Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 7 True Scary Stories To Help You To SLEEP

Episode Date: December 6, 2024

These are 7 True Scary Stories To Help You To SLEEP Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►Sent in to https://www.justcreepy.net/ Timestamps: 00:00 Intro 00:00:18 Story 1 00:07:27 Story 2 00:16:05 Story 3 00:27:49 Story 4 00:34:43 Story 5 00:42:36 Story 6 00:50:00 Story 7 Music by: ► Myuu's channel http://bit.ly/1k1g4ey ►CO.AG Music http://bit.ly/2f9WQpe Thumbnail art: ►Just Creepy Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #horrorstories 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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cup of Folgers coffee and music on full blast. Black, me! Is Folgers in your cup? Shop Fulgers Instant Coffee and more at your nearest retailer. So, when I was 20 or so, my best friend Emily started seeing this guy, Alex. At first, I thought he was pretty cool. He was funny and seemed really relaxed, always with that easy smile that made everybody like him. He had some charm that made it feel like he would be the life of the party. But there was a

something more, too, something he didn't really talk much about. He lived with his Aunt Margaret, who seemed very strict to my eyes. He would make light of how she was tough on him, giving him curfews as if he were some little kid, but he was in his 20s. He would laugh about it, but I could tell it got to him. Margaret made him be home by 9 p.m. every night, and she wasn't playing around. Alex said that if he wasn't home on time, she would either lock him out or threaten to call him. the police. Honestly, sometimes it was hard to believe. How can one be that strict with a full-grown man? But then again, Alex was never in a mood to discuss that, and neither did Emily urge him to do so. We just accepted it as one of those weird parts of his life. Even so, Alex spent a lot of time

at Emily's place, and I was there most nights too. We had a good laugh together. We'd play cards, drink cheap beer, and make fun of each other. It was pretty much normal, and before long, Alex was pretty much a part of our little group, but every now and then, I would catch something, like how he'd suddenly go silent when anyone even mentioned Margaret's name, or how he always checked the clock, even if we were just lounging. I convinced myself it probably was nothing at all. Still, a small voice at the back of my head, I've since discovered, always asked, what if. Then came that one night. Emily and I were just beginning a new round of cards when Alex charged into the room.

It was like 9.30, way past when he was supposed to be home. He looked rough, all messed up in the hair and kind of dirty in his clothes. He had that look in his eyes, like he'd just gone through something. He said he had gotten into a fight on the way over. I do not know whether to believe him or not, but he was always getting into some kind of trouble, so we just shrugged it off. We started playing cards again, but it wasn't the same. Alex was acting weird. He laughed at things that weren't funny too loudly, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking when he picked up his cards. I tried to brush it off, but it was hard to ignore. I remember

looking over at Emily, and she gave me this look back, like she was wondering the same thing I was. What was going on with Alex? Around midnight, Emily asked him about Margaret. She wanted to know if she was going to freak out since he wasn't home. Alex hesitated, then said Margaret was asleep. He said he'd snuck out, and she probably wouldn't even notice he was gone until morning. It made sense, I guess, so we didn't press it. We just kept playing, but the air felt heavy,

like there was something none of us were saying. The rest of the night seemed to drag on forever. I kept watching Alex, trying to figure out what was wrong with him. He would smile, but it never reached his eyes. He kept looking at the door, as if he was waiting for something to happen. It made me feel on edge, but I didn't say anything. I just played my cards, laughed when everyone else did, and tried to ignore the knot in my stomach.

In retrospect, I wish I had trusted that feeling. Things might have been different if I had done so. The next day I went home, exhausted from staying late up with Emily and Alex. It had been a weird night, and something about Alex was gnawing at me no matter how much I was trying to shake it from my head. I did not really have much time to ponder it because my phone was ringing off the hook around noon. It was Emily. She sounded like she was falling apart. Jamie, you have to check the news. Now, she said, her voice shaking and thick with tears. I could hardly understand her, but the panic in her voice made me sit up straight.

My hands fumbled as I pulled up the local news website. I wasn't ready for what I saw. There was Alex's face, his mugshot, staring back at me from the screen. The headline read, Local man arrested for brutal murder. My eyes skimmed over the words, but it was like they didn't make sense. Margaret. Dead. Bludgeoned in her own home.

My stomach lurched. I felt like I was going to be sick. I could hear Emily crying on the other end of the line, but I managed to push the words out. Emily, what happened? I asked. Though I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to hear it. She took a wavering breath and began to explain. After I left the previous night, Alex had confessed to her.

He told her how he'd snapped. Margaret had yelled at him again, something about being late, and he couldn't take it anymore. He grabbed a hammer and Emily couldn't even finish the sentence. I could hear her gasping for air, trying to pull herself together. She said Alex had talked about it like it was no big deal, like it was just something that happened. He'd even smiled while he talked. Emily said she was terrified, but knew she had to act calm.

So she acted like she was on his side, telling him that they could run away. She even started packing her bag while Alex watched. all the time she thought of how she might get out from under him. Locking herself in the bathroom finally worked, and she immediately called 911, whispering to the operator so Alex would not hear. The police came quickly. Emily said it felt like forever,

but it really wasn't more than a few minutes before they were pounding against the door. She could hear when they busted the door open, the yelling, the crash of furniture as they took Alex down. She stayed in the bathroom, too scared to come out until one of the officers came, and knocked on the door and told her it was safe. I didn't say anything. My best friend had been sitting next to a murderer, pretending to be okay, pretending to run away with him, just so she could live.

I felt cold all over. I thought of Alex sitting across from me, laughing too loud, his hands shaking as he dealt the cards. I thought of the streaks on his sleeve, the way he kept glancing at the door. It all made sense now, but it was too late. That day, Emily and I talked for a really long time. She cried until she almost couldn't breathe anymore, and I tried to comfort her, though I was shaken too. We both knew nothing would ever be quite the same again. Alex was gone, locked away, but the memory of that night would live with us.

Every time I thought of it, this heavy weight would fall onto my chest, knowing we had come so close to something so dark, and we hadn't even seen it. The house was so silent I could almost hear the dust drop. I had collapsed onto the couch, my body sinking back into the cushions as I held my Nintendo Switch, zoned out to the jaunty music of Animal Crossing. The afternoon had slipped by quietly enough, me chatting easily with Jake over my gaming headset. Nothing seemed out of place until I heard it, a definite crunching of gravel outside right from the driveway. It wasn't the familiar sound of my dad's truck tires or the car.

friendly rumble of the neighbor's car. I paused the game and moved toward the window, my eyes searching the driveway. There it was, an old blue van sitting awkwardly like it didn't belong. I peered through the curtains, my breath catching for just a moment. A man in an unwieldy black hoodie and boots caked with mud climbed down from the van. His clothes were too heavy for the weather, and he moved all wrong, too purposeful, too intense. He strode toward the front door, long and confident, as if he had a purpose in here. My stomach twisted as he approached and I ducked behind the curtain, careful not to make a sound.

I could hear him now, pounding on the door. The sound echoed through the hallway, a hollow, demanding sound that filled every empty space of the house. I stayed in hiding, holding my breath. Each knock was louder than the last, as if he was determined to be let in. A few seconds passed, and I looked again. He was no longer in front of the door. My gaze followed him as he walked past the van,

his direction toward the side of the house. A tendril of unease curled across my skin. Scambling to the opposite side of the room, I stayed low, tracking his movement. He disappeared around the corner, heading out into the backyard. Crackling in my headset jolted me. It was Jake, asking how things were going. I whispered to him, trying to explain, but my words felt thin and shaky.

Now the creek of the backyard gate reached my ears, followed by a metallic clatter as it swung open. My mind racing, the sliding door. My parents always forgot to lock it. I had to see what he was doing, but I couldn't let him see me. I crept down the stairs, each step a deliberate conscious movement in an attempt to keep the sound beneath a whisper. I could hear him, through my hiding place by the kitchen,

testing the sliding door, then the thud, as if he were striking it, testing its resolve. The noise clanged through the vacant kitchen, vibrating through the atmosphere until it dropped into silence. I crouched behind the wall, hardly daring to breathe. The minutes dragged on, each second longer than the last. I could hear the man muttering to himself, his voice low, the words indistinct. I didn't dare peek, not until the muttering stopped, and the sounds of footsteps on the deck. faded away. I slowly inched my way back up the stairs. I literally snatched the headset off the hook, and my hands were shaking violently as I whispered frantically to Jake about what just happened. He told me to stay calm. Watch where the man went next. I moved over to the window in time to

see the man standing beside his van. He wasn't leaving. He just stood there, staring at the house. His eyes too went over every window, searching for movement, for some sign of life. He was not. He was just of life inside. I saw the back of his van, a rusty crowbar, a heavy chain, and a soiled tarp, haphazardly thrown into the open space. He stood there for what felt like hours, staring at the house. I remained still, my pulse pounding in my ears, praying he didn't see me. And then finally, he climbed back into the van. The door slammed shut. The van reversed, its headlights flickering, and slowly disappeared down the road, leaving the drive. driveway empty once again. The silence settled back into the house, only it was no longer an easy one.

It was heavy and thick and bore down from all sides, like a physical thing. I couldn't get out of my head the feeling that something fundamental had changed in the time between those knocks and now, as he drove away. I stood at the window, watching the empty road, waiting for some, any sign. The only sound was the soft ticking of the kitchen clock, marking off the minutes since the van had disappeared down the road. Finally, I unstuck myself from the window, still scouring the street with my eyes for some sign he might come back. The house felt strange, no longer my own.

Every corner, it seemed, had shadows that hadn't been there before, and every creek of the old wooden floors felt like an intrusion. I needed to know what he had done. I propelled myself forward my legs heavy as if the air around me had thickened. My first stop was the sliding door to the backyard. The doormat lay tossed aside, the once neat line of flower pots now askew, some knocked over, spilling soil out onto the deck. He had been searching, looking for something, a way in.

My gaze swept the area, dropping down to the small stone ornaments sitting precariously near the door. I lifted it, feeling again the way. weight of the extra key beneath, still tucked away. He hadn't found it. Relief tempered by something else, something darker that I didn't want to name. The gate was still open, swaying slightly in the wind. I closed it carefully, trying to erase any sign of what had happened here, trying to regain some sense of control. As I turned back to the house, the kitchen window glared back at me, its clear glass suddenly feeling like a vulnerability. I stepped back inside and, closed the door behind me, locking it. The click of the lock wasn't nearly as reassuring as I'd have

liked. The phone was on the counter, and I reached for it, dialing my dad. My voice was shaking, trying to explain what happened, words in halting fragments. He told me that if my sister was there, he was going to call the police, and I could already hear the worry in his tone. He said I should stay put, lock all the doors and windows, and that he would be home as soon as he could. I put down the phone, pausing a beat on its receiver before I turned away from it. Minutes later, the strobe of a patrol car lit up the front of the house, casting eerie shadows across the walls in hues of blue and red. I let him in when he knocked on the door.

His presence was both a relief and a chilling intrusion. He asked questions, what the man looked like, what he had done, what he drove. I replied, my voice sounding far away, way, as though I was telling a tale that had befallen another person. He nodded, writing notes, his eyes straying occasionally toward the windows as though he half expected the man to reappear at any moment. When he left, silence came back, thicker now, and filled with all that could have happened. I walked through the house, checking each lock twice, then a third time. The windows

that had let the light in now felt like eyes watching me exposed and vulnerable. I moved from room to room, my gaze drifting to each shadow, every corner, as if daring something to come out. The hours dragged on, and the darkness outside seemed to press against the house. I found myself standing in the living room, staring out the front door, replaying every sound, every movement. The van, the man, the way he had stared at the house, vivid memories that refused to fade, the crowbar, the chain, the tarp, things that seemed to promise something much worse than a simple breaking and entering. The fear stuck to me like a limpid, persistent that safety was not assured. Eventually I dropped down onto the couch, still keeping my eyes on the door, my ears straining for

any sound that didn't belong. The clock continued to tick, each second feeling like a small victory, a moment that I had managed to stay safe. But the house was different now, and I knew the fear would stay long after the night had passed. The stranger might have gone, but his presence still lingered, etched into the walls, woven into the silence that now filled the house. Introducing the new Best Skin Ever Ultra Slim Precision Concealer from Sephora Collection. It's full coverage with a matte finish and perfect for any look, whether you're building it up for a full glam moment or targeting correction for a more natural

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It's not magic. It's mushrooms. Stop stressing at mushroomcounsel.com. I had always been the type of person who would help others. open my home to someone in need. So when Hannah called and I could tell by the quietness in her voice that something was wrong, I didn't think twice. She had nowhere else to go, and although rumors swirled around her eviction, I wanted to believe her story. I wanted to help.

She moved in on a cold winter's afternoon, carrying just two bags and a tired smile. And she kept thanking me again and again, and I kept telling her it was no problem that we'd work it out. but right from the very start things weren't quite right. The first night, I woke to hear her in the kitchen at two in the morning. The hiss of the kettle, the clink of a spoon against a mug. I pulled the blanket over my head, but the smell had wafted in, bitter and strong. When I mentioned it the next day, she looked at me, her eyes slightly unfocused, as if she couldn't remember, and shrugged.

I couldn't sleep, she said. Her voice was so quiet, almost apologetic. I let it go, and the days turned into weeks, and the oddities piled up. I would come home from work, and all the doors would be closed, though I always left them open for the cats. They started to hide in my room. Their usual playful selves now seemed wary and distant. Hannah spent most of her time on the couch,

staring out the window, expressionless. She said little, and when she did, it seemed her mind wander. Her answers were incomplete and at times completely unrelated to the question. One night, I jolted awake. The room was dark and still. Gradually my eyes adjusted to the dim light, and then I saw her. Hannah was in the doorway. She was just, staring at me. Long hair fell in front of her face, hands hanging limply from her sides. My mouth was open to speak, but the words got stuck in my throat. She did not move. She didn't blink. It felt heavy this stillness, a crushing air falling down on top of us in the room. Hannah? I managed finally, my voice barely a

whisper. She turned then, slowly, and walked back into the living room without a word. I lay awake the rest of the night with the image of her silhouette burned into my mind. Then I began to lock my bedroom door at night. I started hiding things, knives, scissors, anything sharp. It felt silly, like I was overreacting, but there was something in her eyes that unsettled me, a vacancy it was. All attempts at conversation with her, inquiries about her being okay, came to nothing as she would only stare, eyes distant, as if she were looking at something I was not. There was a darkness there, something I couldn't quite grasp. One night, there had to be a breaking point. I was jolted awake by the acrid smell of something burning, rushing into the kitchen, there she was, standing over

the stove, burning instant coffee granules in a frying pan. The flames licked the air, casting shadows over her face, sunken and hollow. Her eyes were staring into the fire. Hannah, what are you doing? My voice shook, but she didn't answer. she just stood there watching the flames dance. That was when I knew I had to get her out. Whatever was happening to her, I couldn't help. I could neither save her nor keep living like this, with the constant fear, the tension that coiled tighter with each passing day.

I had opened my home to help a friend, but all I wanted now was my home back, my life back, free of the shadow that Hannah had brought with her. Worst are mornings the days after. Hannah, sitting at the kitchen table, half-empty mug in front of her, with eyes turned into blanks to some empty field outside, and then this frozen posture, into emptiness, that the previous night hasn't happened, wouldn't let her sleep on an open nerve. The charred grains of coffee, the motionless form standing in my doorway, it was all as if it vanished with the break of day, leaving only the lifeless shell of the human being sitting at my table. I would stand there watching, waiting for some sort of sign that

she knew what was going on, but it never came. The apartment started to feel different, smaller. It wasn't just the mess, though that certainly added to it. Hannah's long hair seemed to be everywhere, clogging the sink, clinging to my clothes, tangled in the cat's fur. She would leave dishes piled in the sink and clothes strewn across the living room. The air was heavy, as if her presence had seeped into the walls, the floors, the ceiling. I found myself spending more time at work, loitering after my shifts just to put off the moment of coming home. Now, with the cats wouldn't leave my bedroom no more, scatter as soon as Hannah made a move. They were slinking away, I thought, to hide under the bed or in the closet. Don't blame them. Something about the silence from her was

quite unnerving, the way she'd flit around, unnoticed, at least no comments following her, going across softly on bare feet over the floor. She would sit on the couch for hours, eyes glazed, hands lying limply on her lap. When I talked to her, it was like my words just bounced right off of her, never quite reaching wherever it was her mind had gone. One night, I woke to the sound of footsteps, slow, deliberate. My bedroom door was closed. but I could hear her moving just outside my room, pacing back and forth in the hallway. I lay still, listening. The footsteps would stop, then start again, a nervous drumbeat that seemed to go on forever.

When I finally dared to open the door, the hallway was empty. The living room was darkened, but I could make out her form by the window, standing there, staring into space. I softly shut the door behind me and turned the lock. The next morning, she was back at the table. Her coffee untouched, her eyes vacant. I sat across from her, trying to find the right words, trying to understand what was happening.

Hannah, I said, my voice sounding too loud in the quiet kitchen. Are you okay? Do you need help? She didn't look at me. She looked out the window. Her lips parted, as if she were going to say something, but she didn't. I waited, but the silence stretched on until I couldn't bear it anymore. It was later that night that I found the knife. I had hidden them all, locked them away, but somehow she had found one.

It lay on the kitchen counter, blade glinting in the dim light. I picked it up, my hands shaking. I turned, and there she was, standing in the doorway watching me. Her eyes were dark, hollow, and something else flickered there now, something like anger, or maybe fear. I couldn't tell. Hannah, you can't have this, I said, fighting to keep my voice. level as uneasiness ate through my insides. She didn't respond, just turned and disappeared into the living room shadows. I put the knife away with the others and locked it, my mind spinning. It wasn't

just the knife. It was everything. The pacing, the staring, the vacancy in her eyes. I had to do something. I had to get her out before it was too late. I didn't fall asleep that entire night. All I did was sit on the bed as the door creaked open slightly, listening to her silent feet moving about through the rooms of the apartment. She must have been searching for something treading so softly. Whatever had taken its hold on her wasn't releasing its grip, and me trapped there with it until morning, for a way out. Morning came, but the feeling of apprehension lingered. Light didn't chase the mood away. Walls began to close in, and the air was heavy. I knew today had to be the day. I could not postpone it one more day. So I dialed my friend,

Eric and asked if he could come over. I didn't give him the full details, just enough so that he knew that I needed him. He knew me well enough not to ask too many questions, and I could hear the concern in his voice, as he agreed to come by later that afternoon. When Eric arrived, I could see the tension in his shoulders as he stepped inside. He looked around, taking note of the state of the apartment, the stacked dishes, the blanket hanging off the couch, the general clutter that had taken over since Hannah moved in. I gestured toward the bedroom for him to follow me out of Hannah's line of sight. She was sitting on the couch facing away from us and was watching the TV, which was turned off.

I kept my voice low, telling him I needed her to leave, that I couldn't do it alone. He nodded, his face set, and together we went back inside into the living room. My ears were throbbing with pulse, and my hands slightly dampened as I clutched them into fists. Hannah, I said, trying to sound calm. She didn't turn around, didn't say anything. I took a deep breath. Hannah, it's time for you to leave. We've packed your stuff.

Eric gestured toward the bags by the door, the two small bags she had brought with her when she moved in. For a long moment she didn't move. The silence stretched out, heavy with it. Then slowly she turned her head and our eyes met. something was there, something dark and unreadable. She got to her feet, her movement slow and deliberate and walked toward the bags. Eric and I stepped back, giving her space.

She picked up the bags still looking at me, and then wordlessly turned and walked out the door. The door clicked shut, and the fist in my chest slowly began to unclench. Eric breathed out and rubbed a hand through his hair. You okay? scanning my face. I nodded, although I wasn't sure it was true. I felt drained, like I'd just walked out of a battle I hadn't even known I'd won. The apartment was silent that night. For the first time in weeks, I didn't hear the creek of the floorboards, the restless pacing in the hall. The cats came out from under the bed and climbed up beside me as I sat on the couch,

staring at the empty space where Hannah had been. I wanted to think it was over, that the darkness she had brought with her had left too. A week later, though, I heard the news. Hannah set her new apartment on fire. The reporter on the screen described, in careful detail, how she had doused accelerant across the floors, how the neighbors tried to pull her out, how she had fought them off, screaming that she had to finish it.

They said she was in custody now, in a psychiatric facility. I turned the television off, and the silence of the apartment pressed in around. me. I sat, all of it settling into place, the fear, the confusion, the guilt. I had tried to help her, and I had failed. I opened up my home, my life, and in return, I was left with shadows I wasn't sure would ever lift. I looked at the cats curled up, their eyes half closed and wondered if if they too could feel it, this tingling sense that something had been there, something that had left its mark even after it was gone. I had arrived at the cottage when the dusk was. I had arrived at the cottage

when the dusk was really setting in, and the cold started to seep into my bones. I shivered standing as the last light of the day disappeared behind the hills. My phone battery was almost dead, and frustration gnawed at me. I kept looking at the empty road, hoping to see somebody coming, anybody. And then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, there was a figure, a man cycling up the winding road. That had to be Luca, the host. He was tall with unkempt hair that showed up when he removed his helmet,

and the strong smell of alcohol stuck to him, a thing which I could not overlook. He muttered some apology for this, said something about losing track of time, and hurrying over so as not to keep me waiting. His attempt at an assuring smile made me uneasy, but I rode it off as the cold and my own fatigue. I just wanted to go inside and dropped the whole thing.

Luca led me through the gate down a narrow, overgrown path that twisted its way to the cottage. The cottage was somewhat isolated in that it sat among trees, and his main house loomed up the hill, half hidden in the shadows. He moved with haste, eager to show me around the small, obviously old cottage with creaky wooden floors,

a dusty fireplace, and furniture that had seen better days. The air inside was stale, and I could tell it hadn't been used much. But it was quiet, and I had the place to myself, which was what I had wanted. as we walked through the living room luka pointed to a small door partly concealed behind a cabinet he said it opened into a cellar under his house but added very quickly that it was locked There was something in the way he had zeroed in on that point, as if he was working too hard to try to make me feel better. I pretended not to care, nodding as his words made a hidden door between my unit and his sound unsettling. He stood there a moment longer after handing me the keys before his eyes finally left mine, and he turned to go.

The moment he closed the door behind him, the silence came crashing in. I stood still for a moment, trying to shake this strange vibe that hung in the air. So I told myself, just tired nerves, nothing more. With a resolute spirit, I then went about unpacking, though my attempts at ignoring every little creek of the wooden floorboards were fruitless. The cottage was too quiet, and I could hear every whisper of the wind brushing against the windows. Then, just as I was starting to relax, came a soft rap on the door. I froze, listening.

Before I could react, I heard a key turn in the door. lock. My stomach twisted as the door opened and Luca stepped inside. He smiled, but it was a little strained. His eyes wouldn't meet mine as he mumbled something about forgetting his phone charger. He began to work his way around the room, rummaging through drawers and along shelves, without waiting for my response. The sight of him prowling in and out of the cottage set my skin crawling. I was determined to remain civil, insisting that I had not seen the thing, but he hardly seemed to hear me. He finally left, giving me that same unnerving grin as he closed the door behind him. I stood there for a long time, looking at the door as a cold unease

washed over me. I didn't like that he could walk in any time he pleased. This was supposed to be my space, at least for the next few days. I took a deep breath and told myself I was overreward. I was reacting. But the feeling lingered, that sense of needing to be on guard. The sun had just gone, and the cottage was swallowed whole by darkness. I tried to reassure myself that Luca was just awkward, maybe even socially inept or perhaps harmless, but I couldn't dispel the tension coiling inside me. I paced through the small space and checked every window, every lock, pushed heavy books in front of the back door, just in case. My eyes would keep straying back, to the narrow door in the living room, the one Lucas said led to his cellar. Even from behind

the cabinet it seemed to call to me. He had said it was locked, but it offered no comfort. Every time my eyes went back to it, unease twisted tighter in my gut. I went into the bedroom to take my mind off it. There, all told in another room, was an antique room with heavy wooden furniture and a large bed hanging apparently under its weight. Within one corner of the room stood a pair of wood-backed chairs. A thick rope lay coiled around the leg of one of them, if for no purpose at all. It was wrong. It looked as if somebody must have left it there. My mind began running with questions. Had it ever been used for something? By whom? Determined to feel safer. I dragged one of the chairs in front of the cellar door in an effort to slow Luca down if he tried to come in.

But when I tested the door, I realized it opened inward. My barricade was useless. I felt a hollow pit form in my stomach. All my efforts seemed pointless. Too tired I lay down to try and sleep. I kept my clothes on, just in case I needed to leave in a hurry. Lying in the darkness, I stared up at the ceiling, every creak and groan of the old cottage amplified in the silence. Outside the wind howled and rattled the windows as if it were trying to warn me. The creaking in the living room, sometime around midnight, caught my breath. A slow, deliberate sound, not caused by the wind. My body went rigid. The pounding of my heart deafened my ears. I dialed my brother on my phone, whispering for him to come get me. He could hear in my voice that I was really scared and said he would try to make it as soon as possible. It was an eternity. I kept looking at the bedroom door as each little noise made me jump. My hands were shaking and my pulse was racing.

Then, headlights cut across the window, and I felt a flush of relief. I grabbed my bag, giving only a cursory glance inside to make sure everything was there, and bolted out of the cottage, running full tilt to my brother's car. I turned back one last time to the cottage as we drove away. In the faint glow of the taillights, I could have sworn that I saw a figure standing at the window, watching us leave. I didn't say anything to my brother, but a shiver ran through me. Something was deeply wrong in that place, and I felt very happy to have listened to my gut,

leaving before it was too late. Even as we drove on, the feeling of unease lingered on, the sense that I had narrowly avoided some awful fate. Crispy Chicken Sandwich from 7-Eleven, people always call me loud. And I'm like, yeah, I know. I'm crispy. Did you expect me to whisper? If you want quiet, go eat some soup and reflect. Like, I know I'm a handful.

I'm bold, I'm juicy, throw some pickles and barbecue sauce on me, and baby I'm a whole meal. And with seven rewards, I'm just $4. Quiet. No. Krispy, saucy, and $4? Very. Only at 711.

Valley through 62326 participating stores only while supplies lastly out for full terms. This episode is brought to you by Netflix's remarkably bright creatures. What if a Pacific octopus held the key to a mystery that could heal your heart? Well, that's Tova's reality. An elderly widow working at an aquarium. Tova forms an unlikely friendship with the crumudgeonly Marcellus,

whose remarkable intelligence leads her to a life-changing discovery. Watch remarkably bright creatures with your remarkable moms this Mother's Day weekend, only on Netflix May 8th. I pushed open the door to Craft Haven, and the warmth of the store hit me. Aunt Margaret stayed in the car, her knee was giving her trouble again, so it was just me. I felt proud like I was on a mission. I had to get the candle wax and nothing else. Well, maybe a quick look at the paints just for fun.

The air inside was filled with that craft store smell, glue, dried flowers, and something else I could never really name. I headed toward the back where the candle supplies were. As I moved through the aisles, I saw a man near the entrance. He looked different. His coat was worn out and kind of dirty, and his jeans looked like they hadn't been washed in a long time. His eyes seemed empty, like he hadn't slept in days.

I shook it off and focused on finding the wax. I found the right aisle and bent down to pick up a pack of wax. I couldn't help but glance over my shoulder. There he was. He wasn't even pretending to look at anything, just standing there, staring. His lips moved, like he was talking to himself. I tried to ignore it, but my hands were starting to shake a little. I kept telling myself I was just imagining it, but something felt off.

I decided to make my way to the toy aisle. I wasn't ready to leave yet, but I wanted to see if maybe I could lose him. him. I walked slowly, pretending to browse the shelves. I saw some plush animals and picked one up, just to look busy. When I glanced up, he was at the end of the aisle, still staring, his eyes wide. He muttered something, but I couldn't hear it. My chest felt tight. I turned away and kept moving, faster now. I went down two more aisles, zigzagging through the store, hoping that maybe he'd get bored or just go away. But every time I looked up, he was still there, still following me, his steps slow but steady. I felt trapped, like no matter which way I turned,

he'd be there. I ended up in the floral section, my hands gripping a fake rose. I turned around, hoping he'd finally gone, but instead he was closer, way too close. He had his back to me, and his hand was moving inside his coat. His eyes looked crazier now, like he was getting more worked up. I didn't wait to see what he was doing. I dropped the rows, and ran. I ran like my life depended on it. I could hear his boots, heavy on the tile floor, coming after me. He was muttering louder now, almost growling. I couldn't understand the words, but it didn't matter. I just knew I had to get out. I burst through the sliding doors, and there was Aunt Margaret's car right in front. I threw myself inside, locking the door as fast as I

could. Aunt Margaret turned to me, her eyes wide. What's wrong, Emily? She asked. but I couldn't even speak. Before I could explain I saw him, the man. He came out of the store, his face twisted in anger. He pointed right at me and yelled, She stole! That girl stole from the store! Aunt Margaret looked confused, but I could tell she felt something was off. She locked her door and told me to stay down.

The man reached the car, banging on the window, his face just inches from mine. He pulled at the door handle, shaking the whole car. Aunt Margaret didn't wait. She threw the car in reverse, her hands shaking on the wheel. We backed up so fast I thought we might hit something, but she didn't stop. The tires squealed as we sped out of the parking lot. As we drove away, I looked back. The man was standing in the middle of the lot, staring after us,

his figure getting smaller and smaller, until he finally disappeared. It's been a few weeks since that night at Craft Haven, but it still feels like it just happened yesterday. I remember how the police came to our house after Aunt Margaret called them. I tried to describe the man, the way he looked, the wild look in his eyes. I did my best, but it was hard to find the right words. The officers nodded seriously, taking notes, and promised they would check the security footage from the store.

They said they'd do everything they could to catch him. And they did. Aunt Margaret told me that they caught the man. not long after. She tried to keep things simple, but I overheard some of what she told Uncle John. The man had been in trouble before, lots of trouble. He had hurt people before, even girls like me. I remember feeling both relieved and scared at the same time. He wouldn't be able to follow anyone else for now, but just knowing what he was capable of made my stomach twist. Even though he was caught, I couldn't really feel safe again. Every time I walk by a store,

door with sliding doors, I feel like he's right there, just out of sight. The squeak of the doors opening makes my skin prickle, like he might walk through them any second. Aunt Margaret keeps saying that it's over, that the man is gone, but the memory of him hasn't left me. Craft Haven used to be my favorite place, full of colors and fun. Now, whenever I think about going back, all I see are his eyes staring at me, empty and dark. Aunt Margaret tries to help, though. She knows I've been having trouble sleeping. Some nights, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything in my head. I keep thinking about what would have happened if I hadn't run fast enough. Or if Aunt Margaret hadn't locked the door. I can't help but imagine all the awful things that could

have happened, and it makes me scared to close my eyes. Aunt Margaret sits with me sometimes and tells me stories, or just talks to me until I start to calm down. She tells me. She tells me. tells me how scared she was too, but how she knew she had to stay strong for both of us. I like those talks, even though they're about scary things. They make me feel like I wasn't alone in being afraid. I try to go back to normal. I go to school. I do my homework. I help Aunt Margaret with chores, but I don't feel like the same Emily anymore. I used to love crafting with Aunt Margaret, but now every time I pick up a candle or think about going to the craft store, I get this knot in my stomach.

Aunt Margaret bought some new supplies the other day, trying to get me interested again. She brought home colorful wax and molds for making new candles, but I couldn't even look at them without remembering that man. I know she wants me to feel better, but it's hard when everything reminds me of that night. Sometimes, I catch myself wondering what would have happened if Aunt Margaret hadn't been there.

What if I had been alone? What if the car door had stayed unlocked? The thoughts circle around in my head, making me feel shaky and cold. Aunt Margaret saved me that night, and I know I should feel lucky, but it's hard to feel anything but scared. I'm grateful, but the fear is always there, lurking in the background, like a shadow that won't go away. I know I have to be stronger now. I can't just pretend nothing happened, but I also can't let it control me. I tell myself that I'll never see him again, that he's gone for good. But even saying it out loud doesn't make the fear vanish. I keep hoping, wishing,

that one day I won't feel this way anymore, that I won't have to look over my shoulder, or feel my stomach twist every time I go to a store. Until then, I just try to be careful, to stay alert, because now I know how quickly everything can change. I learn that the world isn't always as safe as I thought, and that's something I won't ever forget. I hadn't seen Michelle in years, and when she invited me to her wedding, I was excited but apprehensive. It wasn't just about seeing her. So many other people from the old days would be there, people from when I lived in that small, ultra-conservative community. So when I entered the well-decorated reception playing music, Michelle lit up upon seeing me. But the looks that were

given to me just made me feel like some sort of outsider, like I did not belong. I genuinely felt as if I walked into the wrong party. I just tried to ignore it and located a table where I could sit and remain silent for some time. That's when I met Derek. A friend of the groom,

he introduced himself with a smile so genuine I felt like I was seeing a long-lost buddy from childhood. We started talking, and before I knew it, I found myself laughing at his jokes and forgetting about everybody else. Derek was charming. He seemed genuinely interested in my life, not just making small-tiles.

We danced to songs that I remembered when I was growing up, and suddenly I started to feel at ease. Maybe this wouldn't be an uncomfortable night after all. A while into it, Derek said he had to go to the bathroom, so I thought I'd take a break too. Went back to the table, but my purse wasn't there. I could have sworn I put it on the chair. Had this strange, nagging feeling. Like something wasn't quite right. Maybe I left it in the car when I first came in.

I hoped that's what it was, so I went out to the parking lot. I opened the door of the car, and there it was, lying on the driver's seat. I sat there for a second, staring at it, feeling a little perplexed. Did I really leave it there? I picked up the purse and did not think much about it. It was just a stupid mistake, probably. Back at the reception, I looked around for Derek, but he wasn't there. The groom told me Derek had gone home because he wasn't for.

feeling well. That seemed strange, but I shrugged it off. All of a sudden, I felt tired myself. Maybe it was just all the noise and the nerves catching up to me. I decided it was time to go. I walked towards the car, realizing just how quiet the parking lot had gotten. I opened the door, got in, closed it behind me, and proceeded to adjust the rear-view mirror. That's when I noticed movement behind me. I froze, staring into the mirror, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Then I turned around. And there was Derek crouched down in the back seat. His eyes locked and open wide. Not one of us moved for a beat. I felt out of myself, like this was happening to someone else. And I was watching. And then I screamed. I yanked open

the door and stumbled out, my feet hardly catching the ground as I ran. I could hear him behind me, footsteps pounding on the pavement. He kept calling my name. name, his voice steady, like he was trying to calm me down, but it only made things worse. I burst back into the reception hall, nearly knocking Michelle over. I was shaking so badly I could hardly speak, but Michelle grabbed my arm, her face turning pale as she listened. Her husband, Mark, wasted no time. He grabbed a flashlight and insisted on walking me back out. When we got to the car, Derek was gone. There was no sign of him, and Mark said Derek's car was nowhere to be seen. I drove home that night with every nerve on edge and locked all the doors behind me

as soon as I got inside, but sleep wouldn't come. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Derek in my car, crouched down, waiting. I knew this wasn't over. The fear stayed with me, whispering in the dark corners of my mind, hinting that the nightmare was just beginning. It started just days after the wedding. I was going out to check the mail and felt something was off as I approached the mailbox. The door was wide open, and letters were scattered all over the ground. So I picked them up, and inside this particular one with no return address, my breath caught as I saw what it was, a photograph of my driver's license, my home address there for anyone to see.

I knew then it had to be Derek who must have taken it. My mind went back to the reception, my purse mysteriously in the car. He had gone through it, taken my ID, and now he knew everything about me, It wasn't just creepy anymore. It was terrifying. I felt like I'd been marked, like he was playing some twisted game where, and then Derek started showing up. The first time I saw him across the street as I was leaving my apartment.

He didn't wave or call out, just stood there, watching me. The next time, I was at work, and I saw him near the parking lot, staying just out of sight. I knew it was him, even if I couldn't always see his face clearly. and the feeling that he was always present, just around the corner. One evening, I went out to my car after work and found a note stuck under my windshield wiper. It said, I'm watching. The handwriting was rushed, almost frantic, like he had written it in a hurry. My stomach turned as I crumpled it up and looked around.

I didn't see him, but I knew he had been there, watching me. It wasn't just me who noticed. A few of my coworkers mentioned seeing a guy hand. hanging around. They thought he was my boyfriend. I remember one of them smiling as she said. He seems really into you. I forced a smile back, but inside I felt sick. He had told people he was my boyfriend. He was weaving himself into my life, making it seem like he belonged there. So then I knew I had to do something. I went down to the police and applied for a restraining order, but it was going slowly, and I didn't feel any safer. Derek always seemed to

be one step ahead, like he knew what I was doing before I even did it. I packed a bag and moved in with my aunt. I thought maybe I could get away from him there, but even there, the feeling of being watched never left. One night my aunt's dog began barking loudly and in a very aggressive manner. His hair was up straight and he was facing the front door. My aunt tried to calm him down, but he wouldn't stop. I peeked out the window, and there, at the edge of the yard, I saw a figure standing in the shadows. He remained there, not moving, until finally, he slipped away into the dark. One evening, I saw muddy footprints at the back window. The glass was smeared like someone had pressed their face against it, trying to look in. My gut twisted, and I just knew it had to be Derek.

He was out there, even if I could not always see him. He was always out there. I did everything, change routines, lock doors, nothing worked. He was relentless. That fear became part of me, like a shadow always there. Each time the dog barked, each time I heard a noise outside, I knew it could be him. I knew he wouldn't stop. He was still out there somewhere, waiting and watching. I just didn't know what he would do next. I knew only that it was not over. When Jack and I moved into the cottage, I thought it was going to be a fresh start. The house was small, tucked away in a quiet village in Wales. It was surrounded by thick woods, giving it that cozy storybook look.

But there was something about the silence that made me uneasy, as if the place held its breath when no one was looking. I tried to shake it off, telling myself I just needed time to adjust. We met a few of the neighbors, including Henry, who lived across the narrow road. He seemed nice at first, maybe a little too friendly. He always seemed to be around, ready to chat whenever I stepped outside. He would stand just a bit too close, talk a bit too long. Jack said I was being paranoid, that Henry was just trying to be friendly,

but I couldn't help but feel uncomfortable. After a while, Jack and I started having problems. Eventually he got a job overseas, and just like that I was alone in the house. It was quiet, far too quiet, so I adopted a cat named Oliver. He filled the empty spaces with his purring and playful antics, and for a while things felt better. But then Henry started coming around more often. He would pop up out of nowhere, always wanting to talk. His eyes lingered a little too long, and his questions felt intrusive.

He asked about Jack, where he was, if he was coming back. He asked if I was lonely. I tried to keep my answers short, but he never took the hint. One afternoon I was playing an online game when Henry knocked on the door with a parcel. I told him to leave it by the door, but he insisted on bringing it in. I let him in, hoping he'd just drop it and leave, but instead he stood behind me, watching me play. I could feel his eyes on me, and it made my skin crawl. He didn't say anything, just watched, breathing heavily as I tried to focus on the game.

I eventually turned around and told him I had to get back to work. He smiled, but there was something off about it, something that made me uneasy. He left, but the feeling of being watched didn't. A few weeks later, I started noticing strange things. My trash bins, which I always left out by the street, were being brought back to the house. At first I thought maybe a neighbor was just being helpful, but then I found things in the bins that I hadn't thrown away. Random junk, things that weren't mine. I decided to set up a camera in the window just to see what was going on.

One night I checked the footage, and there he was, Henry. He was out there late at night, pulling my bins back, standing by my windows, looking in. I felt sick. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to confront him, didn't want to make things worse. So I kept quiet, hoping he'd lose interest. But deep down, I knew this wasn't over. After Christmas, things got worse with Henry.

One night there was a knock on my door, way later than anyone should have been visiting. I was hesitant, but eventually, I opened it. There he was, swaying slightly, eyes glassy. He had a gift bag in his hand, wrapped in crumpled paper, like he hadn't really put much effort into it. He told me he had something for me and pushed it into my hands. I could smell the alcohol on him, sharp and sour. He slurred something about it being a Christmas present, and then, out of nowhere,

he said he wanted to kiss me on the cheek. I stepped back, trying to keep my voice calm, but before I could say anything, he leaned in, planting a wet kiss on my cheek. I froze. My mind was blank, and I just wanted him out of my house. I thanked him quickly, stepping back and trying to close the door, but he held it open, rambling on about how long. lonely he was. I kept nodding, inching the door closed bit by bit until finally it clicked shut. I locked it, then leaned against it, my hands shaking. The gift bag was still in my hand, and when I looked inside, I saw two dusty bottles of ale, an open can of chips, and some chocolates that had clearly melted and re-hardened. I threw it all in the trash. After that

night, Henry started showing up more often. He would knock on my door, minutes after I got a delivery, like he was watching, waiting. It didn't matter if it was early in the morning or late at night. Every time I heard that knock, I would feel my stomach twist. I started ignoring him, pretending I wasn't home. I would hide upstairs, trying to be as quiet as possible, hoping he'd just go away. Sometimes he'd call out for me, his voice muffled through the door, saying he was just checking on me that he was worried. I never answered. Eventually, I knew I had to do something.

I called the police and filed a harassment report. I felt stupid, like maybe I was overreacting, but I couldn't take it anymore. The officer I spoke to was kind. He listened to everything, took notes, and gave me a case number. He asked if I wanted them to talk to Henry, but I said no. I didn't want to make things worse. I just wanted it on record in case things got out of hand. A few days later, there was another knock at my door.

I peeked through the window, and there he was again, looking angry this time. I opened the door just a crack, and before he could say anything, I told him we couldn't keep talking, that it wasn't appropriate. His face changed, his eyes going dark. He said, I just wanted to be your friend. There was something in his voice. something that made me uneasy. I told him again, more firmly this time,

and then I closed the door. I stood there listening, waiting for him to leave. Eventually, I heard his footsteps fade away. For a while, things seemed to settle down. I didn't see Henry around as much, and the knocks on my door stopped. But one cold night, as I was locking up to go get groceries, I saw something move in the shadows near my driveway.

It was quick, just a flash of movement, but it made me stop. I looked again, but there was nothing there. Still, I decided not to go out that night. Instead, I went inside and ordered a motion sensor light the next day, hoping it would help me feel a little safer. A couple of months passed, and things were starting to feel normal again. The motion sensor light helped a lot. Every time it lit up I would check, but most of the time,

it was just a stray cat or the wind moving the branches. It made me feel a bit more in control, like I could keep an eye on things. I was even starting to relax until one night when it wasn't a stray cat. I was in the kitchen feeding Oliver. He was purring, rubbing against my leg, and I was focused on pouring the food into his bowl. Suddenly, the light outside flicked on. I glanced out the window, expecting to see the usual, but then I saw some something strange. In the corner of the window there was a dark shape. Something crouched low.

I leaned closer, squinting to see through the glare of the light, trying to make out what it was. Then I saw him. Henry, crouching just outside the window, his face partially hidden by the shadows. He was staring right at me. I froze, the spoon still in my hand, and for a second I didn't know what to do. He didn't move, just kept watching, like he was waiting for something. My chest felt tight, and I could hear Oliver meowing, but it sounded far away, like everything else had gone quiet. I don't know what came over me, but I finally found my voice. I yelled, louder than I think I've ever yelled before. What are you doing? Get away from here. My voice shook, but I didn't care. Henry's eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked almost confused.

like he hadn't expected me to react. Then slowly, he stood up. He didn't say anything, didn't try to explain himself. He just turned and walked away, disappearing into the darkness. I grabbed my phone and called the police right away. My hands were trembling as I told them what had happened. They took me seriously this time. An officer came by later that night, taking my statement. He told me they'd had complaints about Henry before, that he had a history of bothering other women in the village. Hearing that made me feel both angry and scared. I wasn't the only one, and yet he'd been allowed to keep doing this. A few days later, I watched from my window as they arrested him. His wife was standing on their porch, her face pale and her hands covering her mouth.

I hadn't even known he had a wife. The officers led him away, and he didn't look back at me, not once. They told me later that he'd received a caution. that he was forbidden from coming near my house or contacting me again. It wasn't much, but it was something. For a while, it felt like things were finally over. But one day, I saw him again. I was in the shower, and I'd forgotten to pull down the blinds. When I looked up, I saw him through the window, just standing there, watching.

My stomach twisted, and I quickly pulled the blinds down, my heart pounding. That was it. I couldn't stay here anymore. I packed up and moved far away, leaving the cottage, the village, and all the memories behind. I hope I never see Henry again. I hope he never finds someone else to scare the way he scared me. I'm done being polite. He's a predator, and now everyone knows it.