Creepy - Window Licker & Baby Mine

Episode Date: July 27, 2023

Window Licker***Written by: Juan Cardenas and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***Baby Mine***Written by: Victory Witherkeigh and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by Alex AldeaHosted 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.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. 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 biopictions. Silence and explicit language.

Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. Window liquor. Written by Juan Cardenas and narrated by Owen McKeown. You know, growing up in the city, I grew up being scared of different things. You don't get creepy woods or cemeteries here. There are no weird sounds at night because nighttime is so loud. with the ambulances and police sirens, the base from parties, the screeching of the train.

The kids here are scared of gang violence, kidnappings, having their sneakers stolen, etc. It's hard to be scared of something under your bed when your older brother and your little brother are all asleep in the same room as you. And my closet is so small, I really didn't think anything was hiding there. Besides, I stuffed it with comics, toys, and a bunch of school stuff. But that changed for me when I was around 11 or 12 because I became obsessed with the video game series Resident Evil. I begged my parents to let me rent the game,

and even though my mother told me I'd have nightmares from playing a horror game, she relented. We went to Blockbuster and rented Resident Evil too, and I played it into the night. I hated to admit it, but my mother was right. I grew paranoid about the monsters I saw in the game. One particular creature, a skinless creature with an exposed brain and big claws, it had a whip-like tongue, too, and it was called the liquor.

I kept having this bad feeling about it. I kept imagining it was outside my window. Even long after I had stopped playing the game, almost the time of summer break, I kept imagining the creature outside my window. I would stay up, staring at the half-broken blinds, they were off white from time. you could peer out into the street and see the yellow streetlights outside. There were occasional shadows from the passing cars that sped by,

the motors sputtering and the tires slamming into the pothole outside. There was one night, though, that a shadow lingered by the window. I felt the hair on my neck stand on end. I was peering out the window. I thought my blanket would be like a protective shield. I thought that staying still and quiet would be my salvation. I could hear and see my brother as fast asleep, belly down, serene in their ignorance. I envied them.

I studied that shadow. It was a long shadow, like an arm reaching across the window. The window was shut, but it didn't lock. It was cheap, often letting in a draft. I could see that the shadow had moved very slightly, but then just planted itself there. I don't know how long I stared at. at it until I had built up the courage and momentum to go to my mom. She slept in the living room on the couch. She was fast asleep, and I woke her. I held in my tears until then. She sat

up and walked me to my room. She softly chided me for waking her, and she went up to the window, moving the blinds aside to reveal nothing. I begged her to stay, and she refused. She had work in the morning. And when Dad left, she had to rely on this job more than ever. So, I was alone again. Not long after, I fell asleep. I dreamt fleetingly of shadows that whirled and formed vacant dead faces that silently screamed at me in pain and regret. I woke up again to a rattling. When my eyes were open, I thought I saw the blinds shudder like someone had just brushed against them. The shadow was back, but it moved across the window behind the blinds. I saw the arm get wider into what might have been a body and then drop down slowly,

carefully. Through one of the broken sections in the blinds, I could see pale white skin with blue veins, then a red orb that had a black dot in the center. I was panicking. My heart raced, then the dot moved. It was an eye and a little bit. a long, thin, pink object rubbed along the window. It was a giant tongue. I screamed hysterically. Almost immediately, the lights turned on. I didn't know what I did. I know I ran. I knew that

there was crying, screaming, my brother woke up. My mom was there. I was on the couch, screaming, my limbs kicking and swinging. Well, the screams meant my throat became so sore that I couldn't even whisper. When I calmed down, there was no sign of the creature. My mom even stuck her head out the window to show me that nothing was there. I stayed awake the rest of the night. And the night after that, I would get fitful minutes of sleep at school. The guidance counselor grilled me for almost 20 minutes. She wondered if I was happy. What was I going through? I told her about the creature. She said that Often, manifestations of trauma can come in our dreams. I told her it was no dream.

A voice came from my raw throat that was unlike my own, like a primal growl that had come out to my defense. None of this was helpful. At night, I dreaded going to bed. I tried to switch beds with my mother, but even in the living room, I could see the shadow crawl across the window. My mom was getting fed up with my behavior.

The school was calling her saying that I was disruptive, disrespectful, sleeping in class, not doing homework, quit extracurriculars. Friends are concerned the list went on. She was at her wits end, and she looked at me with a mix of sadness and resentment that I had never seen in her face. It seemed to age her in an instant. I felt like a burden. I felt like I'd broken her. The creature would pass my one. window, then I would hold my breath. Back in my room, I would close my eyes. I would cover my head.

My mind would recreate the scene in my head if I closed my eyes. If I kept my eyes closed, I thought I felt it'd enter the house. This was more frightening than just staring at it. So I did that. I stared at it, like it would somehow keep it at bay, blinking in and out of consciousness. It was almost two weeks of this when my mom called for help. Grandpa. She didn't like to call him. He was my dad's dad. He didn't call or visit often, but when he did, we had fun together. He was the type to give me money, take me to eat, buy me expensive things, let me do what my mom would never let me, like try beer or drive his car around parking lots. He came in still in his work overalls.

He was curt with my mom. He asked for dinner. I think he blamed her for my dad skipping out. I don't really know. There's no way to know now. He ate, loudly smacking the food in his mouth between mouthfuls of swears and complaints. My mom was exhausted, and she explained to him that I had something to tell him. A problem.

Maybe he could help with. I don't know what she expected, maybe because, he had a rapport with me that he could convince me it wasn't real, or maybe his macho influence might make me feel less afraid. He listened intently. I saw his eyes narrow once I started explaining what the creature looked like, white limbs, blue veins, and he interrupted. Big red eyes, he said.

I was shocked. He took a long breath, checked his watch. He told me to check. called my mom, let her know that he wanted to talk to her. He told her that he was staying the night to send both my brothers to a friend or neighbor's house. My mom started to protest, but he said he would help me realize it was all in my imagination and that he needed the space. He couldn't sleep on an air mattress or a couch. His back would go out. She was stressed, but accepted it. My brothers took backpacks of sleepover supplies and went to their friends' homes. They hugged Grandpa,

hug mom, hug me. It was all so significant now. My grandpa stepped out to get something he needed. Then, before dark, he was back with some sheets and something in a duffel bag. He told my mom to get her rest, and she seemed grateful, almost surprised. He took my brother's bed and told me to wake him the second I noticed anything. I was still confused. He then looked at me and said to me as calmly as he could that I was.

I was seeing something he had seen, my father had seen. It seemed to be passed down from father to son, almost genetic, and that he, well, he couldn't protect himself or his son from it, but he was going to make sure I got through this unscathed. Then he showed me the scars on his wrist, the ones he got from a fight with a burglar when my dad was a kid. Then he said to me in a whisper, It was no burglar, kid.

He did something that he rarely did. He held me. I could smell the strong odor of beer and aftershave on him. Then he let me go. He reached into his pocket and unfurled a yellow piece of paper that he had in his wallet. It was a child's drawing. It looked somewhat like that video game character, the liquor. But it was pale white, no exposed brain,

and the arms and legs were too long, even by kid-drawing standards. It made me think of a hairless albino gibbon. The eyes were colored red, with small black dots for pupils, and a long, thin tongue drooped lazily out of its toothful mouth. Instead of fingers or toes, there were several sharp claws drawn.

It was my dad's drawing. When he was a young kid, my grandfather told me, he saw this thing creeping outside the window. It was like it chose my dad. Grandpa encountered it too when he was a kid, crawling past his window, but he never actually saw it until my dad started drawing it

and telling him about the nightmares he was having about it. Grandpa realized that it was the same thing that would stalk his childhood bedroom. Grandpa was a green beret, so he stayed up with my dad one night, he watched for it, and when it came, he managed to stab the beast in the chest. It bled out into my dad's bedroom, and in the struggle it cut my grandpa so badly, but he was fine afterwards.

The thing, whatever it is, scurried out the window and was gone. It never bothered him or his son again. He thought he got rid of it. He told the police it was a burglar, and that was the story he told us. He then sighed. His whole face sunk when he took his phone out and opened the voicemail. He told me to listen carefully. As he played, my dad's voice came on.

I hadn't heard it in months since he left Mom. Hey, Pop, it's back. You know what I'm talking about. And I noticed it outside our apartment, just like before. First a shadow, then an arm, and its whole body was pressed against the window. Its awful, long tongue was rubbing against the window pain and making a slight scraping sound.

Every time I turned the lights on or got up, it would disappear, but I know it's there. I can't let it get to my boy, you know? I think it's still following me. No matter what room I'm in in the house, I can sense it, always by the closest window. I can hear it breathing, scratching. It's trying to make itself known.

I'm going to lure it away from the kids and hopefully put it in the ground for good. And if you don't hear from me, you know what happened. Please look after my boy and grace. Otherwise, I'll see you in the morning. I might need patching up. Thank you, Dad. Bye. He sighed.

He didn't know what to tell my mother, so he's been avoiding her. But now it was time to tell her. act. He got me ready for bed, and then it was lights out. I was shaking in bed. My grandpa was asleep almost right away. It was a calm and serene night. The noisy city was seemingly taking a break. I remember everything about that night, the lingering oil smell from dinner, the quiet drip from the bathroom, the numb feeling in my limbs and legs from laying all tents in the bed. I kept staring at the blinds. Was my grandfather saying this thing was real?

I didn't know. He often said things I didn't understand, but they never felt so frightening as it did now. Little fluttering moments of sleep would whizz by me, and I'd take a moment of rest, and then gasp back into a flurry of anxiety. Then it started. The shadow.

The arm reaching across the window. I gently started to rub my grandfather's arm. He turned over to face me. He was awake now. His old wrinkled face scooted toward me. He winked at me and reached for the duffel bag. He very slowly reached into it, and something long and shiny was glinting

ever so slightly in the scarce night light. I kept staring at the arm in the window. He very quietly whispered in my ear to let him know when the creature's body was in front of the window. and I could see the eye again. I nodded, shivering and shaking from fear. I could just see my grandfather's face. I've never seen him like this.

Eyes closed, his ear was perked up like a satellite looking for a signal. He wasn't frowning or smiling. Just a grim, straight line of passive readiness past his lips, and he breathed slow, measured breaths. Then I saw it. The creature's body was in front of the window, just behind the blinds, casting its shadow, then it lowered, and the glowing red eye peered into the room, I whispered. My grandpa was probably 70.

I don't really know. He was the type to delegate every task from getting him a beer to finding the remote. He took elevators instead of stairs at every possibility. He ate bacon consistently throughout the day, and he liked to plant himself on the couch and complained about his back as if his life depended on it. But this old man threw the sheet off himself and in a flurry of motion in the dark drew a two-foot-long machete into my window.

It just disappeared into the blinds, shattering the window in an explosion of glass and flimsy balsa wood. The creature, whatever it was, hollered a gurgle of a screech that ripped the sense out of me. I jumped up as it stumbled in. It was massive, as big as grandpa, but with such long, almost arachnid-like arms.

It slashed at my grandpa who raised his hands up. With the window open, I could see the spray of blood from the incoming streetlights. The blinds were encumbering the creature. It shook its head violently to try to free itself. My grandpa bellowed at me to run, and I rolled out of bed to the door. At that moment, though my mother was coming in,

furious, she had flicked on the light and was cursing about the noise in this room. As soon as she turned on those lights, we both could see. It had not only gotten the blinds off, it had one of its long claws deep into my grandpa's stomach. His white shirt was rapidly collecting blood, and with a fluid downward motion, it opened up my grandpa.

I could see dark red guts pulling on the floor as my grandpa babbled and frothed and fell over. The creature used its other arm to reach for the blade. It was stuck deep into its chest, and with a screech that pulled it out and tossed it right at me, narrowly missing me and hitting the doorframe beside me. My mom screamed and tried to push me out the doorway. It jumped on her back, and reaching its claws around her,

it started to tear at her face and torso. I could see streaks of red spray under the walls and the bed and the door. I caught some blood on my face as my mom screamed at me to run. I picked up the machete on the ground and made my way to the floor, front door. Maybe I could rouse a neighbor. Maybe it wouldn't follow me downstairs to the street. I could hear my mother fall hard on the ground, and as I struggled with the front door locks and chains, the creature was down the hall from me. It was gurgling, breathing like an asthmatic. As it got closer, I froze up. I sat on the ground. I raised the machete. It wobbled in my shaking

hands. Then it stopped. Then I noticed its chest. It was bleeding profusely. It looked like it fainted. It leaned against the wall and breathed heavily. Then its head made a soft thump as it hit the floor. I heard sirens. When I woke up, I brandished the machete in front of me. I caught something in my swing, but my weak arms only grazed a thick boot. It was a firefighter who was rousing me up. I looked to where the creature was last, and it was gone. The next few hours were a blur. I adamantly retold the story from start to finish dozens of times. The public defender assigned to me kept telling me to just tell the truth about what happened. The weapon was found in my possession, The wounds on grandpas and mom's bodies were consistent with a large bladed weapon.

The prosecutor for the state was a compelling and fiery young man who saw me as a product of a broken system that rewarded delinquency and reneged on its duty to properly hold young people for their actions. Troublesome at school, no dad in the picture, clearly violent. Luckily, my public defendant was competent enough to get me an insanity plea. My relentlessness when sticking to the story meant that it was easy for the system to deem me mentally ill.

I was angry at first. I kept fighting the drugs, the orderlies, the nurses, the urge to sleep. Then I spent a whole day in the psych ward sleeping, finally. It was relief. I found the bed to be uncomfortable,

the sheet itchy, the pillow flat, but it was a warm, welcome peace. Even if this was to be my cell, I had a barred-up window with a nice curtain that almost covered the whole window, except for the sides. And as I drifted off to sleep in my cell, my arms strapped to the side of my bed for my own safety,

I tried to ignore what looked like a long pink tongue streaking across the exposed part of the window. Creepy presents. Baby Mine, written by Victory Witherkey, and narrated by Danielle Hewitt. Soft giggles echoed through the hallways of the old building, waking me from my nap. Was it already time? I swear I'd just put her down. I thought as the afternoon light made me wince as my blurry vision tried to assess what was going on. I'm coming.

I yelled out as the giggles got louder, flopping over on the Egyptian cotton sheets in my sleeping bag to will myself to stand. Whatever sleep I had attempted to get during this nap was proving to be useless. My hand reached out to feel for my glasses, patting and prodding along my wood grain on the floor until the cold metal frames clicked under my fingertips. As I slid the glasses across the back of my ears, my vision finally cleared enough for the room to take shape. My iPhone lay next to me, plugged into the portable charger, the flashing light blinking at me as I looked around the room. People once knew this place as the Diplomat Hotel, in the city of Baggio, in the Philippines. Sitting on top of a hillside called Dominican Hill, the room overlooks a panoramic view of the city below.

Thick, white stone walls, with sizable arched glass windows, reflect the seminary heritage of the building I've chosen to stay in. It's become a heritage site for the city spot that pulled up on my phone as a theme destination for those who enjoy a glimpse of the area's historical past. There are more florals in the ceilings and walls than outside the lush acres and acres of overgrown gardens. The reflection of the stone's cross shadow on the outdoor patio lays across the grounds as I stare outside. Cooing sounds echoed through my phone again to break my appreciation of the room. It was the first trip in a while that I was traveling without my husband. husband, Jonathan. In the past, he'd been reluctant to let me out of his sight. Ever since the

incident in England with the Count, Jonathan still has a hard time forgiving himself for what happened. I told him this trip was necessary for him to focus on his work. His job as a legal advisor often took him to various tech hubs worldwide, this time, taking him to Dubai for Halloween instead of this trip. My feet shuffled toward what once was a bathroom, hoping that a splash of cold water will help me wake up for my jet-lagged nap. The cold dripping shock to my face causes goosebumps along my neck and forearms as a shiver runs down my back. That's odd to be so cold on a Pacific island known for its blistering humidity. The sound of a crying baby once again echoes down the halls. What the...

It was the first time the sounds of a baby crying made me pause. I fell asleep in this place by myself. I grabbed the closest white face towel, drying my face and hands before running back to my phone on the nightstand. The last thing I remembered before falling asleep was calling my husband to let him know I'd arrived. I swipe across the lock screen to check if I had passed out watching some kind of show or movie with a kid in it that never turned off. The blue glow of my screen pulls nothing more than the email with my confirmation in a few photos of the garden out front. The child's cries were still carrying down the halls as I flicked the touchscreen to turn on the flashlight. I'd heard the stories of the hotel before I came.

This building had once been a seminary at the start of the Spanish occupation of the Philippines. Roman Catholicism brought the fighting and struggled to keep the old ways alive. The Dawadas and old gods lost to the suppression of culture and language to religion and order. Eventually, the seminary expanded to include a school to instruct. the heathen natives to embrace the God of Spain and the king who came with it. When the church could no longer afford to support the buildings, the land changed hands to become a refugee holding leading into the Second World War. My flashlight glimmered along the white-worn stone walls to the main hallway.

Even with my glasses on my face, I can't shake the feeling I'm being watched. Observed. The locals no longer come to close this place. saying there are apparitions of headless beings seen in the early twilight hours. Rumors started when the Japanese had control of this building, using its ground for holding prisoners and torture for their information. They lost count of how many priests and nuns were beheaded on this site by the time the war ended. The stone on the floor is colder than the humid air as I stepped down the staircase toward the

courtyard's fountain, where a cacophony of children laughing and crying has been building. I sniff slowly, creeping along as quietly as possible, to ensure I can follow the noise with as brief distraction as possible. In the 1970s, the building was turned into a hotel, trying to wash away the stains of death and dismemberment, but it wouldn't last the 1980s. Technically, no human should be allowed to sleep on these grounds anymore, given the gray walls and peeling red paint are all that remain. of the once elegant decor.

Then again, it's been over an age since I've been human. There are stories about my husband and me and are certain dealings with a count from Transylvania. Over the decades, we've made sure to keep adapting, changing names, countries, languages, and technology, letting the old stories float around as cover

to avoid the awkward questions. The only time I get nostalgic for that era is when my husband slips and calls me by his nickname for me. Mina. Jonathan was a relatively dull enough name that we felt he'd be fine just changing our surname. However, the name Mina seems to be pretty popular in the stories, forcing my hand at going by Willa for the past few years.

It was a fad during the 80s when I was born, I tell our acquaintances. The echo and crash of banging doors shake me from my stupor as I enter the overgrown gardens of the courtyard. Strange. There are no doors left in this building. Goose bumps once again form along my forearm as the hair in the back of my neck stands up.

An icy chill has swept the courtyard, my breath crystallizing and foggy ice before my face as I walk closer to the fountain. Show yourselves! I yell out to the empty garden. I am not afraid of you. Are you so sure of that? A garbled squawk answers back.

That voice doesn't sound human. Before my eyes, specters of headless beings float before me. Shapes of Roman Catholic garb on half-bodied nuns and priests float around the garden. Every so often, a glimmer of a child or adult's head flicker in the background. Their eyes burning with rage and pain as they stare at me, muttering in a language I don't understand. Who is speaking? I yell once more, edging closer to the fountain. The children's giggles are now bouncing off the courtyard walls, almost drowning my ears in their laughter. You can't be sure if they're screaming and screeching from laughter or pain, can you? The garbled voice

answers once more. I turn to see a being in the shape of a beautiful woman, golden tan skin, with long flowing island curls dripping from her head. Her curves scream of sin and lust in the tattered novice gown, barely holding itself together on her form. If I were a mere man, I'm sure I'd be dead already just from the need to possess her. The only thing that tells me she's not of this world are her bloodshot red eyes,

and her feet are pointed backward from her body. What are you? I asked barely above a whisper. It smiles a crooked Cheshire grin, before its jaw opens to display the razor-blade-edged teeth with a long dragon-like tongue. Isn't that the pot calling the kettle black? It smirks.

You barely smell human yourself. My mouth thins, teeth gritting as a tense silence settles around us. Depending on what languages you know, the creature speaks. I've been called many things. But most in the area would Sam and Aswan. A blood drinker. Its smile grows more extensive as it sniffs the air before continuing.

But I don't believe I'm the first you've met of my kind. There's the scent of another's bite on you. No, you're not the first who I've encountered. It's garbled mix of inhuman laughter echoes around me, joined by whatever restless spirits have come out upon its arrival. My, my, aren't we confident? It spits back. What do you want? Why have you trespassed on my territory?

I smile back for the first time before turning away from the creature to speak to the restless souls watching us. My name was Mina Harker. And yes, a blood drinker named Dracula bit me a long, long time ago. To torture my husband. That creature is gone now, but its curse had some interesting effects for my husband and myself. We've traveled this world, lived in luxury, raised our family, hiding in plain sight. But it's not enough, not anymore. I turned to look at the Aswang directly into its blood-red eyes.

One of my flesh and blood was killed here, I say, walking toward it. A young woman, headstrong like I once was, who thought she could escape our family's legacy by serving as a bride of God. The Aswong's red eyes grow large, the smile dropping from her face. She was supposed to take her orders here in the Second World War. when the Japanese police turned this place into a hellhole of murder, rape, and torture. It keeps taking steps back, shaking its head, shivering as though the stiff hands of death were once again upon it. She never knew what happened to our bloodline if we get attacked.

What the curse of Dracula turns us into if it involved enough rage and hatred in our deaths. My hands are outstretched to her open, waiting for an embrace. Come home with me, baby mine. 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 Commons Sherylite 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.