Creepy - Whispers

Episode Date: May 28, 2018

It started as a little dare...a challenge...and desire to provide content to fans...but how it ended...***Written by Mike MacDee on MikesToyBox.net and Guest narration by Alicia Atkins***Subscribe to us on YouTube for your chance to win an X1S microphone or podcast shirts! https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCQ3SrH_3fsROXFAjomKcUtw***Please consider supporting the podcast at Patreon.com/Creepypod or creepypod.com/support***Produced by Steve Blizin, Puzzle Audio***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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All right, we're almost there. Just about one more week until we hold the official post and drawing for the new X1S microphone on our YouTube channel. You still have time to subscribe so that when the time comes, you can be entered into the drawing. Just follow the link in the show notes to find the official creepy channel on YouTube. Remember, the microphone drawing is only open to US residents,

but we will do multiple t-shirt drawings that are open to everyone. Now, 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. Whispers.

Written by Mike McDee. And found at Mike's toybox.net. With guest narration by Alicia Atkins. I'm posting this tonight in the hope that it'll clear up the misunderstandings surrounding the disappearance of Deborah Lindsay Kane at the risk of my personal ridicule. sticks and stones and all that. None of it will matter after tonight.

Consider this my one pathetic attempt at an apology if nothing else. It's sort of my fault what happened. Even in her heyday, internet blogger's sugar cane was just another web comedian. She was funnier than the average and certainly skilled with a pen, but otherwise no more remarkable than the rest. For years, the circumstances surrounding her disappearance were only occasionally mentioned, and only in the most obscure threads on a couple of forums. She would have been forgotten forever if those city workers hadn't found the tape recorder last Monday.

Sugar King's true identity was a boyishly cute redhead named Deborah Lindsay Kane. Her sister Peyton described her as, quote, a bag full of fists, nails, and opinions, just looking for an excuse to burst open on somebody, nourished by beer and spite since our Papa died in 91. Unquote. Debraon intentionally began her career as a humor blogger when she let her friend talk her into setting up MySpace account.

She thought blogs were self-absorbed, whiny and without substance, and thus used her MySpace page to parody the asinine ramblings of her peers. After a while, she graduated to belittling popular culture and occasionally reviewing books, comics, movies, and whatever hate mail she received from a growing reader base. She quickly realized people enjoyed her writing, and by mid-2005, she ditched her MySpace account and set up her own humor site,

Sugarcane Junction. Despite Deborah's more than decent writing, the site was, mediocre, at best. Most net junkies likely never knew she existed, much less that she'd vanished and possibly been murdered, until the city workers found the tape. Sugarcane Junction never failed to celebrate whatever holidays and festivals came its way, and its seasonal articles were usually the most eagerly anticipated.

Deborah composed surprisingly witty drinking songs for her Octoberfest review. and a touching poem for Father's Day that she refused to talk about afterward. For a 2005 Christmas ranch, she wrote a series of parodied Bible passages of broke her weekly hate mail record overnight. Back then, I was known as Dead at 50, encountered among Sugarcane's regular readers. During the first week of October 2006, I suggested that she spent the night in the daily family's haunted house

and write about the experience for her Halloween article. She announced to her readers that I was a child and a moron. I added a $1,000 prize to the mix. She eagerly accepted. On the last week of October, Deborah announced she would make the hour-long drive to the Daily House for a spooky sleepover. She embarked on the evening of the 29th, encouraging her readers to, stay tuned for the details of my $1,000 journey through the Haunted Daily House.

I had every intention of awarding her the money, and I never would have mentioned the dailies if I had known what would happen. Deborah always researched her subjects before or after her journeys, as she called any experience she blogged about. Stay tuned for the dirt on my journey through the latest Scorsesey flick, if only to make her praise or mockery of it all the more complete. In our apartment, the police found stacks of newspaper clippings about the Daly family as far back as 1960.

Praise for Kevin Daly and the lives he saved as a firefighter. His marriage to sweetheart Naomi Welsh in 1970, the birth of their son, Jeff, 1971. Jeff's growing fame is an abstract artist at only 12 months of age. the rumors that Naomi deliberately dropped her son down the stairs and caused his borderline autism. And of course, the fruitless search for the bodies when the family vanished in 1982. The bulk of the articles were testimonials from neighbors and friends about the last they saw the dailies. Jeff's performance at school dwindled.

But the work he produced in her class was as detailed as ever, depicting macabre. realms of twisted abstract shapes and looming shadows. Imagery he hadn't produced since he was a toddler. He claimed that the whispers made him draw these things. His only explanation for a whisper was, They follow me around my house. I can't see them, but I know they're there. I don't think Jeff Daley was dreaming.

I think his subconscious was a doorway to otherwise. worlds. And maybe his mother knew it and tried to kill him. If that's the case, I wish she'd been just a little more persistent. Kevin's co-workers described him as nervous, constantly on edge, like he was being followed by a lunatic and couldn't shake him. Naomi, normally known to greet her tavern's patrons with bright smiles and warm helloes, seemed to have crawled into a shell and refused to come out. She took frequent bathroom breaks, only to curl up inside a toilet cubicle and cry with her hands over her ears. And then one day Jeff never showed up at school, and his parents never showed at work. They vanished into thin air, and according to their neighbors, they didn't go quietly.

Their articles described strange but seemingly unremarkable sights and sounds on the abandoned daily property from 1988. to 2004. A few of those articles were so strange that they were considered hoaxes or gross exaggerations. A neighbor's dog ran barking under the daily porch. When it returned, it spent the next two days whining and cowering and howling miserably for no reason. One morning the owners woke up and found the dog missing. It was never seen again. A young couple claimed a silhouette but in the shadows of the front yard whispered something at them as they walked past the house late one night. They couldn't tell if there was someone there or not. And when they continued their walk, the sheep stalked them for several blocks before vanishing altogether.

Several mailmen have identical accounts of hearing movement and gibbering voices inside the house while on their routes. One assumed it was the local pranksters and a little bit of the local pranksters and a little bit of the house. to the police. They never found anyone inside. Earlier this week, the city workers were preparing the house for demolition when they discovered the recorder under an old desk. Remembering the house's history of missing persons, they turned it over to the police.

The officer who received it, a friend of mine whose name will go unmentioned, had at one time been a sugar cane fan. I spent an entire evening. listening to the tape at his place. To help spread the story around the web, I've received permission to post the recording, which you'll listen to as follows. The tape's been largely unedited,

except for places where I've removed the excessive silence and called them out. It begins with 15 seconds of silence. Don't think I've ever been to this side of town before. Had to stop at a diner and get directions because I managed to get my stupid ass lost. It's supposed to be an hour-long drive, but it would be close to midnight by the time I find this dump. Oh, I told the lady I was coming to visit an old friend who lived in the Daly's neighborhood,

and she was happy to help me find my way. Imagine I won't be well-received if I go around telling everybody I'm spending my weekend, breaking into other people's houses. Even if the Dailies are too dead to give a shit. I feel silly going through with this. On the plus side, I'll get to pay my rent for the next month. It is now... 11 p.m. on the dot.

Took me forever to find this stupid house. Kept turning down the wrong streets. Hard to miss it once you find the right one. The front yard is a jungle of wiry vines and three-foot grass infested with species of insects never before seen by man. You can't even see the front door from the street this late at night because the shadows gulped it up. Parked two blocks away and walked.

Gonna find a window to climb through. Hopefully we won't need to pick the back door because that'll take forever. More as it develops. Tripped. It's quiet shuffling for the next minute. It's pitch black in here. Where's my damn...

Okay, I'm in. My camp is set up in the... I guess this was the office? There's a dusty old desk next to the window I just climbed through in a bookcase to the right of the door. Both are bare. I'm about to take my tour of the house.

Camera ready, although this place isn't much to look at. Keeping the flash off, so the Picks might need to be tweaked when I get back. I ought to keep the flashlight off and just let my eyes adjust, but... Yeah, I'm not gonna do that. There's two minutes of silence. The house is a really roomy two-story deal. Oh, there you are, you elusive stairs.

The carpet's been all torn up except for one corner of the living room, so the floor is all crusty wooden boards. Shit. A moldy bathroom untouched since 1982. God damn wolf spiders everywhere. Seven minutes pass with footsteps, camera clicks, and ever's cough normally sounds. It's down the hall, which means this is another bathroom, which I don't even know, like, I just, if I just go over here. Halfway through hollow thunks of boots on wooden stairs, and footsteps change to loud, unhealthy creeks.

Now and then Deborah makes various comments on the house's layout. The dust in his place is murdering me. Second floor is rickety as hell. Here's hoping the building doesn't collapse on me in the night. Silence for two minutes. Deborah whispers to herself inquisitively. Wooden clunking. I think that's it for the tour.

I'm off to sleep with the spiders. Found a loose board in the office floor. Previously pried up, loose. I'll have to check that out tomorrow morning. God, I can't breathe in this place. All right, time for bed. We'll finish up our notes tomorrow. Good night.

Silence for another minute. There's something in here. Fucking rats. I knew it. I hear him scuttling in their living room walls. I should have brought a cot. Okay, well, I won't be sleeping tonight after all, so I'm prying that board up to pass the time.

More as it develops. In the next five minutes, there's nothing but fingernail. and something metallic, possibly a Swiss Army knife scratching into wood, and occasionally a clunk. Their minute of silence. Who's there? Who's there? Nothing for a minute and a half. I'm losing my mind.

I could swear I heard. Gotcha. Um, um, there's drawings. Wadded drawings stuffed into this little space beneath the loose board. I think they're Jeff Daly's pictures. When he was five, he used to. to draw his bad dreams to... No, these can't be real.

The detail is... It's not daddy. It's not daddy. It's not. Okay. Um... Okay, this isn't funny anymore. Two minutes and 40 seconds of silence.

This isn't... It's not funny. Stop, it's tough. It's not funny. Please, just stop! Three minutes passed with no sounds except a periodic thump deep within the house.

and Deborah shouting angrily. I can't take it. I can't take this. Who the fuck is here? Who's in here? Here, why are you doing this? Leave me alone. For another minute. Deborah posted an update the same night. There was no trace of her usual snide narrative. She exchanged punching one-liners for razor-edged curses. She wanted someone, me, to apologize her for what she believed to be a perverse Halloween prank. she managed to keep one of the drawings she found under the loose floorboard and included a high-rise scan in her rant condemning it as an obvious attempt at a barely capable adult artist to reproduce the work of an eight-year-old retard

Trot, entirely in black crayon, it resembled a caricature of someone's living room is done by Salvador Dolly. At the center stood a dark shape with a grayish head and a shape in like in a funhouse mirror, making it impossible to tell if it was supposed to be human or not. The thing stared right at the viewer over its shoulder with two empty black holes for eyes. Three more of the things stood beyond it, also staring at the viewer. It was as if the act of drawing the scene had grabbed their attention. Although their faces were amorphous mushes of white and gray, the three in the background seemed

to be smiling. And it really did suggest a level of artistic finesse beyond that of an eight-year-old boy. But the style matched Jeff Daly's other drawings. Deborah and I both got our share of hate mail after that blog. her readers thought I was an asshole for setting her up for such a nasty trick. The other half thought Deborah was pulling a hammed-up Halloween prank of her own. And when her next two updates erratically described how the sounds of the Daily House had followed her home, everyone became all the more certain in this.

They still believed it was a joke when she failed to make a single update for two weeks afterward. On November 4th in the middle of the afternoon, Deborah called her sister Peyton, She was blubbering so much Peyton couldn't understand a word she said at first. Quote, She let loose with the heartbroken drunk routine, said she was sorry for missing my wedding. Sorry for always being a spiteful bitch when we were growing up. Sorry for kicking our dog when she was 12,

apologizing for all kinds of silly stuff like the desperate sinner at confession. She stopped to catch her breath, and I heard somebody else in the room with her talking quiet like they didn't want me to hear. I asked if she wanted me to come over. She started sobbing again and said, I hear daddy, but it isn't daddy. And then she hung up and I called the police. They didn't find anybody when they got there.

I was talking to her only one minute before. unquote. Most folks still think Deborah's abduction by the whispering stalkers of Jeff Daly's nightmares as a hoax orchestrated by Deborah or by some other sick individual. The tape has been proven a fake by one ignorant skeptic after another, and it won't be long before sugarcane junction fades into obscurity once again. I hope to prevent this, not because I feel pity for Deborah Lindsay Cain, though I really do pity her, but because I hope to prevent others from vanishing like she vanished, and like the city workers who found the tape vanished, and like my friend vanished. They mark their territory, like they mark the Daily House and the tape,

and they can smell anything that comes in contact with it. Once they smell you, they hunt you like bloodhounds until they've marked you too. They call to you softly like they're afraid to talk too loud. Sometimes two rooms away. Sometimes right next to you. They imitate people your closest to. Maybe they think it's funny. But you can't listen to them.

You have to shut them out. Otherwise you be too scared to open your eyes or move a muscle. You won't have the chance to kill yourself before they'd drake. you to whatever unholy hell Deborah Lindsay Kane was taken to. I have to go take a bath with my toaster now. Mother's been calling to me for the last hour, even though she's been dead for five years. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast,

or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us. on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, or email. All stories told on this podcast can be found at creepypasta wikia.com and are protected by a Creative Commons license. Some rights reserved unless otherwise stated.