Creepy - Wednesday's Meatloaf

Episode Date: December 18, 2023

Hope you brought your appetite***Written by: Tim Brown and Narrated by: Nate DuFort***Bonus Episode: "I Can't Stop Myself" written by: Kevinsdad***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by: Alex Aldea 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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Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents Wednesday's Meatloaf. Written by Tim Brown and narrated by Nate Dufort. Fucking shit! Her shrill cry came from the kitchen, followed by the slam of metal-on-metal, oven door, baking tray, rattling in its slot. Smoke, like black cotton, rose up from the kitchen.

It would have tripped the smoke detectors if the battery still worked. Jeff Cooley set his homework aside and trudged into the kitchen. He'd heard language like that from the other kids on the playground, but rarely from his own mother, rarely with such force behind it. Debbie wore tears in her eyes like diamonds, like she had trained to do all those years ago, before she lost her touch, before she took her stardom for granted.

I just don't get it! I tried! I really tried! The flab under Debbie's arms jittered as she cracked the windows. Jeff peered into the still-smoking oven. What he saw sent his stomach churning again. The oatmeal he ate for breakfast hadn't agreed with him, and he opted out of what the school assured him was grilled cheese. The smell of blackened meatloaf, lingering nicotine, and the thick dander of their three cats,

each named after one of Debbie's major film rules, came together in a heady brew. He took in the smell and gagged. It was a quick motion, nothing more than his tongue protruding past, the open mouth and back in again. Debbie caught it, though. She put her palms to her temples, pressing until they turned white. Two rosaries swung from her neck. Oh, sure, I try to cook something and it comes out a little overdone so you turn your nose up at it? Ungrateful. That's what you are.

Ungrateful! Debbie stormed up the carpet line stairs. Jeff listened to her heavy footfalls as she tramped into the room Jeff wasn't allowed inside, but knew was filled with crucifixes. She'd be in there for hours if the last time she cooked was any indication, down on her knees, praying for forgiveness from anyone who would listen. Jeff switched off the oven and opened the oven door once more, waiting for the billowing smoke to clear. The gnarled slab of ground chuck, onions, and breadcrumbs stared back at him from its stained coffin. Jeff put on a pair of oven mitts, lined with kittens chasing balls of yarn, and removed their former dinner from its cremator.

The modeled thing resembled a large piece of charcoal. A premixed salad, limp and still bagged, set adjacent. The makings of a fine dinner were here. He could see it all laid out nicely on the dinner table if they moved the catalogs piling up first. Maybe add a heap of mashed potatoes, instant or otherwise, and he'd go for seconds. But these were desperate times. He wasn't hungry yet, but he knew in an hour the nausea he'd felt would be long gone, and regret mixed with famine would take its place.

Did he dare? Did he dare to dare? Jeff had endured so many hungry nights. Nights when, through no fault of his own, he'd go to bed hungry. He was a growing boy, like his mother loved to tell him when egging him on to finish a sad lingering salad. He pushed a stepstool towards the pantry. If he was lucky, there'd be some crackers in there he could munch on, maybe even some gummies. The pantry door creaked open like a treasure chest. Empty. Rather, empty of things Jeff considered edible. There were a few sealed jars of olives, a jar of sliced pickles, and tucked away behind them, lurking a canned chicken. Whole thing.

right in the can if the photograph was anything to go on. The fridge proved no better. Celery leaked in the crisper. A Ziplock bag containing the ground beef Debbie didn't use in the meatloaf lurked in the back. Jeff wasn't sure enough of himself to use the stove, and he knew that you needed to do something with ground beef to make it tasty. Besides, as soon as the meat started sizzling, the smell would travel up, up into Debbie's crossroom and into her nose.

He wanted something hot, something delicious. Twelve hours had passed since his last meal, and he wanted to keep it at twelve, so what could he do? Growing boys need to eat. In her tantrum, Debbie had left her phone on the counter. Jeff had learned the code by peering over his mother's shoulder, a simple swipe pattern, D for Debbie, he thought. He looked up a nearby pizza place.

dreams of a pepperoni slice danced through his head as he dialed. The place he decided on bore a starburst sticker claiming 30 minutes, or it's free. It was the one thing he still dreaded, that electronic ringing before someone picked up the other end. No matter how much he'd mentally prepare for asking if someone was around, or what time a store closed, or in this case, what kind of pizza he'd like and where he lived. The butterflies got the better of him, and an order for pepperoni pizza came out as an ordom order or pepperoni or pie or pizza. He said he'd pay in cash and gave the strange man his address.

Thirty minutes, the strange man said and hung up. It gave Jeff plenty of time to rummage, come up with the 1532 owed cash on delivery. He found it in moments. A ten stuck to the first. with a liquor store magnet, another peeking from his mother's purse. No movement came from upstairs. Jeff got on the couch as Queen Catherine curled up beside him, licking her long gray fur. Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang. A tall man, taller than Jeff certainly, handed over the pizza.

He wiped his brow as Jeff fished for the two tens, giving him a limp and sweaty five in exchange. Jeff pocketed the change. The driver grumbled something, then left. The warm roughness of the cardboard felt heavenly. The smell of meat, cheese, tomatoes, and bread, all blending together in melty perfection, made him want to stick his face right in. Little plastic pizza topper be damned.

But he was civilized, as civilized as a fifth grader could be. He picked a plate from the cupboard and got himself the largest slice. Queen Catherine made a confused chirp as Jeff sat beside her on the couch. Played in hand, favorite show playing, he was ready to eat. He got two perfect bites down before he heard the creak of his mother's door opening. The carpeted stairs distributed her slight frame well. Jeff only heard her bare feet brushing the matting.

She poked her head into the living room. It looked like she'd been crying. She replaced the t-shirt and chinos she'd been wearing with a billowy nightgown, which made even her stilted steps look graceful. And just what do you think you're doing with that? Jeffrey? Just what do you think you're doing? Jeff stammered.

Ordering his dinner was easier than this. Each word she spoke carried with it the threat of punishment if he gave a wrong answer. I ordered pizza. It was honest, at least. Probably the best route to take. Dinner was ruined, so I decided to order it. Mm-hmm. And did you ask me if you could order dinner?

Did you think I didn't have a plan? Yes, I mean, no. Debbie cocked her head back. Let a huge breath escape. I just don't know what I'm going to do with you, Jeff. I try, and I try. but you just never seem to trust me. I'm doing my best to make this a loving, caring home,

and this is what I get? No questions, no permission, just this slop invading my space? With that, she grabbed the barely eaten slice, muttering something about the cheese and fat and all the calories in each slice. Jeff followed her into the kitchen. Queen Catherine made an oomph

as she jumped off the couch and slunk away. He saw the corner of the flowered crust as it dove into the garbage can, blending in with toppings of coffee grounds and orange rinds. Debbie grabbed the pizza box next to the stove and the failed first dinner. This is what we will do for dinner. We're having a home-cooked meal, a nice, wholesome meal. At the dinner table, like a family, like what we're trying to be. Can you do that for me, Jeffrey?

Jeff nodded. Debbie beamed a practice smile. Don't fucking test me, the smile said, beneath the veneer of bleached teeth. She kept that grin as she opened the pizza box and slid the rest of the pie in the garbage. A slice broke off and missed the plastic liner, falling on the tiled floor, cheese-side down with a plop. Debbie fished it up and put it with the rest of the slices. A sheen of grease remained where it landed. A lot of the slices probably fell in on each other.

I could have that for dinner, real dinner, after this. Jeff kept his eyes away from the bin. He never could be sure how well his mother could read his mind. If this were her fourth movie, Mind Reaper, he'd be screwed. That one was rated R, but Debbie let him watch. her scenes, all except the nudie ones. Set the table for me. Can you do that for me, sweetie? I'll get dinner ready. Her smile did not meet her eyes. Jeff shoved the magazines and letters to the far end of the dining table.

It was only the two of them. It always was. A sound of sand being poured into plastic came from the kitchen. Jeff whirled around quickly to see the last of the kitty litter falling into the garbage, like sand draining from an hourglass. She smacked the bottom of the tray with her palm, and a few large clumps fell. Jeff felt like he had seen the last few shovelfuls of dirt cover a grave. He thought of his father two years ago. Out came a silver tray, reflecting and distorting the room. Debbie always liked to do it big when she was serving dinner.

She placed the tray between the two of them on their half-clear dine. dining room table and removed the lid with a dramatic flourish straight out of the home shopping network. If only it were some Omaha steaks, Jeff thought. Though he knew what would be under that reflective dome, it looked somehow worse in the 30 minutes, or it's free, since Jeff saw it last. Debbie produced a long, serrated kitchen knife from behind the tray, like she was performing some magic trick. pointing the knife straight downwards, she began to carve off a heel.

She balanced it perfectly on the knife blade and slid it off onto Jeff's plate with a fork. He'd never seen anything edible be this black before, not even the bitter brew his mother liked to drink by the pot each morning. Jeff pushed the hunk around on his plate. A little smear of black followed the meatloaf, like the thing had been coated with squid ink before. being carved. You see this, mom?

It's cooked dry, right? He'd learned to control language over time, one too many insults leading to one too many mealless nights. I cooked it just the way it's supposed to be cooked, Jeffrey. You'll eat it, and some of this, too. She used a pair of wooden spoons to scoop a heap of wilting Caesar's salad on his plate. It looks sad, but edible. Jeff forked a mouthful, only for just to eat.

Debbie to slap it away. Wait for grace, she said. A look of serenness passed through her. Their plates were full. Glasses filled with ice water began to sweat. Dinner was ready. Debbie interlocked her fingers, closed her eyes, and began to pray. Lord, if you're up there, thank you for everything.

Thank you for this bounty. Thank you for my acting roles. and thank you for bringing three wonderful beings into my life. Amen. Jeff wondered if she forgot one of the cats or forgot him. She opened her eyes again, something out of a silent movie, and picked up her fork and knife. Jeff did the same, only feeling brave enough to touch the greens on the plate. They smelled a little funny, but otherwise tasted fine. and he crunched the romaine once possessed was now gone.

Some of the pouch-seizor dressing commingled with the meatloaf, turning black at its touch. Jeff went on eating, chew, swallow, sip, dab, just like mother prescribed. It was polite. It was proper. The salad finished. Jeff asked for seconds.

Debbie looked at his half-finished plate and clucked her tongue. not until you finish the entire plate, dear. Then you may have a smaller helping of each. She brought her fork down European style, spearing her bite before bringing down her knife to carve off the chunk of meat, little crumbs bouncing away like so much sawdust. He wasn't sure how she could swallow such a bite

without huge gulps of water to wash it down, but somehow she managed. A tiny sip of water, then a dab of the napkin to her lips, then repeat. Jeff looked at his own plate. Little kittens chased balls of yarn around its edge. The filmy dressing merged with the meatloaf. Little outshoots of black appeared where the two met, like dropping ink into water. Jeff traced it, watched it spread.

Spread? Aren't you going to finish? Debbie asked, after she finished wiping a deep crue. crease near her mouth. Midnight coated the napkin's corner. The thought of putting any more of its contents inside him left his stomach twisting. No thank you. May I please be excused? He hated these formalities, but he knew what she wanted to hear. No dessert for you. Yes, mother. May I bust my plate? The salad might be enough to tide him over until tomorrow morning. He'd have breakfast cereal at school. He might even be able to bum a fruit salad off a classmate if he was lucky.

No. Jeff blinked. No, Jeff, you may not bust your plate. You were to take it with you to bed. You'll finish it tonight, or you'll have it for breakfast tomorrow. Is that clear? He only told her that he understood. Fulled his napkin and placed it on his seat and carried his plate to his bedroom. All the while, his gut growled in protest. The sound of his mom's sobs came from beneath. At first, Jeff wasn't sure if they were live or another one of her tear-jerker scenes. He got his answer when she began to speak and heave deep sobs at the same time. If he paid attention, he could probably place which movie of hers was on. But the plate took priority. Jeff left it on his nightstand.

next to a lamp shaped like a Louisville slugger. He wasn't much for baseball. The minor league games his father had taken to proved dreadfully boring. The only thing keeping this stupid lamp in his bedroom was the lack of replacement. Jeff tried reading a bit of hatchet to take his mind off the hunger. He needed to read it for school anyway. It didn't work, but flipping through the pages made him feel a little like Brian Robeson, forced to survive and figure out how to best tackle a problem he'd never faced before.

Throwing it away was the obvious choice, but the window had been jammed shut for as long as he could remember, and the nearest trash can was in his mom's bedroom. Debbie would hear him creeping around, ask what he was doing out of his room, if he needed a drink of water, if he wanted to watch television. Maybe she was trying her best to be a mother, Maybe he was the asshole.

He went behind her back to order pizza, even dipped into her wallet to pay for it, and all because he didn't want to eat her meatloaf. Or couldn't. No, he didn't try a bite of her meatloaf. One look told him it was inedible. But maybe he could be wrong. The plate possessed an odd fishy smell.

Jeff couldn't be sure if it was the lingering anchovy dresser, or the meatloaf. He took the fork from the plate and carved off a small piece with its tines. The hunk of meat seemed to twitch at the tip of the fork, but he chalked it up to the light and the dizziness he'd been feeling all day. Appetites still not sated, he leaned back against thin pillows. I'd take gum at this point, he thought. Scouring his bedroom and finding none, Jeff decided to sleep. Jeffrey, school's starting soon. Come downstairs for breakfast.

Her voice cut through the wood like it was nothing, like she was in the room with him. Okay, mother, he said. Pangs of hunger stabbed into his sides and confounded the simple task of sitting up in bed. He dressed in a daze, too hungry to care and too tired to notice what changed. Downstairs, the table was set only for one.

Debbie had her usual mound of steaming oatmeal and berries waiting for her. There was nothing in front of Jeff's place, not even a plate. Debbie picked up on Jeff's confusion. Where's your breakfast? Didn't you bring it down? Sorry, I'll go get it. Right, I forgot. She was halfway through her oatmeal by the time he returned.

He put the plate in front of him, staring at his mother as she wolfed down bite after bite. He'd never seen her so ravenous before. The meatloaf on his plate changed since he last saw it. The sharp reek of anchovy turned sickly sweet overnight. Jeff traced how close it came to the strings of yarn festooning the blue trim. The edge overlapped the yarn in several places. It had grown. It had definitely grown.

His stomach let out a stream of constant grumbles from the bus up until lunch. The sad-looking cafeteria burger only did so much to sate his hunger. Jeff bartered with one of his classmates, a nice bag of gummy candies, in exchange for Jeff's help with their history assignment. He slid the gummies into his backpack, dreaming of having them late at night when his stomach rumbled again, popping them into his mouth one by one and letting his spit work each piece down to a sliver

before finally splitting in two. When he got home though, Debbie immediately rooted through his bag. She didn't ask how school was if there was any homework he needed to do that night. All she did was get down on one knee and nearly rip the zippers away from the canvas. What, you think you're too good to eat?

the dinner I made for you? You think this trash is good for you? No, the dinner I made is full of vitamins and nutrition. I won't stand for you getting all pudgy. With that, she emptied the pouch into the trash alongside the kitty litter and pizza from last night. A pungent smell rose from the bin. It hadn't been emptied for days. Now, you're going to your room and stay there until I call you for dinner. Do you understand?

And? Yes, mother, was all Jeff could manage. The table was already set when Jeff came back downstairs for dinner. Each stair was a challenge. His head spun and he white-knuckled the railing as he descended. She didn't wait for him to take his seat before starting on a roasted chicken she picked up from the store. Juice welled at the point of her fine chin before dripping onto her plate. She sopped up the puddles of grease with more hunks of meat,

shoving them into her mouth when they were fully loaded. Queen Catherine looked on enviously, swishing her tail back and forth in anticipation of any scraps which might find their way to the carpet below. Debbie Cooley ate every scrap she could down to the bone. With each bite she took, Jeff wondered if it would all end up in the toilet later that night. She'd never been sick before, at least not that he'd ever seen.

Any semblance of illness had always been covered up with manufactured bravado. Whenever there was a break in her gastronomical excess, she glared at him and his full plate. The meatloaf had grown even more since he saw it last, now entirely suffocating the kittens. It looked like an oversaturated piece of bread, bloated and flabby. Even with the hole in his stomach crying out for sustenance, he couldn't bring himself to take even a bite of the meatloaf in front of him. He was content with waiting until lunch at school tomorrow, but then a realization hit him.

Tomorrow's Friday. Saturday comes after, and if that meatloaf is still here. Jeff didn't want to finish the thought. He knew where it led. He'd be saying a lot more of that meatloaf. A final meal repeated over and over. After he was dismissed, carrying the plate back up to his room for the second night, he caught a glimpse of the kitchen and his mother stooping over the trash can.

She took a slice of pizza from the garbage can and began to gnaw at the coalesced cheese, litter, and gummy candies. His slumber, thought light and fraught with restless dreams, was cut short, just after midnight. Screak! Scrope. Groping for his light, but not feeling it, Jeff used the moonlight filtering through the window to guide him towards the lamp.

Something was in his room. Jeff sat up, feeling the familiar hunger pang once again, and swung his feet out to meet the carpet beneath. Even this was a chore. His feet, expecting the dusty and Lego-ridden, carpet bore the brunt of the surprise. Goose, soft and sticky, covered his bedroom floor. He tried to pull his legs back onto his bed, but they wouldn't give. He tried harder,

gripping the bed sheets and tearing them away, but the goo's hold was firm. Jeff began to sink. He slid off the mattress. Each inch of the skin on his legs which fell further and deeper sent new waves of pain flashing to the front of his skull. I'm going to die. I'm really going to die. His entire bedroom turned to soup, blacker than moonless night. It crept up the bedposts, took hold of the bundled sheets and the short stack of comic books on his window sill.

Accred fumes swelled up in the room, filling Jeff's nostrils. He tried to move his legs, but it was like they were stuck in cement. Each new inch solidified him more. He tried to call for help, but the tar squeezed the air from his lungs like a python constricting its meal. Up on the nightstand, the plate with the kittens looked down on Jeff and his plight with inanimate disdain. A little speck of meat slid to the rim of the plate, leaned down tauntingly. Is it watching me die? Jeff wondered if his legs stuck through the ceiling below.

if his mom was getting a good look at all this. And if she were, why wasn't she screaming and coming to help? The living room was just beneath his bedroom after all. Underneath the bed, his lamp with Louisville slugger etched into its side, caught an errant moat of light. The same moat traced the wire back to the socket. Jeff tried wriggling his legs like he was pumping away at a bicycle. All it got him was a little closer to his bed and a little deeper into his pocket.

the black. With what Jeff hoped was a new surge of strength, he reached for the lamp. His hand met the wire, and he began to pull. Viscosity licked his waist. He must have flipped the switch as he drugged the lamp back towards him. The light blinded him for a moment, but then he saw what enveloped him. The sludge wasn't pure black, like Jeff suspected. Rather, it was a mild shade of brown, like a meatloaf should be, Jeff thought. The smell of the stuff took over his head, a heady brew of used motor oil and barbecue sauce, forgotten beneath a hot afternoon sun. He swung the bat lamp as hard as he could against the leg of the nightstand.

It was harder to get momentum behind the bat than Jeff anticipated. The swing, though, sent a wobble through the old furniture. Jeff guessed it was well older than he was. maybe a hand-me-down. He swung again, and the nightstand's leg buckled. The plate twisted end-over-end, keeping its contents pinned by centrifugal force alone. It landed with finality in the burbling sludge it created. Jeff nabbed the plate.

A shriek echoed as Jeff put his hands on the porcelain. His socks met the carpet again. There was no more sludge. only the plate and its contents. Jeff bolted for the door, flung it open, and made the three feet to the bathroom in a single stride. The meatloaf screamed, screamed at him on that little plate with the kittens on it. Jeff used his free hand to cover his ear, and with his other, flung open the toilet lid with the faux fur topping and dumped the whole thing in. The plate shattered.

Kittens circling the plate's edge were cut into pieces. They kept happily chasing their yarn despite their mutilation. Jeff flushed the toilet. The meat moth swirled around the bowl, but did not sink. It screamed at him in anger or fear. Chunks of it fell away and sank to the bottom of the bowl. The water turned an unhealthy black before the tank filled up again. Jeff pressed the handle again.

More chunks of charred meat fell away and fell out of sight into the tubes and pipes. bubbles emerged and churned into a black syrup. The tank filled again. Jeff pressed the lever once more. Clean, clear water, flushed through the toilet and broke up the meatloaf into three final tiny pieces. They flushed down like so many of Jeff's turds over the years. The water, though, was still oily.

Jeff flushed and flushed until the water turned and stayed pure. It ended. It finally ended. A faint knock came at the door. No, just stay there. He forgot his manners. Please, mother. He realized then that she didn't have to. The door hadn't latched. What Jeff saw next set his heart beating louder and faster than before, through the fatigue and the hunger. Debbie Cooley, his mother, former actor, former actor, and widow at 31 stepped into the bathroom. Her eyes leaked sludge. It came from her nostrils, her mouth.

Her breasts, something Jeff had never seen before, and possessed no intention of seeing, were glued to her blouse with more of the black paste. Rivulets ran from her neck to her ankles as she shambled towards him. The only thing he recognized of his mom were the two roeful. Oseries dangling around what was likely her neck, they hung like dog tags. Debbie lurched towards him at a gate no more than that of a slugs. As she crossed the bath mat, Jeff knew what to do.

He sprang to his feet and leapt into the shower, bearing much of the impact on his shoulder. Debbie peeled away the curtain to get at her son. To do what? Jeff wasn't sure, but he did not want to find out. What was important was that she leaned in towards the shower and extended a glossy hand. That was when Jeff flipped the shower on Max. Pure, clear water streamed out of the showerhead, drenching him from head to toe. He scampered away towards the back of the tub where his mother liked to hang her lufas. The water which drenched Jeff met her arms, and she screeched out in pain as parts of her bloated arm dripped away.

in great heaving plops on the tub floor. Jeff was frozen in place with terror, his mother paced around the tub, thrusting her arm in and pulling it away just as quickly. The water turned lukewarm. It felt pleasant, really. If I'm in here, I'm safe. But he didn't account for how hot the shower could get.

Steam filled the bathroom, and near boiling water seeped through Jeff's t-shirt. He leapt up, brushing against a few bottles of her special shampoo. One knocked to the floor and spilled pink on the white-grouted tile. Jeff whipped out of the tub. His chest was on fire, and he peeled away his soaking shirt and revealed the beet-red skin beneath. His mother loped towards him.

Jeff, ignoring the pain, took the curtain and threw the vinyl and cloth around Debbie. She looked like a confused, angry mummy. She flexed her arms and tried to, but her feet tangled up in the bottom fringe, and all she ended up doing was spinning around in place. Jeff pushed her in, curtain, rod, and all. He didn't see much of the thrashing and beating of his mother as she fought against the flow. Chunks of her fell away and swirled into the drain. It reminded Jeff of juicy shreds of pulled pork.

The pain took priority. He left the shower running, turned down the sink, splashing cold water on his bare chest helped some, but the burn felt like it was beneath his skin. Time passed. The screaming stopped. Water piled up in the tub. Jeff didn't dare shut off the shower. Not yet. He wanted to sit, maybe on the closed toilet. What about the meatloaf if some lingering part of it still clung for life underneath the rim? He let the shower run while he leaned on the sink, trying not to let anything touch his raw skin.

Even the steam made him itchy. Through the spray of the shower in his mother's weak cries, Jeff heard a scratching from the bathroom door. One of the cats may be curious. The door still wasn't latched, and Cleo Cummings trotted in. Jeff, dreading what he might find, didn't glance in at the tub's horror.

He promised himself he'd never bathe here again. He reached in, eyes closed, muscles tense, and switched off the shower. Nothing jumped out at him, no screaming skeleton of his mother. If it was in there, it was as inanimate as the pink porcelain which held it. As he left, Cleo Cummings, Queen Catherine, and Jenny Strassman all swarmed around his ankles, as they leapt into the tub to lap up the remains like milk from a bowl. They cleaned the bones and the blackened rosaries to a sheen. The sounds of licking and slurping continued,

even as the police arrived. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents. I can't stop myself. Written by Kevin's dad. The signs were small at first. an open container of milk in the fridge with a couple swallows missing. The party-sized bag of chips, maybe a quarter eaten.

The case of beer dropping down too quickly over the course of the week. Same with a bottle of four freedoms. It was the kind of thing I probably wasn't even noticing. Then started seeing kind out of the corner of my eye, making a note in the back of my mind and leaving it there. I think that went on for a while. And then, once I acknowledge the changes, it was like, hmm, that's odd.

Am I getting that drunk or that depressed that I'm just missing these things? Just letting shit slip by me? Or hey, maybe I'm functioning at a higher level and just not paying attention to trivial things like when I open the milk or what side of the sink I left the toothbrush on. my ego let me think for a while that I was moving into a better headspace and not just sweating the little things anymore like my therapist had advised, whether that was the level of vodka in my bottle or making a spousal support payment downtime.

I'm sure part of it was just adjusting to living on my own again after the divorce. When I had lived with my ex, I would expect my toys to be moved around, clothes put in the wrong dresser drawers, food gone missing, and of course, my favorite adult beverages being drained. I never got used to it. Yeah, I benefited from living in an immaculate house, but with all the cleaning, categorizing, and purging, I felt like I'd lost track of myself. It's one of the reasons I didn't get a roommate when everything fell apart. Just want people to leave my shit alone.

The apartment I've moved into freed me all that. He's on the second floor of a mid-rise and then to the city, looking out onto an alley that backed up to the rear of a windco. Three days a week at 5 a.m., there's a delivery truck that would beep and buzz as it backed up to drop off supplies. Bege walls and beige carpet with a long hallway separating the kitchen and living space from the bedroom. It was odd being here at first. The place was furnished and I would think about who'd lived here before me. Slept in the lumpy bed, sat on the shabby couch, stood in the same shower just days before I moved in.

Not ideal, but I was making the most of it. And I wanted to know who or what was fucking with my newfound independence and causing these little changes in my place. Was it just in my head? Was someone coming in every day while I was at work and helping themselves to a snack and a shot here or there? My complex was run by a property management company. It didn't seem like they would be using a pass key for such small shit. Or was I sleepwalking? I think that ran in my family on my dad's side.

God knows I feel like I've been sleepwalking through life these last couple of years. was being proud by some freak living in my crawl space spying on me and lurching in and out of his little niche while I was away at work or the gym Jesus Was it my ex? Were that new meathead boyfriend of hers? Trying to gaslight me probably

Or did they hire someone to tamper with my stuff And make me crazier, maybe poison or drug me? I wonder I'm feeling so out of it all the time. Okay, okay. This is how I always get spun up on something that no one else knows or cares about. She told me so many times that I had a persecution complex and it was all in my head. So I just tried to walk it off and not worry about something that really wasn't there. That worked for a while.

And I just tried to get out of the paranoia. loop. But just kept happening. Clothes I couldn't remember wearing were missing or thrown in the dirty pile at the foot of my bed. Like a week's worth of clothes. And more of my stuff was being moved around. The PS5 controller left unplugged and dead. New shows recorded on the DVR. Mail opened and left around the apartment in odd places. So it's time to take action. Nor to at least stop myself from going crazy or maybe getting poisoned or worse, and I ordered a load home security cams online. Hid them all and covered every corner of my place.

Finally, I would nab the motherfucker who's doing this, and there would be some serious payback. I was excited the first time I checked the footage on my phone after being out for the day, but nothing. Just me coming in, Slipping out of my shoes at the door like I always do, moving into the kitchen, dropping the mail and empty my pockets on the kitchen counter, cracking open a cold one, nothing else.

Just me and my routine. I checked for days and it was the same thing. Just me and my lonely ass moving around my place. It was so predictable and boring. Moving from the kitchen to the couch to the toilet to the couch, I gave up checking the videos, but all the signs of tampering continued. And then it broke wide open. Skimming through another video on myself,

I had a jolt when I realized I was wearing the wrong clothes in the video from that day. I looked down on myself in a white polo shirt and jeans, but to me on the video was in a blue button down in khakis. This was the same day, and I had different clothes on. I went back and looked at the other days, and the differences were more subtle, but they were there, compared to what I remembered wearing on that given day. And those clothes from the video were showing up in my dirty clothes pile. I went back and looked at the time stamps, and they were all about the same,

around 8 in the morning. After I had left for the day and was at work, I've been watching these thinking that they were me doing my normal routine at night, not the morning. So I was being a frog by some sick fuck who looked like me, dressed in my clothes and knew all my habits? I mean, what the actual hell? Trying to get a better handle on it. I set the cameras to record 24-7 to see what else might be happening. And here's where it goes from creepy to, well, frightening. For two nights in a row, in the middle of the night after I was asleep,

I would see myself enter the frame and walk down the hallway to my bedroom. I'd peek around the doorframe toward the bed and just stand there for a minute, and then tiptoe back down the hall with a handle from my mouth. The next night, I came down the hall again, and this time I was holding the baseball bat I kept in the entry closet. From the bedroom cam, I saw myself edged toward the bed and slowly raised a bat above what appeared to be someone lying in the bed, but it looked like I lost my nerve and slowly backed out of the room. No movement from the person in the bed. So I went unnoticed.

then nothing the next couple of nights and I was hoping that it had all just gone away and whatever sleepwalking mental breakdown shit I was having had passed nothing other than me showing up on the living room cam late at night on my computer wouldn't be the first time I crawled the web in the wee hours to deal with my insomnia but just for laughs

I went to my laptop and checked the browsing history Lots of interest around doppelganger, Frogging, and time slips, then more time on intruder, stand your ground, and self-defense, and then darker. Various gun sites. Best guns for self-defense.

Details on Glock's in the Glock 19 is the 9mm of choice for cops and armed forces. And then, closest gun shops to me. But this is not me. I'll happily burn a whole weekend playing pretty much any first-person shooter. But I'd never consider buying a gun. It's just not my DNA. On the recordings from the next night,

I saw the other me at the kitchen counter, opening a square black case, lifting the gun out, holding it up to the light, sticking it down by my waist and drawing like a cowboy, popping the magazine and jamming bullets from a small box into the clip. I placed a gun on the counter while still holding it and standing there, taking exaggerated breaths, then slowly lift it, and with both hands hold it at eye level in front of me like I'm squared off for a shootout.

On the hallway cam, the other me, slowly creeps up to the bedroom door, peeking like always around the doorway and stopping there. I ransack my place to find where I or he stashed the gun. Pulling out drawers, empty in closets, anything that's put away is out on the floor, but nothing. I would call the cops to stop me or him, but what would I tell them?

That someone who looks just like me has bought a gun and is planning to shoot me? One look at this place and they'd think I'd lost it. With a risk to myself or others and they put me on an involuntary hold in some warehouse for the crazies. But I'm not crazy. I just can't stop myself. He comes down the hallway again. No longer tentative and with a certain step.

From the bedroom cam, I can see the figure posting up in the doorway with a little bit of. the gun raised in that two-handed shootout position before slipping into the room and inching toward the bed. Just came across this file on my laptop and not sure what to say but somehow feel compelled to complete the thought. It looks like the person who was frogging me, was not just sampling from my lonely guy on his own diet, wearing my clothes and sleeping in my bed, but also having a fine time watching me on cameras that I never noticed.

I love the way he sets himself up as the victim in this narrative with me as the killer with a gun. I guess it served a purpose and that the guy saw I was serious enough to arm myself and was not about to let him sponge off me and play games with my head. Crazy that all this happened to me. In my little beige apartment. For the last few months, everything's been back to normal. But I'm starting to notice small. small things slightly askewing my place.

They have that uneasy feeling someone's watching me, or was just here before I came home, your presence hanging in the air. Is he back? Has it been my ex all along? Someone from the property management company with a passkey? Or do I have some doppelganger, some evil twin?

I'll have no choice but to stand my ground. Right? God, I want to get these thoughts out of my head, but I can't stop myself. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative comments sharing. alike 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

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