for us to keep filming the visitor, but in the end we figured we ought to. It's not like stopping the filming was going to make us any healthier again.

The thought that the more we learned about it, the better chance we stood of getting rid of it gave a sense of peace, and even a smidge of confidence that we had some kind of control. At the very least, it gave us a direction to go in, Something to do that was better than sitting on our hands wondering what to do. That night I set up the camera in the living room pointed it down the hallway towards the front door, as I assume that's where the visitor was coming from, even though the doors were always locked before bedtime. The position of the camera was dead on, as we did catch the visitor.

But the location was all wrong. At around 2.23 a.m., the door to our coat closet underneath our staircase opened up. And the visitor strolled right out. Ten minutes later, it walked right back in. The door shut behind it as if a gust of wind slammed it shut. That made no sense to us. But nothing really did. The coat closet was literally stuffed with coats, hats, gloves, shoes, shelves, a vacuum, and snow gear.

Our kids couldn't even enter it. How the hell was it possible if the visitor could? Where did it go when it went in there? We had, well, have no answers. Only the reality. The visitor came from our closet somehow. What commenced shortly thereafter was a series of trial and error tests. We tried locking the closet door only to see the door burst open anyways.

We placed our couch at the foot of the staircase, hoping we deter the visitor, only to see its scale the couch like it was stepping over the curb, though it so much as breaking its cold stare. We tried to leave all the lights on, but when it walked through the house, the lights would turn off wherever it happened to be. I even tried to rig a home alone-style trap involving a bucket of nails hanging over our doorframe. But they just bounced right off. The ones that did manage to embed themselves in its body didn't even make it flinch.

We were running out of ideas. We even tried staying with friends for a couple weeks just to get out of the house. They were going on vacation to Italy and were more than happy to lend us their home. For 13 days, we got the best rest we had gotten in a long time. But on our final night there, the pattern played out. Kids screaming, throats raw, nauseated, exhausted. Another anomalous night. Hopeless doesn't even begin to describe how we felt.

Knowing that there was nowhere we could go to escape it, we were getting desperate. And just in case you're wondering why we didn't think of porting up the closet in the first place, like and say that pride is a funny thing. Even while this terrible ordeal was draining us of our spirit and life, we didn't want the burden of having to explain to family and friends why our closet was ported shut. We couldn't think of a story that made enough sense without making us sound crazy. So I tried to avoid anything that we deemed too out there because we didn't want to be known as the couple who had 19 dead bolts on our bedroom door.

In hindsight, though, I really wish we had swallowed our egos. We stopped recording a couple weeks after that. There was nothing new we were learning, and I could tell that it was affecting Dar more than it was affecting me. It was breaking her heart knowing that the boys were crying at night because they were forced to hear their parents screaming. their brains out from just down the hallway. We got the loudest way to his machines we could afford to put in their rooms.

And that helped. But Dar was still suffering. We were no place financially to sell the house and buy a new one. We felt stuck. The worst part was that I could see her wasting away. Dar was lively and bubbly before moving into the house. That's a big reason why I married her. She was so full of spirit.

But it was getting to the point where I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen her smile. She was losing weight, losing sleep, and losing her sanity. It was so bad that I began to wonder if something different was going on. I began to think back to Dr. Hargrove, and now she had bludgeoned herself to death when she saw the visitor on our video recording. Why had neither of us tried to kill ourselves? Why were our brains successful in repressing the memories, but hers wasn't? What was different in our case?

I had zero ideas. That was the point I started getting angry. If you've seen the movie paranormal activity, there's a scene near the end where the guy, Micah, gets super pissed because the demon has been tormenting his girlfriend Katie relentlessly. Katie wants to reach out to a psychic, but Mikea gets super pissed because the demon has been tormenting his girlfriend, Katie, relentlessly. Katie wants to reach out to a psychic, but Mikea. refuses, it says something like, this is my house, you're my girlfriend,

I'm gonna fucking solve the problem. That was the kind of rage I was feeling. It's a kind of rage born out of a sense of helplessness. That I couldn't do anything to get rid of the visitor. That I couldn't do anything to help my wife. But I was angry

and I vowed that somehow in some way I'd save my wife and get rid of the visitor for good. I'd save Darry. It ends. Two months ago, Levi got up in the middle of the night and called out for me. I went to check on him and he asked me for some water. I went downstairs to get him his water bottle.

As I was in the kitchen grabbing a cup, I heard the click of the coat closet door open. I froze right where I was, unable to move, unable to breathe. Then I heard footsteps trail from the closet up the steps and into my room. That's when Darla started screaming. I wish I could tell you guys that I ran to her aid. I wish I could tell you that I sprinted up the stairs through steps at the time and drop kick the fucker. I wish I could tell you that all the anger and my jismo I built out manifested in a last stand.

But it didn't. I was so scared that I just sat down on the kitchen floor. Cupped my hands over my ears, closed my eyes. just waited for it to be over. Tears streaked down my face as I pressed my hands as hard as I could into my eyes, trying to drown her screaming out. After ten minutes, the screaming stopped. I heard the footsteps trailed down the steps,

and then I waited for the click of the coat closet to shut, but it didn't come. From where I was sitting, I knew I could look and see through the doorway to the bottom of the stairs, but I also knew that apparently just looking at it would snap my mind. But I swear I felt it, like it was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, staring at me, waiting for me to look at it. I had to move my hands from over my ears to over my eyes to keep myself from looking.

But when I did, I heard the strangest noise. It sounded like it was saying something, the same phrase over and over again, really fast and under its breath. I didn't dare look at it. And the way it spoke made my skin crawl. But as I covered there on the kitchen floor, I felt like I was starting to understand what it was saying. But before I could piece it all together, I heard its footsteps lead away. And the closet door shut.

I immediately sprinted up the staircase and into the bedroom. And I could see the vague outline of Dar laying in our bed. In that moment, the weight of what I had just done really. hit me. I was such a coward that I left her there alone with the visitor. Even though I knew she wouldn't remember it, I resolved to confess to her when she woke up the next morning what happened. My conscience wouldn't let me keep it to myself, so I slid into bed and snuggled up to her, reassured of my decision to tell her the following morning. I woke up in the morning. She wasn't in bed. I found her in the living room.

slumped in front of the coat closet in a pool of blood into words what it was like finding her there. There really are none. I was afraid, shocked, ashamed, mortified, grieved, all at the same time. The memories of what happened next are a blur. My neighbor came over to keep the boys upstairs while her body was removed. Breaking the news to Levi and Judah was the hardest thing I ever had to do. The following week we had the viewing, the funeral, the burial, all. her family and mine came down to help me out with the kids.

They even stayed with me for a week, and during that whole time the visitor didn't come. Of course it didn't come. To be honest, I wondered if the visitor would stop. I wondered if her death was what I wanted all along. After all, the entire week my family was here, I never came, and it always came at least twice a week. But that didn't make any sense. Nothing made any sense.

I still have no clue what it wanted. It just stood at the foot of our fucking bed and drove us insane. Breaking our brains so much that our minds forced us to forget. He never attacked us. He never went after the kids. The only thing I ever did was stand there and take our wills to live for the time being. I was relieved knowing that I was safe so long as my family was there. I was able to grieve well for a while, though it was still tainted with a constant fear that the visitor may show up.

So I started recording again. Seven weeks ago, I woke up around 3 in the morning and immediately vomited in the bed. I felt like my head had been bashed in with a brick, and my guts felt like they were boiling. It hurt to breathe. I went to the bathroom to hurl again in the toilet. When I finished and looked in the mirror, I noticed hundreds of scratch marks around my eyes, all puffy and bright pink. My hair was noticeably grayer as well.

I cleaned up the vomit on the bed and through the sheets, blankets, and pillowcases in the washing machine, then took the tape from the camera. I probably should have waited until the morning. But it had never been this bad before. I had to see what happened. Around 2.45 in the morning on the video, the visitor came into my bedroom just like it always did. It stopped at the foot of my bed and paused for a moment longer than usual.

And turned to face me, but rather than jolting upright and screaming, I slowly got up on one elbow, pushed myself up into a sitting position, looked at the visitor, and began to open. Weep, bitterly. I watched as I placed my face into my hands and my shoulders eave as I began wailing into the night. After a few minutes, I started scratching in my eyes, trying anything I could to make sure I couldn't see it anymore. It was difficult to make out why I had such a visceral reaction, but then the visitor did something I'd never seen it do before.

He looked directly at the camera, and I saw it. It was fucking wearing my wife's... Face, not her literal face, mind you, but like a mask made to look like her face. It was slightly wrong in all the places where it mattered. Her smile was wider. Her eyes didn't have the small creases in the corner like she always did when she genuinely smiled. But were wide open and stiff. Her skin was a pale white, and she had dark gaps between all her teeth.

It was like the visitor was mocking her and rubbing it in my face That it finally got one of us And now it was looking at me through the camera I could tell that it was only a matter of time before it got to me It suddenly clicked for me I knew what the visitor was saying that night I cowered in the kitchen She mine

So I boarded up that fucking door with as many pieces of wood I could fit over it, then propped the back of our couch up against it. Then I asked my mother-in-law to watch Levi and Judah so I could drive to the nearest university that boasted a professor of occult studies, and had him give me all the symbols he knew of that were meant for protection, or to keep something from entering this world, or to keep something locked in a room. Anything I could get my hands on. But I didn't leave without telling her not to open that fucking door.

I carved every symbol I could fit. onto those planks of wood. And it looks like at least one of them worked for now. It's been a month, and I haven't been visited. I know this because I don't sleep anymore. But some nights between 2 and 4 a.m., I can hear movement in the closet, like the sound of someone wearing a large coat brushing his arm up and down the wood. Occasionally there's a loud thump, like through its shoulder.

against it. Before that sliding, someone resumes, I know it's in there. I don't know if it dematerializes when the light of day comes to our windows, or if there's some door to another dimension in my coat closet, or if it's just standing there, inches from the door, waiting for someone to open it and let it out. But I do know this. I will never move that coat. I will never take those planks off, and I will never open that door. I don't know why it got Dar. I don't know why the two of us lasted so long when Dr. Hargrove couldn't last a single viewing of a tape. I have an idea, though.

I wonder if it was because Dar and I were together. That somehow the trauma was lighter on us because we had someone to share it with. So when I left her alone with a visitor, alone to take it all in by herself, because I was too chicken shit to face it again, too much for her. But at the end of the day, I don't know. Who know is this? Buy this house. I don't know if realtors have to share stories like this, so I'm sharing it with you now.

When I'm long gone and my boys have moved out and started lives of their own, let this house die with me. But if, for some reason, This story hasn't steered you away. If for some reason you must buy this house, then heat this morning and heat it good. Do not open that door. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes,

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