The Dagger & Silent Treatment

Today's episode is presented by A24's Undertone, in theaters on March 13th. This is the scariest movie you'll ever hear. It follows the host of a popular paranormal podcast who becomes haunted by terrifying recordings, mysteriously sent her way. The feature debut of writer-director Ian Tawassen has left critics raving. The disgusting Joe Lipset wrote in his 4.5-scull review, I can't remember the last time a movie made every hair on my body stand up, but Undertone got me good. Here for yourself, an experience Undertone in theaters Friday the 13th. Get Tickets Now Now. This is Creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastors and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened, all of our simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. See how you can get them to us ASAP. Remember, we're looking for first-person stories between a thousand and five thousand words that we can tell around the campfire. So, themes like camping in the woods and classical stories are what we're looking for. Get the men as soon as you can. Alright, first up, from writer-tarpie W. Horn and narrated by J.V. Hampton Van Sant. Creepy Presents... Dagger. The sharp, shiny tip of the dagger hovers mere inches in front of my face, pointed at my eye. I don't know what keeps it there. Every day the blade moves closer. It moves in increments so small precision instruments can't detect them. This is a known fact. I have been studied. But I can tell it's moving. I know. Eventually, the extravagant dagger with the gold-gilded handle and the diamond blade will penetrate my eye. It will then take days or weeks to reach my skull, and then weeks or months to slice through it and reach my brain. I'm not sure how long I can withstand what is likely to be unfathomable pain. But I will hold out as long as possible. Still, I will end my agony on my own terms before the blade kills me. I wonder if it will continue its relentless journey through my corpse. I suspect it will, but to what end? I don't know. My dog won't come near me anymore. He groubles as if I am a stranger and runs away, as if my predicament could spread to him. So much for man's best friend. I've tried everything to stop the dagger's progression. I've tried to run from it. I've hit it with a baseball bat. Drilled it with titanium drill bit. Swiped it with a flaming hammer. Even poured whiskey on the end of it and lit it on fire. All I've gotten from my efforts were bruises, burns, and a broken nose. Other people have tried to pull the dagger away too. My best friend Dylan held onto the handle while his cousin put his hands around his waist and pulled him backwards. It didn't budge. The two of them also tried to saw the handle in half. They googled how to destroy gold. Lifted a barbell with 50 pounds of weight and rested it on top of the blade. Eventually, even their considerable determination dried up. My oldest sister, Tessa, had the best idea anyone had come up with so far. Fortunately, it made my situation 10 times worse. When she told me her plan, I agreed to let her do it. She climbed onto a kitchen chair and then stepped onto the table holding her most prized possession. It was a glass paperweight of all things, with swirls of color and sparkles winding through it. I was touched that she would risk breaking her treasure for the sake of trying to help me. Tessa reached out over my head and dropped the paperweight. But instead of knocking the dagger away, the glass ball sunk into the handle. It was like a drop of rain adding itself to a puddle. The handle enlarged so much I could no longer see past it with my soon to be tortured eye. This new horror was perhaps the worst. Why did this attempt have a different outcome than the others? Maybe the dagger was sentient and it was getting irritated with the attacks. Or maybe it was because Tessa hated me. In any case, saving myself from this intolerable nightmare became even more urgent. The next day, I offered a stranger $20 to hold onto the dagger while I climbed over the side of a bridge. I told him to hold onto the hill with all his strength and not let go when I fell to the river below. Gravity had to be too strong of a force for the hovering dagger to overcome. I should have thought of it sooner. I wasn't trying to do away with myself. The water was calm and I was an experienced swimmer. The dagger would stay with the stranger on the bridge and I would swim to shore. I'd be free. The stranger demanded $50 saying he charged more for interacting with the supernatural. Whatever, I paid. He wrapped his thick hand around the daggers handle and nodded. I looked down at the river with one eye, looked back at the stranger and jumped. I didn't fall. Instead, I hovered next to the bridge as if I were standing on an invisible floating sidewalk. Nothing changed. The guy shook his head and walked away, $50 richer. I was left with the dagger, an object so determined to hold me captive that it defied gravity on my behalf. The dagger hasn't always been there, of course. My youngest sister, Cindy, has become obsessed with life after death. She was certain she could find a way to contact her dead twin Mindy after the girl's violent, senseless death. I missed my little sister, too, of course. But I couldn't understand Cindy's extraordinary level of grief as I'd never lost a twin. I suspected Cindy had lost her mind. Cindy hadn't gone with her twin the night she died. Mindy wanted her to attend their friend's party, but Cindy wanted to go with me to see a local band. They'd argued. It was a rare occurrence. They got along famously and were very close. But when they did fight, they fought viciously. They both said awful things to each other that night. Mindy called her an insensitive selfish bitch. Cindy responded that Mindy was a cruel, possessive psycho. Mindy stormed out intending to go to the party by herself. She was mugged and stabbed when she stopped to put gas in her car. It was a fluke occurrence. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Cindy couldn't forgive her self for her sister's death. No matter how much I insisted otherwise, she was certain Mindy died believing she hated her. I wanted to support her. So when she developed an interest in the occult, I entertained her fantasies of speaking to the dead. She found an ad for a psychic online, and I drove her to the parlor where the woman conducted her business. I assumed Madame Phyllis was a fake, a phony, but perhaps she could give Cindy some comfort. And if that were the case, then so be it. If only I had known what an incredible mistake I was making. But I didn't know. I only knew my little sister needed to exhaust all possibilities and see for herself that Mindy was truly gone. She'd never move on with her life otherwise. She joined hands with Madame Phyllis, and her assistant implored me to do the same. I don't believe in psychics or life after death. I felt uncomfortable even being there. But I complied anyway. The psychic began speaking, saying she was Mindy, saying that she'd been waiting for Cindy. She accused Cindy of causing her death. If only she'd been there. If only she'd taken her along. If only she hadn't been alone. If, if, if. Then Madame Phyllis's eyes had not only flown open. They practically bulged from her face. She sucked in such a deep breath. It almost took all the air from the room. She turned her eyes from whatever horrors they must have seen and gaped at Cindy. She told us Mindy demanded Cindy pay retribution and kill herself to be with her. She hadn't been with her when she died. She odored to her to be with her now. I demanded that the session end, but Madame Phyllis kept speaking, saying increasingly awful things. She arrived as if something powerful was shaking her. Cindy was both enthralled and devastated. She was convinced her twin was communicating with her. I couldn't get her attention. Even when I insisted Mindy would never say such vile things. But I couldn't know that. Could I? No one could truly know what was in another person's heart. Besides that, who knew what might have happened to her on the other side? I looked at Cindy's devastated twisted face as the awful things Madame Phyllis was channeling became more chilling. I stood up. Madame Phyllis's assistant hissed at me to not break the connection. I did anyway. I was consumed with fury. Either this was phony bullshit we were listening to for nothing or Cindy was in real danger from her dead twin. When I pulled my hands away from the others, Madame Phyllis fell to the ground. Her connection to the other side ended, with a physical crack and a blue beam of light striking her head. She didn't die, but as of right now she's still in a coma. Maybe when I'm gone, Mindy will allow her to awaken. I believe in psychic abilities now. Cindy disappeared a few hours later. I've tried to contact her, but her phone's been disconnected and she doesn't answer her email. Tessa has searched far and wide. She blames me for her disappearance, of course. I blame me too. The dagger had appeared the next day. It was there when I woke up, hovering above me. When I sat up, it followed my movements. I checked to see what was holding it up, but there was no fishing wire for it to hang from, and no sensor indicating it might be controlled by a drone. I thought I was hallucinating until my friends asked me how I was pulling off such a cool trick. I realized soon after that I'd been cursed. Was it Mindy? Madame Phyllis? The mugger who went to jail for stabbing her? Karma? I don't know, and it makes no difference. When I lay down at night, the dagger floats above my face. It's the first thing I see in the morning, and the last thing I see before I sleep. I can only hope Cindy's out there, and that she'll find a way to pacify her twin. Maybe then I'll be free of this nightmare. Then again, maybe Cindy is cursed too. Next, from Reiter Tau Diabro and narrated by Owen McEwan. Creepy presents, silent treatment. April 10th Yesterday's counseling session felt like staring at the same problem for hours, knowing something's broken, but having no idea how to fix it. Kat said she'd be willing to give things another shot if I made more of an effort. I guess that's fair. I've been buried in work for months now, coding late into the night, chasing deadlines no one but me seemed to care about, living off a mountain dew and coffee. She's always called my laptop my work life, and swears that I spend more time with it than with her. We're both taking a one month sabbatical for this, so we won't have any real distractions, and we can just focus on each other. The therapist said she wants me to write down my thoughts. Honestly, it feels dumb, but if it helps, then sure. Here we go. Dear diary, I got up before the alarm this morning. Kat was still asleep, curled up under the comforter, like she always is when it gets cold. The city sounds woke me up. Cars on the street, a garbage truck grumbling outside. Kat has always loved living in the city, but I've always thought it's too loud. The neighbors too close, the walls too thin, especially when it's raining outside, which is like Seattle all the time. Anyway, I made coffee and forgot to add sugar to hers. She's still dry and get anyway, loud saying anything. I think we're both tired of starting fights over little things. I know we've been having a hard time, and yeah, a lot of it is my fault. But I'd like to think that staying together is worth the effort. April 11th. This still feels a little weird. I'm used to writing bug reports, not journals. Dear diary, Kat made pancakes this morning. I forgot she does that when she's trying. They were good. A little burnt, but good. The smoke alarm in the hallway churped once, and then the apartment smelled like burnt sugar all morning. While we ate, I tried to talk more, listen more. I even left my phone in the bedroom while we ate. It's harder than I thought stepping away from work. My brain itches for something to do, a bug to squash, anything to prove I'm useful. I'm not good at just being, but I sat there and nodded along as she talked about a painting she wants to redo. I asked questions, made eye contact. Baby steps, right? Kat has always said that I'm too closed off, but I don't let her in. I'll try to work on that. April 12th. Okay, I'm dropping the dear diary bit. It feels ridiculous, and I'm not 12. Anyway, Kat says she likes when I'm really with her. I'm not quite sure I know what she meant, but I didn't ask. She's always been better at this kind of thing. You know, emotions. Maybe it's an artist thing? I think for her, presence means more than just being in the same room. It's about attention, about noticing things, like how she changed the painting in the hallway, or how she stopped wearing her favorite earrings. I miss stuff like that all the time, too when you browse your tabs open in my head. She said I used to really see her back when we were dating. I don't remember when that changed. Maybe when the deadlines got worse, or when I convinced myself that she'd always understand. I guess I'm trying to close a few of those tabs now. She deserves that much. April 14th. I didn't write last night. Meant to, just didn't. Sorry. Today was rainy. The kind that makes the whole city feel like it's underwater. The kind of honest rain that Seattle rarely gets. Kat stayed in her studio. Okay, the spare bedroom. Most of the day complaining about the cold. It stays like this, though, where I'm glad I'm not going into work. Sometimes I swear the only reason she stays with me is so she can put our cold feet on me in bed. Anyway, I cleaned a little, stared at some emails, thought about booting up one of the old games I used to play with the guys, but I thought it might make Kat mad. Later, we went out for ramen, and it felt like a date. She smiled when I held the umbrella for her. It was a small thing, but it stuck with me. After dinner, we came back and watched Silent Running Kat's pick. She loves those quiet, sad, sci-fi stories. I tried to focus, but my mind kept drifting back to work, to unfinished code and emails I haven't checked. I don't think she noticed. Or maybe she did and didn't say anything. It was still a good night. I'm glad we both took this time off to work on us. April 15th. Kat went out this afternoon to meet up with a couple of her friends. I was surprised. I mean, she hasn't done that in a while. I almost told her to call me when she was on her way home by a bit my tongue. We're trying to be better to each other, to trust each other as people as the therapist says. While she was gone, I picked up around the apartment a bit, and even dug out the old Bluetooth speaker. When she came back, I had music playing, her favorite playlist, the one we used to cook to on weekends. I was halfway through chopping onions for curry. She smiled when she walked in. It was a real one, too. We ate together, talked a little. It felt almost normal. It felt good. Later, though, she got quiet again. She said it was good to see her friends, but the mood was weird. Apparently, one of them has a brother who works in the ER on the south side, and she said the hospitals are packed. Flu cases everywhere. Some of them sounded serious. Kat didn't seem too worried, but I could tell it unsettled her. The smile didn't come back after that. She didn't handle the isolation well during the pandemic. I really hope we don't have to go through that again. April 16th. Kat's friend texted her this afternoon, saying her brother has been pulling double shifts at the ER. The hospitals are all slammed with flu cases way more than usual for April. Kat seemed a little concerned, but not worried. She said we should probably wash our hands more and maybe avoid crowds for a bit. Well, I like both of those plans, even when there's no flu going around. We made stir fry for dinner and watched a couple of episodes of some new period show her friends are into. You know, just a normal evening. She fell asleep halfway through the second episode, her head on my lap, and I let her stay there for a while before waking her up to go to bed. I didn't even like the show, but it was nice just sitting there with her. April 17th. The city seems quiet this morning for a change. I tried to sneak in a little work on a side project this afternoon while Kat took a nap. She came out, saw the laptop, and didn't say a word. She just turned around and went back to her studio and slammed the door behind her. After a while, I knocked, told her I was sorry, said I'd shut it down. No answer. I know this move. This is how she gets when she's angry. Quiet, withdrawn, like she's trying to pretend I don't even exist. She'll stay in there the rest of the night, maybe longer. The true way of punishing me. I wish she'd just yell. At least then, I'd know what page were on. April 18th. She made coffee this morning. Didn't say much, but she put a mug down in front of me and sat across the table. We ate in silence, but it wasn't cold. Just quiet. After a few minutes, I told her I'd try harder. Really try. She nodded, but I could tell she was trying not to cry. That was enough for now, I guess. Maybe there's hope for us yet. We went for a walk over to the park, holding hands like we used. The traffic outside looked more normal today. A couple delivery vans, some people walking around. Quiet, but normal. Looks like this flu thing is blown over. I hope so. April 19th. Sirens woke us up early this morning before sunrise. Not just one or two, but a rising, constant whale. Ambulances, police, maybe fire trucks too. It was hard to tell. Then the emergency alert came back on the TV. This flu or whatever it is, it's spreading fast. I don't think they've even named it yet. It reminded me of the early days of COVID, except faster, meaner, like it's making up for lost time. Online people are freaking out. The usual idiots are calling it a bio-weapon, while others think it's just media hype. There's no consensus, just noise and fear. The internet is a mess. Conspiracy theories, doomsday prepping, videos that may or may not be real. It's impossible to know what to trust. It's like watching the world fracture in real time. The news showed footage of patients restrained to gurneys covered in sweat, eyes, wild, raving. Cat didn't say anything. Just sat there, holding her coffee, like it might vanish if she let go. I didn't know what to say either. We turned down the volume and just sat in the dark. I don't know why I'm continuing to journal. Maybe I'm hoping this will all blow over, and we can go back to normal. And I suppose it gives me something to do. April 20th. We spent the morning digging through the hall closet. Eventually, cat pulled out a box of our old KN95s and surgical masks left over from the pandemic. They even dug out those old bottles of disinfectant gel. Can that stuff go bad? I should look it up. She left a few of the masks on the counter, like it was just a normal thing to do. Like we were slipping back into old routines. Damn it. April 21st. Huh. Apparently disinfectant gel really does go bad, at least if it's open. Good to know. Anyway, there were more announcements today on every station. People are being told to stay inside unless absolutely necessary. They're not calling it the flu anymore. It's hitting so quickly that all they've got is just some long acronym for it. They can't seem to decide whether it spreads by contact or if it's airborne. One of the anchors slipped instead it was acting like rabies. Aggression, confusion, biting. I figure we'll just stay in and order food for a while, just like we did during the previous pandemic. They can just drop it in front of the door. No human contact needed, just like last time. April 23rd. The past two days have been chaos. Cities are locking down, flights canceled, store shelves stripped clean. The new cycle is burned itself out, just the same footage on loop. I wish we'd gone to the store, stocked up on the staples. At least we're okay on toilet paper this time around. Cat and I, I believe we've been better. No distractions, no obligations, just the two of us in this shrinking little box. And somehow, that's brought us closer. We talk more, even laugh sometimes. It feels like the early days, just us, and nowhere else to be. Nobody else to talk to, either. That part sucks. Thank God for social media, right? The apartment feels small or every hour. We're always in each other's space, like the wall they're closing in. But somehow, I don't mind too much. Carla, next door, has been fighting with her boyfriend. The walls here are so thin, that we can't help but hear it. At first it was shouting. Now it's quieter. Just her voice. Then nothing. Cat stood near the door for a while after, not saying anything, just listening. Later on, after she fell asleep, I stepped out onto the balcony to get some air. I heard some banging below us, and when I looked down into the alley, I saw a coyote digging through the trash. They don't usually come this far downtown. It was probably just a dog. April 24th. Things got worse today. There's barely any news coverage now, just a chiron at the bottom of the screen, looping the same message. Stay inside, avoid noise. Do not engage. Apparently, the infected are drawn to sound and movement, and they're sensitive to light. That's all we get. No anchors, no voices. Just that cold little ban are crawling across an empty screen. Over and over. I checked online, and all the forums are talking about it. Nobody seems to know anything though. It's all contradictory. Everyone has a pet theory. I turned the volume off completely. We're whispering now, even inside. It's like the whole world's gone quiet, and we're just playing along. I hung some blankets on the windows, but it's not like there's much to see out there. We haven't seen anyone outside all day. Not even the dog walkers. I can't decide if the blankets on the windows are to keep others from looking in, or to keep us from looking out. We tried ordering pad tie, but it never came. We just had some leftovers instead. We really should have made a store run a few days ago. Around 1030, we heard screaming coming from down the hall. Something even shook the walls at one point. We dialed 911, but the line was busy. We gave up after about an hour. I tried calling my parents, but maybe they weren't home. Mom never remembers the cell phone, I got her. I'll try again in a bit. April 25th. There was a knock on the door this morning. I answered without thinking, just moved on instinct like it was any other day. I didn't even think to put a mask on. She was our neighbor, Carla. She looked awful, pale, shivering, eyes sunken like she hadn't slept in days. Her sweatshirt was soaked through, and her mouth trembled when she tried to speak. But she wasn't violent, just scared. Her hands were shaking as she begged us for food, her voice barely more than a whisper. She said she hadn't eaten in two days, that her boyfriend had locked himself in the bathroom and wouldn't come out. Cat came up behind me and gave her one of my boxes of cheesy macaroni. Carla held Cat's hand for a few seconds, and looked like she was going to cry. And then we heard it, another neighbor from further down the hall screaming, anger yelling about something we couldn't understand. His voice was this horrible, horse-wet sound, heavy footsteps pounding closer, running. My panic, I couldn't help it. I shoved Carla back, slammed the door, and threw the deadbolt. Cat stared at me, and then she was screaming at me in a whisper, furious, calling me a coward, insisting that Carla hadn't been sick, just scared. I didn't answer, and I didn't know what to say. She helped me push the bookcase to block the door. Then we sat in silence, listening to sounds from the outside hallway. Angry screams, something crashing, a gurgling yell, then nothing. Cat's not speaking to me, not really, just one word answers, but not the cold kind. And this is something else. She's angry and scared. I think she's right to be. But what else could I have done? She went back into her studio. She says she wants to be alone. April 26th. I spent this morning doom scrolling. Things look bad out there. I still haven't talked to mom and dad. I'm worried. I keep hoping they'll call. Cat's hold up in her studio. She hasn't come out since last night, except maybe to go to the bathroom. I've knocked. No response. I think as long as the danger stayed outside, it was easier for her to pretend everything might go back to normal. That this was temporary. And like COVID, everything would go back to normal. Something's survivable. But when I opened that door, when Carlos stood there shivering and real and maybe sick, that fantasy collapsed. And then I slammed it shut again and forced her back out into the dark. Cat's furious. Not just at me, but at everything. I mean, I get it. But I still don't know what else I could have done. Carlos must have been sick, right? Right? I couldn't take the chance. Right? Why does it always feel like it's my fault? Sometimes, I hate her for always making me the bad guy. April 27th. There was some sort of explosion off in the distance this morning. A single low whoof that rattled the windows and shook the floor. I couldn't see anything from our side of the building, so it must have been down near the waterfront. Cat came out of her studio right after. She looked really tired and scared. I guess the noise woke her up, too. She's still barely speaking to me, but she's moving around in the apartment again. Short, angry movements. Grabbing things, cleaning things that don't need to be cleaned, turning lights off so we don't waste electricity. She moves like everything around her is in the way and says that being around me just gives her a headache. She was doing some dusting and started coughing. I asked her if she felt okay. She just got mad at me all over again. I know she's angry and scared. Right now, I'm the only one around to aim it at. April 28th. She hasn't come out of her studio today. Not once. No sound from the other side. She's done this before, when she's really pissed. She just goes still and quiet and won't let me in. I keep telling myself that I deserve the cold shoulder. I know she'll come out when she's ready. The therapist said that this is just how she protects herself. It's not the first time she shut herself away from me. And every time it feels like a punishment and I have to serve. But this time, I'm angry too. Angry that she always gets to vanish to disappear behind that door and leave me out spinning in the dark. I'm tired of apologizing just to fill the silence. Why does she get to be the one who gets angry? I miss cat. I miss her silly dances around the living room. I miss just holding her hand. April 29th. A crow landed on the balcony railing this morning and stared through the glass like it expected something. It left before I could decide whether to wave or hide. I've been keeping myself busy, wiping down the counters, organizing the shelves, fiddling with that sticking door knob in the bathroom. Damn, things still won't work right. I put the garbage bag out on the patio after. I'm not desperate enough to risk the front door just yet. I'm just trying to stay occupied. Anything to stay out of the hallway near her studio. Anything to not try to open that door again. She just needs space. Maybe I do too. The apartment's never been cleaner or quieter. The blanket's over the window's block most of the light, but I can still catch glimpses. Once or twice I've heard someone shout far off. One time, a lot closer. It's so quiet out there. The power's flickered a few times this afternoon, and when I pull the curtain to the side, I can see smoke off in the distance towards Belltown. I don't hear any sirens anymore. The building Wi-Fi is still up, but it's painfully slow. Cell service is just dead. I never did hear from mom and dad. I can hear cat crying through the thin walls of her studio. I wish she'd let me comfort her. Hell, I'm hurting too. April 30th. I used the last of our milk making breakfast. I thought she was asleep, but then I heard her moving around. I whispered through the door, asked if she wanted pancakes. Her answer came out of nowhere, just anger and blame. She sounded furious. Throwing things and accusing me of abandoning her, of giving up. And she's right. I did. I have. Maybe she's just scared and still angry about Carla. About me slamming the door. So instead, I just listened to her rage until it burned itself out. Towards the end, she wasn't even making sense. I didn't answer. I just sat there feeling numb. Eventually, she went quiet again. Nothing but occasional sobbing. I've never seen her like this. I'm afraid that if I say anything, she'll start yelling again. Even the apartment feels like it's holding its breath. A crap. The power just went out. I looked outside. It's everywhere. The city is suddenly darker and quieter than I thought possible. Now, I really wish I hadn't wasted the milk on pancakes. We don't have much food left. I got tired of being afraid of being yelled at. So I took the cold pancakes into the bedroom and locked the door. Let her see what it feels like. May 1st. She hasn't said anything since that outburst yesterday. But I could hear her moving in the hallway all night, just pacing back and forth. I don't know. Maybe she's ready to talk? She keeps clearing her throat, like she wants to apologize. I guess I should let her in. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story, or consideration, please visit Creepypod.com. You can also follow us at Creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative, common, share-alike licensing, or with written consent from the authors. 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