Creepy - Under A Rotting Sky

Episode Date: August 15, 2022

My name is Garbage...***Written by: HumboldtLycanthropeContent warning: incest, sexual abuse***Bonus: "My husband keeps asking the same question over and over and it's driving me up a wall" Written by:  Lighting Nations (reddit.com/r/thoughtindustry) and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Find our reward tiers and how to get your bonus magnet at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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Behind the scenes, we've been working for quite a while to make this happen, and it's finally just about to start. Creepy is officially going international with the premiere of Creepy and Espanyol. That's right. We're expanding Creepie into other languages and we're starting with Spanish. On August 28, 2022, Creepy and Español premiere with new narrators and starting from the very beginning with the classics like No End House, The Rake, and more. And for you writers out there, this also means that your works could soon have a chance to reach an even larger audience. check out our submissions page at creepypod.com slash submissions for a couple of important changes. And for now, you can search and subscribe to creepy NSBanyel on your favorite podcast app to hear our new trailer.

Thank you all so much for listening and making this possible. And of course, the original creepy will continue to go on. So, no. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling. and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language.

Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents under a rotting sky written by humble. humble lichenthrop. My name is garbage. Forever will my name be carved into my head. I haunt a world of filth, piss, and blood beneath a rotting sky. Every morning I rise from the putrid depths of the bay, my spectral carcass filled with foul seawater and lurching into the shadows, slowly make my way through the trash-strewn streets

to the city, invisible to most, an unclean phantom to others, finding my way to their urine, stinking back alley to wait. She made me this way, made my soul ethereal and ghastly, cursed to live this day out over and over for eternity. My existence, a loop of time, forever turning. It was she who carved this name across. my brow with a sewing needle and black ink. She who shattered my heart and drove me to madness. Suicide. Despair.

She who I seek now. So that I may wrap my fingers round that lovely throat and watch her gorgeous face go blue. It was 1984 when I met her. She was a 17-year-old runaway and the most beautiful. punk rock girl I had ever seen. 1984. Everyone was always talking about that book by George Orwell. People were saying President Reagan was the devil.

That because his first, middle, and last names each contained six letters, he was marked 6666, the number of the beast, and will bring the hand to times. The Cold War was at a fever pitch, and we all expected Nuclear Armageddon to come at any moment. They were teaching school children to duck under their desks if the Russians dropped a plutonium bomb on us, like hiding under a desk was going to help. It was a nihilistic time. But it was fun and exhilarating nonetheless. We had that dead Kennedy's tape, fresh fruit for rotting vegetables, and we'd play it over and over on the beat-up old boombox and our rundown squat. Someone having to steal new batteries for it every week.

That battered tape, Jello Biafra's snide voice, sneering at the music built-up pace and crescendo. Lock your doors, close your mind. It's time for the two-minute warning. And then burst with rage. Welcome to 1984. You are ready for the Third World War! Everyone would be screaming and hopping around and slamming into each other. ecstatic at the prospect of her own possible annihilation.

You two will meet the secret police. They'll draft you and jail your niece. One night after Black Flag Show, she appeared at her squat over on Fourth and D. It was a dingy old abandoned hovel, a rotting Victorian. Some of the older punk anarchists had squats that they'd organized in the communes with committees and boards.

I was voting on this, that, and having meetings. But we were young and wild. Teenagers, the ruckus crew, we called ourselves. And our squat was just a place to get drunk and crash. A party squat. To us, anarchy wasn't a political movement. It's getting wasted, getting rowdy, causing a commotion. Being wild.

Like that circle-jerk song. Running, running wild in the streets We're running wild in the streets There are three of us at the core of the ruckus crew There was slug, big old boy Easily weighing in at 250 With a greasy green mohawk They never seemed to sit right on his head

And always flopped back and forth He got his name because he never seemed to move too fast Even in the mosh pit he was slow But big enough that everyone just bounced off him. Wolf's blood, a pale, skinny kid with a bad complexion, a misfits fanatic. He wore his hair in a devil lock, long black spike that hung down over his face and turned up at his chin, and wore nothing but black clothes adorned with images of skulls.

And then there was me. Garbage. Just a normal, spiky-haired, punk and tattered blue jeans. A red flannel shirt tied around my waist and scuffed combat boots on my feet, looking for a few laughs and a good time. It was our squat. We had found it that boarded up Old Victorian. And it was me who'd spray painted the circle to end on the floor, announcing to our punk community that this was an open and running squat. We were best friends, the three musketeers.

I would yell ruckus, my fist clenched in the air, Slugwood holler rage, holding up a beer, and Wolf's blood would scream, roar, both arms held a loft over his head. That was our thing, and we did it hundreds of times a day. Everyone had come over to our squad after that Black Flag Show, legendary show, with Henry Rollins getting his shorts torn off and continuing on undoneed and naked,

and howling into the mic, we are tired of your abuse. Try to stop us. It's no use. The entire front room of that condemned Victorian was filled with punks. But somehow from across the room, I saw her sitting there

with a book on her lap and another beside her. Now, I was known to be in the bookworm of the crew. I just loved curling up with a good bit of prose. It was a high to me, a way to escape. Kafka Dostoevsky, something dark and foreign. So seeing her there with those books definitely spurred on my interest. She was in the corner, reading a Brad Easton Ellis novel, less than zero.

And I saw that the other book beside her was a sketch pad. She was going from the book to the drawing pad, sketching a naked girl tied to a dirty mattress. She was insanely beautiful. Her eyes was a natural jet black that offset her pale, porcelain-like skin. Her almond-shaped eyes were caked and black eyeliner, with her rosebud lips painted the same dark hue. She was wearing a bulky leather jacket, metal spikes on the collar and shoulders with his skinny neck, frail wrists and torn fishnets, stocking clad legs poking out with fourteen eyes, steel

Toed Ox Blood Doc Martin's on her feet. Hey, what's your name? I asked. She smiled up at me with those thick black lips. I twinkle in her dark eyes. Raven. I once memorized that poem at Ground Poe for an English class back in high school. So I said, cruel as can be. Get thee back into the tempest and then night's plutonian shore.

Her grin grew bigger and she replied, Take that beak from out my heart and take that form from off my door. Nice, and I said, you like that poem, huh? Is that why they call you Raven? No, they call me that because I like to picket dead things. Well, I'm garbage. She laughed. Well, that's pretty obvious.

Oh yeah, and what's your story? She cocked her head flitiously and never losing that grin and said, when my mommy died, my daddy started fucking me. I guess he needed someone to put his dick in, so I ran away. What's yours? I was shocked to what she said. Stunned speechless. I was used to some pretty fucked up shit, I mean, look how we lived, eating out of garbage cans, and sleeping in condemned houses.

But something about her glittery eyes and cocksure, Grin just shook me when those words left her mouth. Then Slug came stumbling over with the beer in his mitt, wrapping a beefy arm around my shoulders and giving me a squeeze. Dude, vomit pierced the dick with a safety pin. He's over there showing it to everyone. You got to see this shit. Come on. And he yanked me away from the strange girl.

As he pulled me along, I glanced back over my shoulder and saw that she was still smiling and staring at me. When she saw me, she gave a little childlike wave with her hand. Bye-bye. I saw her around after that. She gained a reputation as being a pretty good tattoo artist, working with only a thread, reps sewn needle, and some indie ink. She gave everyone anarchy signs, the circled end symbol of the squat, The eight-pointed symbol of chaos, the black flag bars.

Once I strolled up to her while she was tattooing fuck off across a rowdy girl named Dischard his knuckles. The blood and ink flowing over her fingers and staining raven's hands black. I asked if I could look in her book or drawings. Well, it's kind of personal. She gave me a glance and a grin. But sure, go ahead. The pictures were dark and bizarre.

A whole expose on the Charler Manson family. All the girls before and after they had shaved their heads and carved exes into their brows. Sharon Tate, eight months pregnant in a pool of blood with a noose around her neck. Jim Jones smiling and looking like a rock star. Weird stuff. Paul Pot, Hitler, L. Duque. I asked her. Why do you draw all this fucked up shit?

All these bad, evil people. She looked at me curiously. Really? She asked. A guy named Garbert is going to ask me why I'm obsessed with darkness. Because it is there. That's why. Because there is no denying it.

Because looking away as being a coward and lying to yourself. It's a fucked up world and to not acknowledge it would be to give it more power. I thought you understood that. I nodded my head, marveling over her. I did. I understood. I just wanted to hear you say it. And that was the truth, because I had understood that.

I just needed her to say it before I ever knew I did. The next time I ran into her, I just randomly saw her by the wolf, staring down in the little songbird, a sparrow that she held cup in her hands. Seagull screeched as they circled overhead and the sun was sinking into the bay. With that amber light falling on her pale skin, she looked even more beautiful than I remembered her. But she got over there, I asked striding up beside her. Little sparrow, it hurt its wing. She held out her hand so that I could inspect the tiny bird.

It looked up in me with its black eyes and I felt something turned in my gut. We could nurse this creature back to health, I thought. It would be our thing. Bring it back to the squat and help it heal. It'd be fun. The guys would love it. There I was trying to make pets out of mice, rats, and chipmunks had wandered and to sample the trash. Once Wolf's blood even came back with a baby possum that ended up biting him and taking a big old hunk out his hand.

Before we threw it back into the alley. As I went to speak, she looked up in me with these heartbreakers. sadly sad eyes. And again, I was struck silent by her, dazed and lost in the melancholy of her gaze, and she opened her hands, letting the little bird toppled to the ground, where it struggled, beating its one good wing for a moment, before she lifted her foot and brought her boot down squarely upon it. It made a crunching sound, and she twisted her heel, grinding it into the sidewalk.

She laughed and looked up in me with her soul, crushing the beautiful face. Eyes now all a glitter. Do you want to get drunk and go trolling? She asked. Yes, I gasped. And I knew right then that I would do anything to be with this girl. Anything. Got any money for booze?

No, be you. No, let's make you. some. So we started panhandling. It was a blast. I had my standard. Please give to the get-a-punk drunk foundation. She had jokes. Spare some change for a joke. Spare some change for a joke. Hear about the weather in Mexico. Chile today. Hot tamale. We're really getting anywhere. About half an hour, we had five bucks between the two of us. Then she spied an old lady crossing the road. Stay here, she said, and her entire demeanor changed.

She became someone else. Her eyes lost that mischievous sparkle. Her lips went from a devilish grin to a pout. That jaunty tilt of her head became a sullen and downcast look of sadness. And she shuffled up to that white-haired woman and began mumble something to her I couldn't hear. Woman went into a purse and slept her a fold of bills. I could see Raven Mouth in the words, thank you. Then she went back to her old self,

skipping back to me little girl style, laughing uproariously. That old bitch gave me a hundred bucks. What did you say to her? It doesn't matter. Come on, let's get some wine. We got a gallon bottle of Carlo Rossi Burgundy and headed off trolling, cruising around under bridges and getting drunk.

Tucked up under the Samoa Bridge on a concrete slab surrounded by graffiti and broken glass, we began to kiss. The taste of cheap wine was as sweet as candy on her lips. She seemed eager to fuck, a bun in my pants, pulling off her panties and drawing me into her. But as I began to move my body over her,

I noticed she was weeping. crying quietly. Her eyes clenched shut. What? What is it? Do you want me to stop? No, she said. It feels good.

I like it. Please don't stop. Don't stop. So I rocked against her. I could feel her begin to ride and move beneath me, meet my strokes with her own. Our rhythm gained a momentum until she moaned and shuddered and I knew she'd come.

Then I let myself go, and we lay there clutching each other in the darkness, the traffic overhead making the bridge tremble slightly and hum. We drank more wine, cuddled up. She told me about a father, the way he would come into a room at night after her mother had died and have his way with her. She cried, told her it was all right. She was gone from him now, and she would never have to go back. We fell asleep clutching each other and woke up in the dim pre-dawn light, freezing and shivering.

We fled back to the squat, holding hands and giggling, still drunk. We were inseparable from that moment on. She stopped crying during sex and wanting to fuck everywhere, in alleys and gutters, the dark corner of the club, while true sound of liberty played darken my love. We were giddy and got high just staring into each other's eyes. The first tattoo she gave me was a black heart. Take off your shirt, she said. Her dark eyes twinkling as she got out her little tattoo kit.

I want to give you something. I slid my shirt over my head and lay back as she straddled me and began to press black ink into my skin with her sewing needle, hatching a large ebony heart in the center of my chest. The next tattoo she gave me was garbage across my forehead. We were laying on an old mattress in an upstairs room of the squat where we had made ourselves a little room of our own, drunk as usual. I said, I want a new tattoo. Give me a new tattoo. What do you want? She purred, licking her lips and pressing herself against me.

Whatever. I muttered, she said, she said, she was. began to nibble on my ear. How about garbage across your forehead? Whoa. That's our core. I think it'd be hot, sexy. I'd known for a long time I would do whatever this girl asked. She held me in the palm of her hand.

Just as she had once held that little sparrow. Sure, babe. If you think it's hot. I laid their laughing as she poked in my flash with the threat wrapped needle dipped in ink. It took a long while, and by the time it was over, it hurt like hell and was bleeding profusely. I'll never forget looking into that dingy chip mirror and seeing my reflection staring back. The word garbage printed permanently across my brow in a sloppy, childlike scrawl,

blood and ink dripping down my face. Then there was that insane butthole surfer show. That was the night everything changed. The Grateful Dad were in town, so there were these dreadlock hippies everywhere. Tons of them showed up at the show. They were just giving away tabs of asslet, so Raven and I ate a bunch in the little paper squares. The image of Snoopy embossed upon them. It was the strangest night of my life.

The club was packed and very dark. There was screens set up with unsettling and weird images. is flickering on him. Sex change operations, car accident victims, flux of birds and schools of fish. A large section of the audience were bowing down and worshiped to the stage where two drummers were banking out of primitive tribal beat. The guitarist was fiddling around making squawking sounds and feedback. Mist poured out of the smoke machine and the entire stage was engulfed in fog, at the center which was an obese, naked woman, painted green, writhing, and squirming into the beat. Then Gibby came out, tall and sureless, mumbling incoherently in the microphone.

As I listened and started to make out the words, I realized he was riffing on that door's song, The End. And I walked on down the hall, and I came to a room where my mother was, and I noticed she had shaved her pussy just for the occasion, and I walked on down the hall, and I paid a visit to my father, who looked down to me with green eyes and said, son, Satan, Satan, Satan. Suddenly the room erupted into violence and chaos as the rift of black Sabbath sweet leaf came blaring out of the speakers. The lights were flashing, bodies were hurling through the air, and the screens were filled with images of mushroom clouds exploding over and over. Then I noticed Gibby had a shotgun and was firing blanks into the crowd.

It was utter insanity. The acid had fully kicked in and everything was shimmering and melting. I didn't know if I was in heaven or hell, but it was awesome. Amazing. Raven and I just stood there in the back of the club holding hands, entranced by the spectacle. The rest of the show was just pure anarchy. Anarchy. Gaby was setting things out fire and throwing them into the swirling mosh pit. People were dangling from the ceiling beams and hurling themselves off of speakers.

That fat, naked lady gyrating in the mist the entire time, like the calm in the eye of the storm. Afterwards, we all went back to the squat to party. Raven was high as hell and acting really weird. She kept biting my neck and sticking her hand on my pants. grabbing in my dick. Come on, she kept whispering. Don't you want to fuck me? I did.

Of course I did. But I also wanted to be with my friends. We were all amped from the show. Nearly all of us had eaten acid and were still pretty high. That wiry, high energy high, after an LSD peak. Just a quick one. Come on, baby. I finally blended.

Leonard draig me away by the hand. You garbage, where you going, man? A slug called out. I'll be right back. I shouted back over my shoulder. Yeah, sure you will. Wolf's blood chimed in. When we got to our dingy little room,

she immediately threw me down on the mattress and stripped off her clothes. She was on me and I'm buckling my pants before I had time to even pull off my tattered t-shirt. Then things got weird, real weird. She was straddling me, moaning, She said, come on, fuck me, daddy. Fuck you little girl.

Fuck me good. Jesus, Raven, I muttered. What are you saying? And she slapped me hard, right across the face and flipped me over so that now I was on top of her. Still moaning, she muttered. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me so good, daddy.

Hurt me, bite me, make me bleed. Raven, what's going on? I asked, and she grabbed me by the hair and pulled my. I had back, duck her nails into my sign. Do it, bitch, he growled, bite me and make me bleed. And so I did. We went at it all night. It was passed out, exhausted.

So when I awoke sometime afternoon spawned from the acid and groggy, she was gone. Her back was gone, too, as well as her sketchbook. I went downstairs where the guys were drinking, beer and listening to that dead Kennedy's tape. California Uber Alice. California Uber Alice. Hey, you guys seen Raven?

Saw her leave, Slug said, slurping the froth off a freshly open can of Papps. She didn't say a thing. That's weird. Whatever. Come on, bro. Have her brusky. She'll fucking be back. rage roar wolf's blood shouted throwing me a beer ruck-ass i holler back cracking open the beer and swallowing down half of it she never did come back

i grew depressed lethargic i didn't want to go out i just wanted to lay in the room raven and i had once shared and read i went through huge volumes tomes tall stories war in peace, Joyce as Ulysses, waiting and hoping she'd come back. As a day's turned into weeks, I started to drink heavier and heavier, stealing handles of lower calvert and drinking it down straight from the bottle. Getting so wasted every day I couldn't even read anymore. The words just becoming a jumble blur. Rockass! I'd yell to my friends, falling down, ready to puke, struggling for balance.

Rage, roar, they'd shout back. But it wasn't the same. It felt lackluster. I wasn't the same. And I knew they could tell. You gotta forget about that chick, bro. Slug told me one night. She was a fucking nutcase anyway.

I know, man. I know, I muttered. but I knew he could never know how much I loved her, never understand how much I missed her, how I ate, sometimes snuck away to drunkenly weep and puke, my heart is shattered mess. Then one day I saw her. I was out by cutting,

looking for new territory to panhandling, desperate for a bottle, and I saw her leave in the Catholic school there. At first I thought it was an illusion. that it was just someone else, that I was seeing things, for she was all done up in a Catholic school uniform with a plaid skirt, white button-up shirt, and blue blazer. But as I got closer, I saw it was definitely her.

That gorgeous face, those twinkling eyes, she was walking with another girl, backpack slung casually over their shoulders. Raven? I asked, stunned as I approached her. Oh, God, garbage. You know this guy, Karen?

Her friend asked. Karen, I'd never even known her real name. Yeah, just give me a minute, Jenny. I'll be right there. She said to her friend who gave me a snide up and down look as she sawn her away. Then Raven turned to me. Garbage, how are you?

Awful. I'm fucking awful I miss you what happened where'd you go I just had to get away from that life I snapped that night when I woke up I realized

that I just couldn't take it anymore bag in eating out of garbage cans that disgusting house I just needed to get my life together I'm gonna graduate this year and then I'm going to art school in Portland I've already been accepted what about me

I love you Yeah, and I love you too, garbage. I do, and always will. Our time together will always be special to me. I just had to give that life up. I'm living back with my dad, and things are going good now. Things are going good now. You told me he raped you.

Keep it down. Don't make a scene. Maybe it wasn't all him. Maybe I was blamed as well. We worked it all out. Worked it out. I can't believe what you're saying to me. You said he raped you when you were 16 years old.

How can you be to blame? This is fucked. Look, garbage. You gotta calm down. You just don't understand. Understand? No, I don't fucking understand. You told me you loved me.

That we'd be together forever. I do love you, but I never said we'd be together forever. Right now, I don't know. just can't be with someone who has garbage tattooed across their forehead. I can't. But you did this to me. Nevertheless, what would my father say? He's paying for me to go to art school and he's laying down some very strict rules.

Your father? Your fucking father, the pervert? The rapist? All right, that's it. I've got to go. Look, it was a good time. But we both just have to move on. So please, just leave me alone.

Come on, Jenny, she shouted to a friend. Let's get going. And they left, left me standing there, lost and alone. I could hear her friend say to her as they strolled away. I can't believe you know that guy. He smelled. And the way he was dressed, gross. And was that garbage written on his head?

After that I began to stalk her. I found out where she lived and spent days by the trash cans in the alley across from her house, drinking and watching. Winter was coming. The sky was growing dark with black clouds. Clouds that looked like mold, like rock. I saw her father come and go. A smug-looking guy with salt and pepper hair, I was dressed in a blue suit.

He'd get into his BM's. W every morning, be back at six every evening. It was his fault. That sick fuck. This was all his fault. I decided I was going to kill him. There in that piss-stinking alley beneath that rotting sky, I found a rusty crowbar. Not the little things used to pry off hub camps, but a big industrial length, a heavy metal

used to tear down walls and pry apart boards. The door to their house was unlocked, and I just strolled right in, half-blacked-out drunk. He was asleep on the sofa in front of the TV. He didn't even see it coming. I walked right up behind him, lifted that heavy piece of metal over my head and routed down into the top of his head. He made a kind of surprise sound like, huh? As his skulls, as his skulls, all shattered. Again I lifted it and swung, blood and bits of brain spraying over me till I was soaked in gore.

And again, until there was nothing of his head left but a bloody stump with his tongue lulling out to the side. At first, I thought the screaming was in my head. This loud, piercing cry. But when I turned, I saw it was her. Raven. She was standing there at the bottom of the stairs, screaming. When she saw me turn toward her, she ran up the staircase.

I followed behind her, reaching up to grasp an ankle. She fell with a thud. I climbed up over her. She was still screaming hysterically. I wanted to tell her how I saved her, how she was free now, how I loved her and wanted to be with her forever. but she just wouldn't stop screaming, howling, trying to push me away from her. Somehow, I found my hands stained black with her father's blood wrapped around her neck,

squeezing, squeezing, squeezing, until her face went blue and her eyes went still. I lay there atop her in the staircase for a good while. Her father's blood beginning to coagulate and stink. Then I fled. Ran and ran through those filthy streets beneath that rotting sky, covered in the stench of death, and had become a monster. I had killed the thing I loved most,

the one thing of beauty and truth that I have found in this sick, sad world. I ran to the soul. Moa Bridge. I crawled up onto that graffiti-covered slab of concrete where we had first made love and wept, wept, and wept, and wept. Then after the sun had set, sinking into the bay, and blackness obscured that rotting sky, I climbed to the truss of the bridge, and up I went into the darkness of night. And when I had reached the top of the top of the top of the top of the top of the top, I had reached the top, the pinnacle, and I could go no further. I threw myself off into the darkness below. In the morning, I awoke beneath the waves and water, dead, ethereal. I crawled out,

clawed my way to the shore where I lurched into the shadows to find that alley again, to wait there again, to go and kill again, kill her father, then kill the thing I loved most over and over and over for eternity. This is my fate. To wrap my blood-soaked fingers around her throat and watch her face go blue before throwing myself into darkness again and again and again. My name is garbage. Forever will my name be carved into my head.

I haunt a world of filth, piss, and blood beneath a rotting sky. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents, my husband keeps asking the same question over and over, and it's driving me up a wall, written by Lighting Nations, and narrated by Danielle Hewitt.

My husband started telling dad jokes before he was old enough to pour his own juice. So I may have missed a red flag or two, or four. But in my defense, this kind of juvenile behavior seemed very on-brand at the time. Let me give you some quick context. The entire first year Stephen and I lived together. Anytime we exchanged I love you's, He would quickly pinch my cheek and shout,

"'Bsd, make your own damn waffles.' Neither of us even liked waffles. He just got a kick out of spoiling the moment. And although I'd groan and roll my eyes, his dumb schick cracked me up. Lord help me, it absolutely cracked me up. So when I shuffled into the kitchen one morning, fresh from sleep, his odd remark barely registered.

Can you see me smile? I glanced at Stephen from across the center island. What? He leaned back and blinked. What? I thought you said something. He shrugged and shook his head. My imagination then.

As I poured a cup of coffee, he said it again. Quieter this time. Can you see me smile? Here we go. Stephen's jokes were usually unfunny for the first week or two, until his relentless commitment tickled my funny bone. That's nice, honey, honey. I said after a yawn.

Then I circled the island and went in for a kiss, but instead noticed a sore beneath his left nostril. Oof, get some cream on that. On my way out of the room, Stephen began ratcheting coughs. Things seemed normal for the next few days. He periodically dropped the smile line mid-conversation and then continued on like normal. Once or twice, he even said it over the phone.

Hey, hon. I'm at the store. Do we need any... Can you see me smile? General? Stephen picked up some cream for his increasingly gruesome scab, although that didn't seem to help. If anything, it made things worse. One evening, as we sat down to dinner, he slurped up some pasta, stared dead into my eyes, and twisted his mouth in this horrible pumpkin grin. Can you see me smile? I set my fork down. Okay, enough. It's been a week, and I'm still not laughing. What are you talking about? That stupid, can you see me smile? Can you see me smile thing?

He cocked his head to the side. Huh? Don't even start, just drop it already. The two of us went back and forth, him pushing me to explain myself, me growing steadily more agitated. Can't you admit this gag didn't land and move on? Well, the only gags I do land are ones about airplanes, but I still don't understand what you're talking about. The tension immediately dissolved as I half groaned, half-chuckled at his zinger. Later, as I soaked in the tub with two cucumber slices over my eyes, the door at the far side of the room creaked open. Stephen?

I called. Another creak. Hello? I slid up catching the slices. There was no one else in the steamy room. A draft had most likely blown the door open. I settled back into a comfortable position. Afterward, while toweling myself off,

I noticed a smiley face on the fogged up mirror above the sink, accompanied by the words, Can you see me smile? Stephen had already turned in for the night, so my lecture about boundaries got placed on hold until morning. Sometime after midnight, an awful dream about falling into this endless black void startled me away. For a moment, the sensation carried into the real world, no doubt because the mattress had compressed

beneath our combined weight. I opened my eyes in an attempt to escape the sensation of that awful dream and saw Stephen, who held himself directly above me, supported by his elbows and knees. His nose was pressed right up against mine. I bit down on a scream. Stephen's sore head spread. Now he looked like a toddler after devouring a plate of jam sandwiches. Was he picking at those oozing scabs?

What the fuck? I shouted. Immediately he rolled on to his half of the bed and faced the wall pretending to snore. I thumped the back of his skull. Hard. You almost gave me a heart attack. He acted all innocent like he'd just woken up. The corners of his mouth twitching as though pulled by invisible strings. Ow, what was that for? He propped up against the backboard,

one hand rubbing the bump across the back of his head, the other fingering a leaky sore under his chin. Turning away, I said, This is getting seriously old. You're not funny. He began to protest, but then entered a harsh coughing fit. It rose from deep inside his chest as he raced down the hall. And go see a dermatologist, I shouted after him.

When the alarm screeched, the far side of the bed was still empty. I crossed the upstairs landing and went into the bathroom, or Stephen stood before the sink. Eyes fixed on his own reflection. He stretched and twisted his lips, which had gone pale at the corners using his forefingers. From the doorway, I said, look, sorry about last night, but you scared the crap out of me. Can we act like the whole thing never happened? He pulled the sides of his mouth apart. The gums look gray and unhealthy. I rolled my eyes. Fine.

On my way across the hall, he shouted. Can you see me smile? I called my mom from work, who listened to me vent for 20 minutes. He just won't give it a rest with this smiling thing. Be up front. Explain how much it's bothering you. That sounded reasonable. Stephen liked juvenile jokes, granted, but he wasn't a man-child or anything.

Most likely the two of us could get this straightened out and then go for romantic meals someplace fancy. Back home, Stephen was in the downstairs lounge, furiously scribbling into a notebook. Can we talk? I asked. He stayed hunch forward, his attention fixated on his writing. I'm sorry if I was a little short-tempered last night. I didn't mean to hit you so hard. But this joke, it really got under my skin. Do you think we could pretend the whole thing never happened? No response. Can you please answer me, or at least acknowledge that you're listening?

I moved forward and snatched the notepad away. Stephen stood suddenly enough to startle me and grabbed it back. For a split second I glimpsed the words, Can You See Me Smile, written over and over again. He grinned, exposing teeth of startling whiteness. had he bleached them? This wasn't a joke anymore. It was full-blown mental illness.

Stephen, talk to me. What's wrong? He cleared his watery throat. Can you see me smile? He tossed the notebook aside and took a single step forward, arms outstretched. Thin trickles of blood ran along his chin from where he'd compulsively nibbled his bottom lip. Can you see me smile? I retreated into the hall.

Stephen Can you see me smile? He coughed harshly before saying it again in kind of a hoarse growl. Thick wads of saliva flew from those pale lips. I spun on my heels and made for the door, Stephen walking after me. Can you see me smile? He followed me out of the house and across the front walkway. The second I pulled the door of my Ford escort shut, he drum-rolled the window.

Can you see me smile? Can you see me smile? As I slipped the vehicle into gear, he breathed over the glass to fog it up and rope backwards. C. A. N. It's a miracle I didn't plow over him barreling out of that driveway in reverse. My eyes had gone all red and puffy by the time I reached Mom's place. The police showed zero interest in Stephen's condition. Yeah, sure. Your husband keeps telling you to smile. We'll get right on that. Neither did the paramedics.

You want us to send an amply. ambulance over a nasty rash. Stephen didn't respond to any of my messages nor answer my calls. That night, I lay awake praying he was okay, that he'd made use of the mental health resources I'd sent over. Mom told me to steer clear until we could arrange for somebody to accompany me home. But laying in that cold, empty bed, I had a terrible nightmare about Stephen hurting himself. He needed help. I couldn't wait.

When I pulled into the driveway, the house was entirely dark. A nasty aroma hit me the second I pushed open the front door. A strangely familiar, coppery scent. There were dull thuds from somewhere upstairs. I slowly climbed the steps. In the landing, I flicked on the lights and stifled a yelp. Scribbled up and down the walls with the words, Can you see me smile?

Stephen had covered every inch of space from floor to ceiling. My heart kicked into a higher gear. The door to the bathroom was slightly ajar. I tiptoed forward, the color of the writing switching from black to red in what I assumed was lipstick or paint. Gently I wrapped the door. Stephen? I called so low I almost couldn't hear myself.

Then, after a little while, I went in. My husband was crouched in the corner naked, his back to me. He dragged a lobster red hand up and down the wall, smearing the word C over the cream-colored tiles, stopping only to replenish the ink by vomiting thick red phlegm onto his fingers. Oh, fuck. It was blood. He'd written those words with his own blood.

Can you see me smile? He snarled along with a full body spasm. There was something wrong with his voice. He sounded like a patient in a dentist's chair with a prop in their mouth. The door made a cree sound as I flinch back without meaning to. Stephen's head perked up. I spun into the hall and raced toward the stairs. Halfway there, Stephen threw himself hard against the back of my legs,

sending us both careening down the steps. I landed flat on my back. Directly above my head, two blurry light bulbs circled one another. I watched them go round and round until two Stevens, their mouths caked with dry, crusty blood, leaned into my window of vision. He pinned me down. in between gruesome wheezes that slid up from his throat. He repeated those five words again and again.

As my vision stabilized, I realized it wasn't just blood on his face. Tendons and jaw muscles were exposed, pulling and vibrating like overtuned guitar strings. Fragments of bone even shined through in places. The lips and the surrounding area had been chewed or cut or scratched away. His cheeks hung loose in torn flaps. He brought us nose to nose, his exposed jaw inches from my mouth.

Can you see me smile? That raw sewage breath absolutely reeked. A big purple tongue slid out of his mouth, finding its way inside my right nostril. As I lashed out against him, a raw meat peeled away beneath my fingernails. He eventually made a sound like a cat hacking up a furball, exposed teeth chattering and closing and crunching. I seized the opportunity by warming my way out from under him and made my break for the kitchen, where I armed myself with a steak

knife. He followed me into the room, canines bared. I'm fucking warning you, I screamed. He grinned, although I could tell only by his eyes, those mad eyes that almost seemed to laugh. As he shuffled forward, his pincher jaw clansed shut again and again. Finally, he lunged, and I rammed that knife straight into his throat. Stephen's body went completely limp before slumping to the floor. Paramedics actually wretched when they arrived. Craziest fucking thing I ever saw, said the taller of the pair. A police officer couldn't believe the story.

Still a stammering mess, I recounted how Stephen had mutilated himself before attacking me over and over. He took me to the station for an official statement, after which mom took me to her place. Where? For some odd reason. My mouth wouldn't stay closed. I sobbed into her shoulder,

licking my lips again and again. My tongue had the texture of a carpet, plus something kept turning over in my gut. Acid reflux, maybe. Eventually an urge to open my mouth and let out a giant, irresistible yawn overpowered me. Then mom reeled away, her face laced with concern. What do you mean, honey? I threw her a confused look and scratched my itchy mouth. What do you mean, what do I mean? She reached over and

wiped a tear off my cheek. Why wouldn't I be able to see you smile? For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit you. Visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Sherrillite licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team

and the story's author.