Rituals & Hair Holds Memories

The game has only just begun. Radio Silence Directors Matt Betnelli Open and Tyler Gillette are back for Round 2 with their new horror comedy film, Ready or Not 2. Here I come. Samara Weaving returns as Grace, The Battle of Warren and Bulletin Bride, and is joined by stars, Catherine Newton, Sarah Michelle Geller, Sean Hadasey, Nestor Carbano, David Kronenberg, and Elijah Wood. After Grace marries into a mysterious family and is forced to play a life or death theme of hide and seek, she emerges victorious. But what she didn't know is that by winning, she triggered a whole new twisted battle. This time with her estranged sister-fade on her side. The duo faces a shadowy group of rival devil-worshipping families who control the world, and they must fight to the bloody death for the ultimate prize. Two times the kills, two times the Satanic rituals, and two times the human combustion. Don't miss the full tilt insanity. Ready or not, too? Here I come. When it hits theaters, March 20th. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous, chilling, and disturbing creepy pastures and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened, or simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Hey everyone. I'm gonna give you all a little break on the announcements this week. I know I had a lot last week, and we have a lot coming up with camp and everything else. Plus, and I played some audio from one of the reels that I found in the radio station basement. Which, I don't know, it was weird, right? I know the things have been off with me. And yes, there are some obvious reasons that I don't need to get into. But it's more than that. You know how many times I say, what a weird day or what are things gonna feel normal in any given day or week? It's a lot. I don't even know what normal is anymore. Maybe I never did. And now I can't stop listening to these audio recordings. I'll play another one few on Sunday. I don't know. I just, I just always feel like I'm being watched now. And I know I'm not. There's no one here. No one's ever here. It's just me, right? I'm over thinking things. I tend to do that. Let's get to this week's stories. First from writer Todd Yarborough and narrated by Nate Dufort. Creepy presents. Rituals. Check the lock once. Pull the handle locked. Twice. Still locked. Three times. Four. Five. Six. Seven times. The pressure is as not gone, but manageable. The cold and misty light of dawn makes the street look washed out, colorless. And I start walking, my eyes on the shadows. They prefer the dark places, hiding in doorways, in the gaps between houses, watching, patient. They don't like the light, but they don't fear it either. I had north. There's a grocery store I've been working through. It's mostly picked over by other survivors, but sometimes I find things pushed to the back, forgotten. The street is lined with houses that look almost normal if you don't look too closely. Don't notice the dark stains on the Henderson's porch or the Johnson shattered windows or how every yard in the block has knee-high weeds. Wait. There. By the bus stop. The shape is dark and distinct, pressed into the shadow of the shelter. Could be nothing, could be a trigger of the light. But then it shivers. Turns towards me. Touch something metal. The street sign pull. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five. Turn around. Once. Twice. Once the shape is still again. Still watching. They never blink. After a moment they keep walking. It doesn't follow. That will never do. In the light. I don't go out at night. The church comes into view two blocks later. St. Michael's Catholic, red brick and white trim with a bell tower that still rings for morning and evening prayers. I can hear voices inside faint. Someone laughs. The sound is strange. Almost forgotten. Sister Maria's on the front steps. She waves. When I raise my hand and return, keep walking. Thou would stop. Can't afford to stop. The conversation required touching the railing or the door frame or counting the steps. She understands. Some of them do. She and Father Ramirez were kind when he took me in that first night. When they made space for me in one of the Sunday school rooms. There were too many people. Thirty-seven survivors of that first horrible night. All crammed together. All touching things. Moving things. Interrupting. I couldn't check the locks enough times with people constantly coming and going. You can touch the door frames without someone asking if I was okay. Two months. That's when my meds ran out. That's how long I lasted before the stress became unbearable. The Father Ramirez understood or pretended to. He didn't try to convince me to stay. Living alone is less stressful for me. Grocery stores further on with broken front windows and an interior filled with shadows. I've been working through it systematically. Today is aisle seven. Caned vegetables and soups. I step through the window frame carefully, glass crunching under my boots. Touch the frame. Once on the left. Once on the right. Twice on the left. Twice on the right. Inside the store smells like rot. The refrigerated sections went bad months ago. I don't go near them anymore. My flashlight cuts to the darkness on aisle seven, illuminating empty shelves and scattered cans. Most of the good stuff is gone, taken in the first desperate weeks, but I'm patient, methodical. It's like looking for a book that's been shelved in the wrong section. I sweep the light over the top shelf again. There's to be something, anything. Nothing. Not a single can pushed to the back. I move to aisle eight, running my hand along the dusty metal. Empty. I hear something move in aisle nine just as I round the corner. I freeze. Flashlight steady as I look across, then up. The shape is tall, towering over the shelves. Press against the wall where the shadows are thickest. It shifts as it turns towards me. It's eyes burning bright orange in the darkness. My hands are shaking. My vision narrows. My breath is too loud echoing in the shadows. Touch a shelf metal. Once twice three times. Four five turn around. Once twice three times. It's there when I turn back. Still watching just a silhouette in the darkness. Eh, it doesn't move as I back toward the window. My foot slips on a shard of glass and I stumble, catching myself on the edge of a window. A sharp immediate pain flares across my palm. I look down and see blood. A cut. Deepen jacket. Push the frame. Once on the left. Once on the right. Twice on the left. Twice on the right. I make it half a block before my legs give out. I sit down on the curb. My chest hurts. Heart still hammering. Stupid. Taking too many chances. One breath. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. It doesn't help. I focus on something solid instead. The curb beneath me. Concrete against my palms. Press down hard. Feeling the texture bite into skin. Blood seeping through the rough concrete. Touch the concrete. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five. A shape moves in a doorway across the street. I see it from the corner of my eye but don't look directly. Don't react. Just keep breathing. Keep counting. Keep touching the concrete until the shaking stops. The adrenaline slowly drains away leaving the exhaustion and jittery aftermath of panic. The sun is lower when I finally stand. Legs still unsteady but functional. The thing in the doorway hasn't moved. Still watching. I start walking home. It's slower now. Each step deliberate. Overly careful. I wrap my left hand in a handkerchief from my backpack. I pass the church again. Voices are still audible inside and I can hear someone singing. I pass the bus stop where the shape was earlier. It's going now or hidden deeper. Some is a small ranch house midway down the street. Pale blue swinging, brown trim. Mine because I was already living here when this started. I keep the grass cut short with a rusted real mower and sometimes I can pretend that things are normal again. I push the door open, step inside, close it immediately. Rocket. Check once, twice, three times, four, five, six, seven times. I move through room by dark and room checking. It's the same every night. Has to be the same. I have to check every window, even though I can't remember the last time I opened them. By the time I finish, the sun is touching the horizon. Pale orange light bleeds through the gaps in the curtains than fades. Tolling church bells announce the fall of night as I wash my hand using the last of the peroxide, pain hissing between my teeth. The power failed early on and an open fire even a candle is too dangerous. Batteries are plentiful. I eat cold tomato soup straight from the can, standing at the kitchen counter in the cold beam of the flashlight. The house is quiet except for my breathing, the scrape of the spoon against metal. My last can of soup. Footsteps outside, slow, deliberate. Something small and quick skittering across the roof. A grown, low and wet from somewhere near the street. I don't go to the windows. Don't look. Never look. More sounds, a rasp of bone against the siding, a cackle high and sharp that cuts off abruptly. Something impossibly large moving past the house, heavy hoofbeats that make the floorboards creak. They're everywhere at night, always roaming, hunting. I finish the soup and rinse the can using the water collected by the rain barrel, then put it in the recycling bin because that's what I always did before that first horrible night fell. I range the cans, labels facing out, smallest to largest. I climb into bed, tired and ragged. The sheets are clean, I wash them three days ago, folded them exactly right, tucked the corners at precise angles, my palm throbs. The sounds continue. Closer now. Something breathing right outside the bedroom window, Flemmey and ragged. The sharp crack of hooves echoing down the street. I take out the paper back I salvaged weeks ago. I open it to the bookmark, turn on my flashlight and try to read. I can concentrate. The noise outside is too close to the window. After three minutes I snap the book shut and put the flashlight on the nightstand. I pull the pillow over my head, press it against my ears. That doesn't block out the sounds completely. It never does. The noises went on until nearly dawn. I slip later than usual, which means less time for scavenging. The fog is heavier today as I make my way down the street. Behold, wait up! Father Ramirez comes down the front steps of the church, waving. He's a small man, compact with graying hair and tired eyes. I stop. My hand finds the cold railing. It wants twice, three times. I've seen you in a few days, he says, coming down the steps. He stops a respectful distance away. We took in some more people. Eight of them come up from a Baptist church on the south side, with their church fell. Eight more. Thirty-seven plus eight forty-five people in a building meant for maybe two hundred on a Sunday, but not meant for living. That's not good, I say. Mean it mostly. More people alive is good, but also more chaos. It'll be tight, Ramirez admits, but you know, we're managing. Keeping the faith is smile returns. They say anything? I ask changing the subject. About what happened? Ramirez expression darkens. They were just attacked in the night. The ones who made it here, it wasn't easy. They, well, they lost a few on the way. I'm thinking about numbers, forty-five people. More mouths to feed, more space needed, more stress. Too many variables. The pressure returns a dull ache beneath my ribs. I want it back away, so I touch the rough metal railing again, winsing. Who sure you're safe out there? He asks, looking down at the bloodstained clother on my palm. Come in, let's see, Maria, take a look at that. I hide my hand behind my back, somehow embarrassed. I look down at the rosary on his left wrist, five sets of ten beads. That's not bad, Father, really, but thank you. He nods. I know that he wants to insist, and I know that I can't accept. Irresistible force, a movable object. Be safe, Ramirez says, after a moment. Touches his forehead, his chest, his shoulders, the sign of the cross. Before I leave, I touch the metal railing again, this time with my right hand. We both have our rituals. The pharmacies three miles away to the east, then four blocks over through a maze of wrecked cars and trucks in the commercial district. But I keep my eyes moving, watching for movement and doorways in the gaps between buildings. The front door hangs open, the window shattered. Inside, shelves are mostly bare. I head straight for the back toward the prescription counter. Behind the counter, there are still some supplies, bandages, and a biotic ointment, a box of ibuprofen. And I take them all, pack them carefully. Labels up are just the smallest. I find a bottle with a familiar label hidden on the floor behind the bottom shelf, centrally 50 milligrams. The same SSRIs I used to take back when the world still needed librarians. One month's supply. After a long moment, I put the bottle back where it was. One month. Not what would be the point. A month would be just long enough for the comfortable numbness, but that I'd have to leave again when the people drew too many for me to endure. I hear the sound of glass crunching. Behind the door marks staff only. I take them by neck prickles, and I turn. The door eases open with a subtle creka. Tall shape stands in the darkness beyond. Perfectly still. It's got too many limbs with too many joints. I back away slowly. Keep my movement steady. Get to the front door. Step through. Touch the door frame. On the left. On the right. Twice on the left. I look back. I can't help it. The figure shifts slightly. One of its arms unfolding as it leans towards me. Who's that? Two touches or three? It's start over. It has to be perfect. It touched the door frame. On the left. On the right. Twice on the left. Twice on the right. I let out a long, shuddering breath and taste copper. I've bitten the inside of my cheek. Nothing follows me. No sunlight slants through the fog. Two, maybe three hours to dusk. St. Michaels is quieter now. They're probably eating dinner, although it's earlier than normal. I could join them. Pass the bus stop. Pass the Henderson's house with its dark stains. Don't look hurry, but not too fast. Home. Check the lock. On the side I move through the house. Living room, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. Touch everything that needs to be touched. Check every window. Pull every curtain closed. Finally, I collapse onto the couch. Shivering. The interior of the house feeling colder than the mist outside. The sun sets to the sound of seven church bells. When I moved to this neighborhood years ago, I found the regularity of the church bells to be comforting. I still do. No dinner tonight, so I occupy myself by cleaning my palm again. The cut doesn't look as bad as I'd feared, but an infection could kill me. Something hits the side of the house hard enough to rattle the pictures on the wall. I don't even jump anymore. In bed, pillow pressed against my ears. I can still hear them. The closer to night may be you're more agitated. The door. Seven checks. The frame. Twice on each side. I need food in the next grocery store as too far away. I'll have to search some houses. The morning is colder. Clouds hang low overhead. Threatening rain. Maybe snow. I pull my jacket tighter and head out. When St. Michael's comes into view. St. Michael's different. There are people outside. Too many people. Subciting on the steps, some standing in clusters on the lawn. A woman is arguing with a man near the side entrance. Am I chest tightens? I keep walking but my eyes can't stop tracking the movement to the disorder. A coat left on the railing, trash scattered on the steps. Someone's moved one of the flower plantards. It's not centered anymore, not aligned with the others. I can see the pale ring on the concrete where it used to be. Father Ramirez is on the steps. Talking to three people at once. His face is pale with exhaustion. He sees me, raises a hand in greeting, but doesn't call out. His shirt is untucked. I don't wave. Keep moving. Too many people. Too much chaos. Pension hums under my skin like a live wire. I have to get away. I head west toward the neighborhoods where the houses are bigger. More spaces between them. Better chance of finding supplies that haven't been picked over. I need food, batteries. It's easy to see which houses have been attacked. Doors, torn off hinges. Windows shattered. Garc stains on the siding. The porches, the driveways. I avoid those. Don't need to see what's left inside. I find one that looks promising. Three blocks in. The door is hanging open, but not broken. Blue siding. Two stories with a garden gone wild. The mailbox says Patterson in peeling stick on letters. I approach slowly, watching the windows. The entryway opens into a living room. Furniture still arranged normally. Photos of a happy family on the walls. Bright and airy. A home abandoned, but not destroyed. I start in the kitchen. There has to be something someone has missed left behind. I shine my flashlight in the shadows of the top shelf of the pantry. Then I hear a noise. Upstairs. A soft sound of footsteps. Careful. Stealthy. A muffled whisper. I grab the near solid object, the counter edge, and hold on to the cool, marbled surface. Touch the counter once, twice, three times. Four, five, turn around. Once, twice, three times. I freeze. Hold my breath. But I hear nothing else. No movement, no sound. The house is so quiet that I wonder if I imagine the noises. After a long minute, I turn toward the front door. I have time for another house. I hear a sharp cry of pain. Then nothing. Something thumps down the stairs behind me. Heavy, wet sounding. I turn my heart beating so fast it hurts. Later on, even though I know it would be pointless. A woman's head tumbles to the stop at the base of the stairs. The blood bright crimson and smelling of pennies. Eyes open. Mouth slack. Blood pools beneath it, spreading slowly across the wood floor. I almost trip as I back to the door, vile, rising in my throat. The head looks at nothing with clouded eyes. My stomach heaves as a fly lands on her face. The door frame, once on the left, once on the right, twice on the left, twice on the right. Outside, the air feels thinner somehow. I gulp it down, trying to steady my breathing. My hands are shaking. My mouth is dry. A curtain moves in one of the upstairs windows, and I know it's not just the wind. The sun is still high behind gray clouds. Plenty of time to scavenge somewhere else, but I just want to be back where I can have the illusion of safety. I head back on unsteady legs, unable to forget the detail of a fly landing on the woman's dead staring eye. When I pass to the church again, there are even more people outside. The front doors have been propped open. Someone's crying. Father Ramirez is nowhere to be seen. I smell cooked onions in my stomach turns. Being near the chaos of the church makes my skin crawl. Her eyes were blue. Why can't I stop remembering her eyes? At home I go through the lock ritual, seven times perfect. I take a deep, shuddering breath as I finish. The evening routine. Every room, every window, every ritual performed exactly as it needs to be. By the time I finish, it's full dark. The church bells toll later than normal tonight. Too late. If someone is still out this late. They're already dead. Outside the usual sounds begin. Footsteps scratching. That wet, rhythmic breathing. I hear a screech off in the distance, but I can't tell if it's human or not. In bed I pull the pillow over my head. I resist the urge to cry because I know that if I start, I won't be able to stop. I close my eyes tight. I don't think I've fallen asleep, but the church bells wake me sometime in the middle of the night. They're ringing frantically, desperately, not the ordered tolling of evening prayers, alarm. That I hear screams. I sit up heart pounding. Without thinking I go to the window, pull the curtain back just an inch. Large light flickers in the distance. Fire. The church is burning. I should go help. I know I should. I turn towards the door. Sudden motion catches my eye. Outside the window. Shapes moving in the street. Thousands may be. All flowing towards St. Michael's like a dark tide. Some small and quick. Some massive hulking. All moving with terrible purpose. Oh God, the screaming is louder now. I can hear individual voices. Someone calling for help. Someone cries out in agony. I think I hear Father Amira as his voice hoarse and fainted this distance, but I might be imagining it. The bell's still ringing. Ringing. Ringing. The bell's stop. I have to go help. Father Amira as Maria, maybe I could. Smoke rises from the burning church in a thick dark column. The smoke is moving wrong. Shifting. Not dispersing the way smoke should, but holding together, taking shape. Something branches upward from it. Oh, it's not smoke. A massive silhouette towers over the streets, barely visible against the night. Ringing branches from its crown. Antlers or dead trees or something else entirely. It's impossibly taller than the church. Taller than anything should be. Then I see the eyes. Quarant. Too many of them. Scattered across where its body should be. Each pair blinking independently as it leans down over the church. The pair's turn. Look toward my street, toward my house. It sees me. Terror floods through me, hot and cold all at once. I can't breathe, can't move. Then my body breaks free and I jerk back from the window, stumbled, catch myself on the dresser as a howl larger than the world splits the night. Touch the dresser once, twice, three times, four, five, six, seven times, turn around, once, twice, three times. I die for the bed, pull the blankets over my head, curl into a ball. My hands find the pillow, pressed it against my ears as the ground shakes. The sounds outside change, roaring now. And underneath it, fainter, the wailing continues. I squeeze my eyes shut, try to breathe, try to think about nothing as the world shakes. Eventually, I don't know how long. The screams of pain and terror stop, one by one. The roaring fades. I stand on the blankets, shaking, until exhaustion drags me down into something like sleep. I wake to grey light seeping through the curtains. My shoulders ache with tension, the pillow is damp with sweat. For a moment, I wonder if it was a dream, the bells, the fire, the screaming. Then I smell smoke, smoke in something else. I get out of bed slowly, my legs shake. I can't hear anything outside, no birds, no wind, nothing. The morning routine. I move through it mechanically, touching everything that needs to be touched, checking everything that needs to be checked. The rituals are the only solid thing in a world that's crumbling. I hesitate at the front door. I don't want to see what the world looks like now. My hand is on the knob, the anxiety builds, familiar but sharper now. Wrong, everything feels wrong. Check the lock once, twice, three times, four, five, six, seven times. I open the door. The porch is covered in cans, boxes, torn bags of rice and flour, all piled haphazardly, spilling down the steps into the yard, all covered in blood. Dark red, almost black in places, still wet, and other things, scraps of fabric, a shoe, something that might have been a rosary, fly, swarm all over it. Trees have been gouged into the surrounding wood forming shapes that hurt my eyes, four on one side, three on the other. I stand in the doorway staring, unable to look away. They brought me supplies, took them from the church, from the people they slaughtered, and brought them to me. Left them for me like a gift, like an offering. The smell hits me then. Copper and rot and smoke. I gag step back, catch myself on the doorframe. Touch the frame. Once on the left, once on the right, twice on the left, twice on the right. The cans are still there when I open my eyes, still covered in blood, still real, grotesque abundance. I look down the street toward where the church should be. Smoke rises in a thin column against the drab sky. Nothing else moves. I stare at what they've left for me. The blood be offering. I know that I'll have to eat eventually, but for now, I lean against the door, touching the frame over and over as the smoke rises in the distance. Touch, touch, touch. And next, from writer Lonnie Sophie Mero, a narrated by Rassamontas, creepy presents, hair holds memories. Some green concealer to cover the red parts, yellow to cover the blue, camouflage foundation and a dab of powder as a finish. Janine had become so skilled at covering up bruises. Nobody was able to tell from looking at her. Her long dark hair was spalling over her face like an extra layer of protection against any prying eyes. A perfect masquerade. And most days, this was exactly what it felt like. Like she was wearing a mask. A costume. This wasn't even her face anymore. At least she hadn't been able to recognize herself in a while now. She also didn't recognize Tom anymore. It had not always been like this. It still wasn't always like this. There were moments when she looked at Tom and saw the man she fell in love with. When he was in a good mood on a Sunday, making pancakes in the morning, putting on the smiths and singing along at the top of his lungs. Or the rare occasions. When they were out with people. And she saw him joking around with them, making everybody laugh with his silly stories. Tom could be so damn charming when he wanted to be. He was the friend who would ask you if you got home safe after a night out. His friend who was always first in line to help you when you were moving or painting a wall or needing a lift. The gentleman who would hold the door for you on dates and bring you flowers for no reason. All of these things had made it so easy for Janine to fall for Tom. Their relationship had moved incredibly fast. From the first date to moving in together, it had not even been three months. And back. That should have been a warning sign. But in the moment, everything had felt so right. Through rose-colored glasses, even Tom's short temper and his jealousy didn't look like red flags. To Janine? It had looked like passion. Fire. That once in a lifetime love. Just exactly what a whirlwind romance was supposed to look like. But every romantic book she had ever read taught her it should look like. Because what was true love without big emotions and gestures? After moving in together, it had not been long before those big emotions turned into the first big fights. Money was always tight. Tom had assured her that he would support her financially through her physics studies and that she didn't need to find a job. But in reality, one salary simply did not suffice for two people. So Janine had gotten a job at an Italian restaurant part-time. But this just led to more fighting. He became more and more paranoid about male customers hitting on her and accused her of flirting with them just to get more tips. Soon his jealousy also affected her friendships. All her male friends just wanted to sleep with her and most of her female friends were toxic, trying to break up their relationship because they were jealous of her happiness. So one after another, Janine started to cut them out of her life, becoming more and more distant, not reaching out to anyone anymore. The friendships that remained were superficial. Or they were Tom's friends in the first place. Still this hadn't been enough. Tom seemed to find reasons to get angry everywhere he looked. He had always been very physical during their fights, smashing plates, throwing things in her direction, one time even hitting the wall next to her head. Then one random Tuesday night, Janine came home late after work. She had been out with some colleagues to get a drink after her shift and had intentionally ignore Tom's calls because she knew he wouldn't want her to go out with him. When she walked through the door, he was already waiting in the hallway for her, fuming. That night was the first time that he hit her. The next day he brought her flowers. He apologized over and over again. He was inconsolable and promised that it would never ever happen again. That he had forgotten himself for just one moment. That he just loved her so much, it made him a little crazy sometimes. And so Janine forgave him. A small part of her knew from the start that something like this never happens just once, but Tom's outburst of violence had steadily escalated since they had moved in together. She didn't tell anyone about it, not even her mom. Partly because she knew what other people would tell her, and she wasn't ready to hear it yet. And partly because she felt so ashamed about it. She had always considered herself to be someone who knows how to stand up for herself. And partly because the love she felt for Tom was still so real to her. And you don't leave someone you love just because things are hard. You get through it together. But of course, not long after that incident, it happened again. And soon it became a regular occurrence. After concluding her little cover-up ritual, Janine moved on to the next step of her morning routine. She grabbed her brush and started running it through her hair with slow, meticulous movements, staring at that strange person in the mirror that was pretending to be her. And suddenly she felt something jerk at the brush, as if someone was trying to rip it out of her hands. She froze for a second. What the hell was that? Was she imagining things now? But no, she was not imagining things. Again, even more forceful this time, something pulled the brush out of her hand and dropped it to the floor, pulling out several of her hairs in the process and making her yell out in pain. Heart pounding, Janine looked around the small bedroom, despite knowing already that there was nothing to see. And she was clearly alone. She bent down and picked up the brush, examining it from all angles. It looked completely normal. Her pulse still racing. She turned back to face the mirror. What possible explanation could there be? Stay calm. Think logically, she told herself. As her mind jumped from electromagnetic fields to a sudden, spatially limited increase of gravitational pull, she noticed something odd in the reflection. The person's hair, her hair, was slowly rolling itself upwards, as if wrapped up by invisible curlers. Janine just stared in stunned silence as her hair started to form a sort of crown around her head, making her look like the depictions of Medusa that she had seen in schoolbooks. This was impossible. And yet she was seeing it with her own eyes. In a desperate attempt to rationalize what she was looking at, her brain went into analysis mode. After excluding all the impossibles, what is the obvious and easy solution that remains? Well, there was a very obvious one. She had clearly gone utterly and entirely insane. Mad as a hadder. A nervous chuckle escaped her lips. One that quickly turned into a scream of terror when all of a sudden, with snake-like movements, her hair shot down again and wrapped themselves tightly around her neck. Struggling to get it off, she stumbled around the room now desperately gasping for breath. She bumped against the sink and fell onto her knees, no longer able to let out a single sound. The harder she fought, the tighter her hair's grip seemed to become. Janine's heart was racing, panic rising up inside of her, making it impossible to form a clear thought. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't get up. And this was it. She started feeling dizzy, her vision becoming blurry. Janine felt her body falling over sideways, hitting the cold bathroom tiles. For one wild moment, she could feel laughter rising in her stomach as she was envisioning Tom's shocked face when he would eventually find her body. Good luck explaining that one to the police. All those times that she had thought about dying, she had imagined it as a peaceful liberation, just drifting off into the unknown. She had always thought when her time came, she would embrace death graciously and with dignity. But there was nothing dignified about this situation, lying on the bathroom floor, gasping like a fish on land, blindly kicking around. Every single cell in her body was now screaming for air. She couldn't fight it anymore. Janine is a bell-monthed gumbry. What do you think you're doing? Get up! Move! It was her own voice that she was hearing in her head. For one second, Janine's vision became clearer again, and she spotted something shiny lying under the sink. Nail scissors. On the verge of passing out, she gathered all her remaining strength and stretched out her arm to grab the scissors. This could not be the end. This was not how she was supposed to go out. Linely and with shaking hands, Janine started to chop away at her hair, grabbing it wherever she could. She kept stabbing herself in the scalp, the ear the next several times, but she didn't even feel the pain. Finally, she could feel the pressure on her throat weakening, air streaming into her lungs, lifting the fog from her brain. She wanted to just lay there and keep breathing, feeling this wonderful life-giving oxygen stream through her entire body. But she did not dare stop. Out of the corner of her eyes, she could still see her hair moving around her head, trying to go for her throat again. Janine managed to get back on her knees, then on her feet, facing the mirror so she could see where she still had to cut. Frantically, she kept chopping, until eventually, she felt safe enough to pause. Panting, hands trembling, she looked at her hair on the floor. It was still moving, feebly. Hurriedly, she rushed to pick up handfuls of her own hair to throw it into the toilet, panicking again at the thought of what Tom might say when he came home and saw all of this. He would be so angry at her and he would never believe her. How could he? She herself was still not sure if she believed what just had happened. Janine stopped mid-movement and let out a hysterical laugh that came out in the form of a horse croak, sending a surge of pain through her bruise throat. What the fuck was wrong with her? She had just been attacked by her own hair and yet she was worried about Tom's reaction? Enough. No more of this. As her breath slowly started to calm down again, she looked at her own reflection, taking in what she was seeing. From the wet streaks that her tears had left on her cheeks, over the bloody scratches covering her neck and scalp, the red marks on her throat, tore a chopped off hair, all at different lengths. Some of the longer strands still coiling slightly, but too short to reach her neck. For a moment, she just felt horrified. She looked like something straight out of a horror film. Then another thought crossed her mind. And she felt like laughing again. Tom hated short hair. He had always told her how her long hair made her look like a princess, and every time she thought about cutting it even a tiny bit shorter, he had talked her out of it again. Moving her gaze from her messed up hair down to the burst vein straining one of her eyes bloody red, Janine realized something else. The mask was gone. She could see herself so clearly now. This was her face. These were her eyes looking back at her. Yes, she looked somewhat terrifying, bloody and disheveled. It felt appropriate though, considering what she had just been through. Aside from the intense feeling of relief, Janine also realized she felt so proud. She had fought back. Not only that, she had won the fight. Whoever she had been for these past months, I didn't matter anymore. That person was gone. Soon there was a tingling sensation in her stomach that she couldn't really place yet. Was it hope? Excitement? Maybe both. Whatever it was, she would not lose that feeling. She would not lose herself again, not to Tom, not to anyone. Janine grabbed Tom's razor from the shelf and started to run it over her head with calm and determined movements, shaving off the uneven mess that she had created until all of it was gone. Exhausted, Tom closed the door behind him and took off his shoes. Janine? No answer. He checked the bedroom and froze in confusion for a second. Dores were pulled out. The closets stood wide open, and there were clothes randomly lying around on the floor. Janine? He shout. What the hell is going on here? No answer. He started to feel annoyed. She should be home at this time, and she was never messy like that. Then another feeling slowly crept into his consciousness. Fear? Did she leave? He walked into the bathroom and stopped dead in his tracks again. The floor? The sink? Everything was covered in long black strands. The toilet seat was propped open. Black streaks hanging over the edge of the bowl like a sick nightmarish version of LaMeta. His razor and the pair of scissors lay in the sink, surrounded by shorter stumbles of what he now came to realize was hair. What the fuck is this? Tom started to feel his pulse racing and blood rushing to his head as his anger and confusion grew. What the hell did she do here? Where is she? Tom was about to turn around and leave the bathroom, when a faint movement on the floor caught his attention. It was, but no, it couldn't be. Something was moving around on the floor. He crouched down to investigate and picked up one of the long black streaks. He looked at it and utter amazement, but not without disgust. He watched it twitch and coil in his hand, like a worm that had just been pulled out of the soil. Still trying to process what he was looking at. Tom did not even have time to scream when the hair suddenly shot forward with the speed of lightning, wrapping itself tightly around his arm. Horsing and struggling to get it off, he now noticed with increasing horror that more hair had started to wrap itself around his legs, making him trip and fall as he tried to get out of the bathroom. Rolling around now, yelling out an absolute panic, Tom tried to break free somehow, not noticing that he was moving closer and closer to the open toilet. The hair speaking out of it were greedily reaching out in his direction, swaying like the arms of an octopus. When he finally noticed, it was already too late. At some point over the next few minutes, a curious neighbor passed by the slightly cracked bathroom window. They would have heard faint splashing noises, some gurgling maybe, and the sound of wet hands squeaking on ceramic. Maybe they would have peeked through the little sliver left in between the almost closed curtains and they would have seen Tom's legs, twitching and kicking with increasing desperation, with the rest of his body hidden from their sight. However, nobody walked by, nobody looked in, and nobody witnessed the horrific scene playing out inside. Soon the soundscape of Tom's fighting grew weaker, until eventually, the only sounds heard on this fine day were birds chirping and leaves rustling in the soft, evening breeze. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit CreepyPard.com. You can also follow us at CreepyPard on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative, common, share-alite licensing, or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the expressed written consent of the Creepy Podcast Production team and the stories author.