Creepy - When the Aliens Came to Earth  & My Roommate Has An Odd Late Night Routine

Episode Date: March 6, 2025

When the Aliens Came to Earth  ***Written by: Sarina Dorie and Narrated by: Heather Thomas***My Roommate Has An Odd Late Night Routine***Written by: N.T. Evan and Narrated by: Cole Burkhardt***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***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.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastors and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or 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. When the aliens came to Earth.

Written by Serena Dori. And narrated by Heather Thomas. When the aliens came to Earth, they didn't suck out our brains or vaporize us. They infiltrated us in ways we didn't expect. I stepped into my husband's office, the pristine white walls, pale beige carpet, it, an immaculate desk, making everything in the room look untouched and new.

Did you say you were going to make lasagna or fettuccini for dinner tonight? I prompted him, knowing this was what it took to get him started on dinner. Clyde turned from his computer. The glassy sheen to his eyes reflected my own reflection. His face was flushed. Are you all right? I touched a hand to his forehead. He didn't feel.

feverish. He pressed his nose into my wrist and inhaled. The coarse whiskers of his beard tickled against my skin. My smile faltered. Clyde? His eyes were vacant, as if he didn't know me. You think it would have registered, what he'd turned into, I mean. I should have run from the room and called the alien containment squad, or even locked myself in the bathroom until the episode passed. but my stomach grumbled, and I was distracted thinking about all the papers I had to grate. He rose from his chair, wobbly like he didn't know how to use his legs. I knew then. I tried to step back and yank my hand away, but he squeezed my wrist and brought it to his mouth.

I pulled away, but he was stronger. He looked my skin and tasted it. This was no longer my husband, but an alien. Most families didn't survive their encounters when aliens invaded the bodies of loved ones. I smacked at his arm, and when that did nothing, I punch him in his head. I grabbed the mug of cold coffee on the desk and smashed it against his face. Cuts dotted his cheek in Temple, but he didn't act as though he noticed. He gazed at the broken shards on the floor and backed to my face.

I knew what he was thinking. I'd been used by one of them as well. once. He was going to cut up my face. I didn't want to hurt him. He was my husband. I also knew what the aliens were capable of doing, having memories of when they'd used my body. I kicked him in the stomach as hard as I could. He doubled over, but in doing so, he fell onto me and pushed me to the floor. He snatched up a sharp triangle of a ceramic mug. I scrambled back, but I wasn't fast enough. I twisted away and raised an arm to avoid a cut to the neck. The blow landed on my shoulder, tearing through shirt and skin. He stabbed it into my back and dragged it down my flesh in a wide

arc, like a painter might flourish a paintbrush. That's probably how the aliens thought of it. They were creating beauty. When the aliens came to Earth, I was a sophomore in college. I was riveted to the news broadcasts like everyone else, watching as they hovered above New York City in their giant spaceship. At least we assumed it was a spaceship. It was translucent, like a hologram, but it didn't look like it was made of metal.

It resembled a bloody lump of internal organs, pulsing in the sky. The first ship hovered above New York unmoving. Being in Oregon City, a remote mill town and the other side of the country, I was concerned, but more for my family back east who had to evacuate. Attempts were made to contact the alien vessel.

Military tried to board it, but anything that touched it disappeared. Our government took that as a sign of hostility and launched weapons. Nothing happened except a big bite being taken out of the big apple, and that was all human doing. When the ships in orbit found other cities to hover over, foreign governments took similar actions without success.

A few days later, the announcement came over radio, television, and internet, a mantra that repeated, Your Planet has been chosen. We will cleanse your people of disease, sickness, and ugliness. We will unite your people with ours. We will give you beauty. Together, we will create beauty out of your chaos. The words sent icicles up my spine.

For 24 hours, the announcement blared over every electronic device, even when you unplugged them. My upstairs neighbor threw her television out the window. I poked my head out the window in time to see someone's radio crash to the pavement. I carefully unscrewed my computer and disassembled the speakers. I removed the battery from my phone. Unlike some of my neighbors, I had electronics when the message ceased. Even then, though, I could hear the ominous message blaring through my neighbor's walls.

The night sounded like a thousand voices echoing the same message. Together, we will create beauty out of your chaos. When the aliens came to Earth, strange things happened right away. Only we were too preoccupied watching spaceships on the news to notice anyone covering stories about people, or to even notice the people around us. My aunt called to tell us to watch the TV special about the increased violence since the aliens made their special announcement. People interviewed on the news, talked about a fugue state.

I didn't know what that was. I soon found the lucky ones didn't remember the things the aliens made them do. When the aliens came to Earth, everyone thought the world was going to end. At least they did in Oregon City, which is why everyone went grocery. shopping. Sure, there were mobs in bigger cities that raided stores, but this was a small town where people knew each other. We were better than that, or so I told myself. I was at the grocery store the day one of the first inhabitants happened, stalking up on food, plus Twinkies because they're supposed to last 50 years. A young mother in the produce department tugged on her five-year-old,

trying to get him to keep him from climbing out of the shopping cart. The little boy screeched and smacked at the woman. I grabbed two bags of apples and backed away, keeping my eyes on the child. Normally it would have just been embarrassing to see a parent and they're out-of-control child, but now people gave them space in case the child wasn't really a child anymore. No one wanted to be near if he was a host.

That's what the Internet was calling it. The irony was that he wasn't the one who became inhabited by an alien that day. It was me, for most people in this day and age. There wasn't anything more frightening than the idea of being attacked by a human, hosting an alien in his or her body, especially an alien who looked like someone you loved and trusted, like I loved and trusted. I knew what it was like to be used by the aliens,

but it didn't make it any less terrifying when they took my husband's body. I had to remember my husband was not my husband. He sat on top of my back, raking the ceramic shards against my flesh as he sculpted me. I scream and tried to thrash, but he held my head down against the wood floor so I couldn't move. Pain stole my breath. The energy for screams left me as the blood poured from my back.

I could only whimper, imagining I was dying. I thought maybe one of the neighbors would call the police. Surely someone had heard me scream. Still, no one came. I would have blood to death, but Clyde fell over and woke from his trance. I knew he was awake then because he began to sort of. scream. After he regained himself enough to realize what was needed, he wrapped me up in a blanket and took me to the hospital. He didn't remember doing it. He insisted at the hospital it must have

been someone else, someone who broke into our house and hit him over the head. The staff at the hospital eyed him dubiously. The triage nurse insisted she treat my injuries without him present. In a hushed tone, she asked if his story was true, as if the alien was still inside him and might hear. She wanted to know if someone had broken into our house. I hesitated. What had happened to me had ruined my life. I didn't want him stuck in an asylum like I had been. I couldn't be the one to ruin his life.

The nurse spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, void of compassion, informing me, It was a felony not to report an alien hosting. I hated the idea of him hurting me as much as he hated the idea. Even if it was the aliens and not him, I didn't want him to know what he'd done. That was why I lied. It was someone else, I said. When the aliens came to Earth,

I never thought I'd host one of them. I never thought, I'd host one of them. I'd create a bloody monstrosity in the grocery store while one of them was inside me. That's the kind of thing that happens to other people. I woke up from my fugue state in a puddle of crimson in the meat department. The metallic tang of blood and excrement greeted my nose. My head hurt, and my first thought was that someone must have hit me over the head in the chaos of the store. I never thought that the hometown where I grew up would have a mob mentality.

But seeing the overturned carts and spilled cans of food at the ends of the aisles didn't surprise me either. The store was eerily quiet. A bunch of raw meat torn from packages was littered over the floor, though it wasn't quite random. As I took in the ghastly sight, I realized the pattern was complex, like a mandala. There were things I'd never known they sold at a regular grocery store like kidneys and hearts and intestines. strewn about. It smelled pretty bad, like a sewer. Someone whispered from one of the aisles. I sat up, the world's spinning. Blood was caked under my fingernails and smeared across my arms, but I wasn't hurt. I crawled forward, using an overturned cart to help me to my feet. On the other

side of the cart, I saw this thing that looked like a human puppet. It was all skin and bloody inside, but there wasn't any muscle or bones or even organs in the human hide. My eyes fell on another human skin. I looked back at the mess of internal organs circled by a pile of bones, woven with a pattern of lumpy black things I couldn't identify. The SWAT team found me puking. When the aliens came to Earth, they took away our free will and made us into monsters. That person I was when the alien was inside me wasn't me.

I was pushed aside and forced to go on a joyride for someone else's amusement. The memories slowly came back over the days that followed. I'd been in the baking aisle. I'd felt a change in my body like I was walking through a fog and my limbs were made of jelly. I had trouble walking and fell to my knees. when I'd seen the serrated metal edge of a pie spatula, I grabbed at it and stalked toward the woman and child at the end of the aisle. These two weren't worthy of my creation.

I continued on until I found an elderly man. They called me the Jackson Pollock of Human Anatomy on the news. It was still pretty early in the invasion, and not everyone realized what was happening yet. The rumors on the internet and occasional talk show featuring people with fugue states were up there in tabloid quality. That's probably why the police didn't believe me when I told them I had been possessed by an alien. Or maybe they didn't want to believe me. First they locked me up in solitary confinement, thinking I was criminally insane.

After a couple days, they couldn't deny it wasn't an isolated incident. scientists spent weeks studying me and others like me who popped up around the country when nothing came of the studies they turned me over to the law they kept me locked in an insane asylum in case i had a relapse but i wasn't tried for anything the court system didn't know what to do with people who had been inhabited against their will i was quarantined for three years before i was deemed safe enough to return to the court system didn't know what to do with people who had been inhabited against their will i was quarantined for three years before i was deemed safe enough to return to normal society. I had regular checkups for another year after that. Even though I finished school and got top grades, I couldn't get a job.

Not that I can blame them. No one wanted to hire a kindergarten teacher who's killed a bunch of people in the supermarket and used their entrails to make something only morbid aliens considered beautiful. When the aliens came to Earth,

my life changed for ever. I wouldn't have met my husband if it hadn't been for the aliens. After being released from the mental health facility, part of my rehabilitation was to attend group therapy. I lived in Portland now, not wanting to be in my hometown where there were too many reminders of what I'd done. Too many people crossed the street to avoid me,

like I still might have the alien inside me. Not that doctors knew if it was true, one way or another. Clyde was a counselor at the group therapy meeting. He sometimes talked to me after the meetings about my job hunt or encouraged me to go back to school to get a degree in teaching adults, which I did eventually do. I enjoyed his funny stories about people who almost ran him over since he rode his bike to work,

and I rode my bike to meetings. His St. Bernard, Rusty, sometimes came to meetings with him and liked to sleep under my feet. Clyde was cute in that lumber sexual sort of way, checked flannel shirts and wily beard that belonged on a mountain man. I didn't usually like men with beards, but it looked good on him. Or maybe I was sex-deprived and thought any man who struck up a conversation with me and didn't act like I would stab him and carve him up, was datable. Still, I didn't think much of our conversations because he was nice to everyone. I was pretty surprised when he cleared his throat, looking nervous as he asked me out for coffee.

After coffee, he asked me on a second date. I towed the ground. Aren't you worried about... You know, Clyde stared into my... eyes, his own warm and brown, like coffee. My voice came out a strangled choke. Are you worried that I might have a relapse? He raised an eyebrow and asked if I knew how likely it was to have a relapse. You have a better chance of being struck by lightning twice, we both said together and then broke into laughter. He was always saying that in therapy. It was what scientists said.

So we assumed it was true. Clyde had always been the kind of husband to make me chicken soup when I was sick, or give me a foot rub at the end of a hard day. But after the incident, he hovered like a manservant from a Victorian novel. When I got out of the hospital, I was on painkillers and had to lie on my stomach. I despised feeling vulnerable, unable to see him coming. I chided myself that was even something. I was worried about. Sometimes I woke up at night from the pain. Sometimes I woke up because I heard

him crying in the bathroom. Even with the fan on, and sometimes the shower, I could make out his muffled sobs. I wondered if the memories were coming back to him. I knew he felt guilty. I'd gone through the same ordeal. Only I'd had counseling to help. He didn't. I knew I wasn't helping every time I flinched. away when he raised an arm to turn on a lamp by my head so I could read, or when he took my hand and his and kissed it, and I shuddered. It was hard to remember he was my husband again, not the alien who'd used him. When the aliens came to Earth, our scientists hypothesized. They liked to inhabit our bodies because they didn't have bodies of their own, and they like to feel what we feel, taste what we taste, smell what we smell, etc. It's not much of a hypothesis

if there's no way to test it. There's been plenty of correlation. People who are intoxicated on drugs or certain medications have a lot of stress in their life, or who are genetically related to someone else who has been inhabited by an alien, are 90% more likely to be used by the aliens. Of course, there's always exceptions. I was one of them. People are always saying it was my fault, because I was in college and must have been partying. Only my mom and Clyde believe me when I say that I didn't drink or take drugs. Maybe the stress of school and the threat of aliens in the sky had been,

been enough. Scientists have found that a high percentage of the victims the host body's attack have a weakened immune system, cancer, chronic illness, or genetic diseases. My victims in the grocery store included a man's suffering from emphysema, a woman with terminal breast cancer, a mentally handicapped child with microcephaly, and an elderly man with a walker. There were a few others I killed, but didn't use in my art, presumably because they got in the way of the materials I wanted to use. By materials, I mean people. The investigators realized the medical link to my victims because the diseased parts had been discarded in a lump under the cart. Aliens had promised us a cleansing of our disease and ugliness.

Only when an alien host found none was nearby, they made art with any material they could find. Sometimes that material was a loved one. My back was completely healed and I'd been through four reconstructive surgeries and three years of physical therapy when Clyde had his relapse. They say it's rare, but there are people out there who get struck by lightning more than twice as well. This time I wasn't home. I'd found him passed out in the kitchen.

all the meat from the freezer arranged in a bloody circle. What was left of Clyde St. Bernard was strewn about. Panic set in. It was all I could do to dial the number of the alien containment squad with a shaky hand. They came for my husband. I felt guilty reporting him, but I was so scared I didn't know what else to do. We were both crying when they hauled him off.

I knew what it would be like, how he'd be treated like a pariah. He'd be lucky if he could get work after this. I tried to reassure myself that things were better than they'd been ten years ago, like it had been for me. There was so much more awareness and sympathy, but I couldn't help feeling like I'd done something wrong. When the aliens came to Earth, artists became feared and shunned. and in some cultures revered.

Professors have analyzed the alien art and determined the creations to be like a Jackson Pollock painting in the way he subconsciously used patterns of fractals. Some of the meat sculptures resemble mandala's and repeat complex designs within. Linguists speculate the aliens have been trying to speak to us

in messages told through an art form. Cultists worship the aliens as gods of chaos and try to induce the fugue state by taking drugs. A new unit of law enforcement exists to sort out humans who have been used by aliens, as opposed to those who pretend to be inhabited, in order to create copycat murders, but avoid incarceration. Many people choose undecorated furnishings and plain walls over beauty, as if all human art is a reminder of the aliens,

and their morbid art form. The third time Clyde relapsed, it was a year later. I was eight months pregnant with our baby. We'd both had reservations about having a baby one of us might kill, or that might kill us someday. What were the chances either of us would be used as a host again? My elderly mother had a greater chance of being used for the first time than I did of a relapse.

It would be like getting struck by lightning twice, or for Clyde, three times. We would just keep our house free of sharp objects. We joked it would be like the fairy tale of sleeping beauty where we would keep all the spindles away from our kingdom. Just like that fairy tale, we also failed. That third time Clyde became used as a host, I realized it wasn't going to be the last. He was a lightning rod. There were others out there with repeated relapses. Sometimes drugs or therapy helped, but the cures were pretty hit or miss.

The thing was, Clyde wasn't even eligible for those programs. I hadn't reported the first time like I was supposed to, so there was only a record of it happening twice, not three times. It was a felony to not report the alien hostings. After Clyde's relapse, I lay in a hospital bed, my belly relatively flat after the doctors had operated and removed the remains of the baby. The morphine made me drowsy and a little loopy, but not so loopy to keep me from telling Clyde about the first time he'd carved up my back and how I should have told him the truth. He dropped my hand from his and sat back in shock. He demanded to know how I could have kept it a secret from him.

don't blame me you knew he shook his head adamantly as he refused knowing what had happened he gestured with his hand as he spoke an italian gesture he'd inherited from his parents i couldn't hear anything he said i could only focus on his movements i flinched back from his arm his eyes widened and i read the hurt there Logically, I knew he'd never hit me. He'd never hurt me when he was himself. I just couldn't trust him to be himself. When the aliens came to Earth, they took everything from me. My husband, my baby, my life, and my planet.

Creepy presents. My roommate has an odd late-night routine, written by by N. T. Evan, and narrated by Cole Burkart. This post was originally submitted on an unusual entounter forum. Here seems like it had a place to post this. I wanted to share something strange that's been happening with my roommate lately, and I'm honestly not sure if it's worth being concerned about, or if I'm just overthinking it.

A bit of context. My girlfriend and I recently moved to a new city for her college, and we found this great deal on a condo with another couple. Let's call them John and Jane. The rent's affordable, the room's big, and John and Jane are actually pretty easygoing. We rarely have issues with chores or space, and when there is something to sort out, it's quick and easy. They're nice people, too. They often cook big meals for holidays and invite us, which has made moving easier.

Now, here's the weird part. I'm a musician, so I usually get home around 2 or 3 a.m. after gigs. Our room is right next to the main door, so I don't even pass by their room. But one night, I was starving, and decided to make some ramen in the kitchen. The kitchen is close to John and Jane's room, and with the thin walls, sound travels. I was trying to be quiet, but I could hear Jane saying something in a monotone voice. It was a series of numbers, repeated in the same way. I figured it was something study-related, maybe a technique she uses to memorize stuff.

It sounded odd, but I brushed it off as a late-night habit. But here's where it started to get unsettling. Over the next few nights, it kept happening every time. The numbers were different, yet each time they came out exactly the same. The same tone, the same pace, no variation. I began to realize it didn't sound like someone casually studying. It was too exact, like listening to a recording. I mentioned it to my girlfriend who just suggested ignoring it,

since it wasn't affecting us. Then, two nights ago, I went to the kitchen and heard her. But this time, it wasn't numbers. It was this strange, drawn out, uh, sound, like a heavy, exhausted sigh, but it had a creepy quality to it. The first one startled me, but what got me was the repetition.

Each sigh was identical, like an audio loop with no natural variation. There was something eerie about how precise it was, too precise to sound human. I didn't cook that night. I just stood there, listening, feeling a chill run down my spine before going straight back to bed. Since then, it's been stuck in my mind, like she's still out there, sighing just outside my door.

I haven't gone back to the kitchen late at night since, and I've just been prepping my meals beforehand. With our opposite schedules, we rarely run into them, so bringing it up might feel intrusive. But I can't shape the feeling that something, isn't quite right. I'll admit I'm curious, though, and I'm considering passing by the kitchen tonight. I'll keep you all updated. Update number one. Didn't really know how to feel about this, so? Last night, I decided to eavesdrop again. Our band didn't have a show, and my girlfriend was out for a Halloween night, staying over at her friend's place. I left our door slightly open to keep track of when the repeating would start, and sure enough, at exactly 1.24 a.m., it began.

Before heading to the kitchen, I hesitated. Peeting out, I noticed their door was slightly open, too. Holy shit. This made the repeating sound louder. I could hear it from my room before even stepping. stepping into the kitchen. Trying to act casual, I pretended to make a snack, moving around the kitchen as if I were just getting food. I went back and forth between my room and the kitchen, acting like I was grabbing things. But really, I was trying to get a look through their slightly open door. Their room was pitch black, lit by only a few small LEDs from their electronics.

They have a large glass window connected to the balcony, and faint lights from the neighboring buildings highlighted the silhouette of someone sitting dead straight on the bed. They weren't leaning back or slouched, just sitting upright, perfectly still in the center of the bed. I couldn't tell if it was John or Jane, just a dark figure against the dim light outside. But with a slight movement, I could tell this wasn't a recording.

The person was actually speaking, repeating words in an unnaturally consistent way. The creepy part? Every time I stood in the kitchen, the repeating would stop. The moment I returned to my room, it would start up again. Finally, I shut my door completely and listened to the muffled sound through the walls. This time, it wasn't numbers. It was just one word. Carcass.

Then a pause. Then the same word again. A lot of people in the comments suggested it might be some sort of ASMR or meditation practice. But honestly, here's why it seems way too strange to be just that. I ended up staying up all night, and when it was time for Jane and John to leave for work, I said good morning to them, and they responded cheerfully. After a few minutes, I decided to casually bring it up, saying, I was cooking last night, I hope I didn't wake you guys up since your door was slightly open.

Jane just looked at me. No, she... She stared at me. For what felt like three minutes, she held this blank, dead-eyed stare that I didn't notice at first since I was busy making breakfast. When I finally looked up, I was startled to see her expression. Her mouth was set in this slight cartoonish frown, like when you see those mimes doing a fake sad face, but her eyes were far from sad. It was just round, wide open. It was as if she'd frozen mid-sentence.

Her lips downturned in an unnatural way. I don't even believe in the supernatural, but... What the fuck was that? Eventually, she turned and walked away without saying a word. John was in the washroom then, so he didn't see any of it, and he left 15 minutes after. But now things feel uncomfortable between us. I honestly don't want to see her again.

I am going to tell my girlfriend when she gets home. I'm also unsure if I should tell John. I mean, it'd be awkward to bring up something so strange about his partner, and I have no clue if he'd even be open to talking about it, and I'm not planning to make things extra uncomfortable. Update 2. Sorry for leaving you all hanging. We've moved since then,

and what happened afterward was so unsettling that I needed some time to process it before I could even think about sharing. On the morning of my last update, after that strange encounter with Jane, I went back to my room to scroll on my laptop. My girlfriend wasn't due back until early after, leaving me alone in the apartment with Jane for about four hours.

Normally, the odd things only happened around midnight, so I figured I'd be fine, but I was wrong. It felt like something shifted in Jane, after I mentioned I'd been to wait the night she was chanting. At first, I didn't notice anything since I had my headphones on, but eventually I caught that familiar inhuman repetition of words faintly bleeding through. I took them off immediately. Jane was pacing back and forth, repeating the word done, in that same eerie tone. This time, though, she wasn't in her room. She was moving between the entrance and the balcony, her voice rising and falling as she

crossed the rooms. The chanting went on. for what felt like forever, probably two hours, though it felt like days. I locked my door, ready to jump out our 12th floor window if she tried to break in. After another two hours, my girlfriend finally came home, and I unlocked the door completely shaken. That's when I told her everything. Seeing how unsettled I was, she didn't want to stay in there another night. We ended up going to stay at a relative's place, only returning to grab essential items.

Within a week, we found a smaller place and moved out, just the two of us. A month later, I went back to the old condo to pick up some mail since I hadn't updated my address yet. I had a brief chat with the concierge, and what he told me left me speechless. The night we moved out, the couple had vanished without a trace. The landlord tried to reach them at the end of the month to ask about the rent, but no one could find any record of them after that night. The condo eventually went back up for rent, as if they'd never been there. All I could think in that moment was what might have happened if we hadn't moved out,

if I hadn't caught those strange sounds from the kitchen that night. I don't know why Jane did what she did, and honestly, I'm not sure I even want to know. We've moved on, but I've since developed a fear that whenever I hear someone repeat something more than two or three times, I start to feel shaken, as if Jane's still here. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration. please visit creepypod.com.

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