A Stranger In My House

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. Greetings from camp, everyone. Okay, I'm obviously not really a camp right now. At least not when this is being recorded. But I should be by the time this broadcast is. I'm sure we're all having a great time without any issues whatsoever. So let's take a moment to welcome and take new patrons, Amy Lee, Lindsey Holst, Molly Pickles 007. Alexander is alive. Charlie Williams. Jesus, Jamie Rose. Philly. Noah Gibson. Erica Johnson. DNR. Lib the Zilla. Rachel Dempsey. And Megan S. To see how you can get rewards, I greatly commercial free access to all episodes, including our creepway camp and the 31 days of horror stories in October. Please check out the donation tiers at patreon.com slash creepy pod. Okay, before we get into today's stories, I do want to give you all a heads up that's starting next Sunday. We're going to be starting a new three part series that will run on Sundays for the rest of March. As the story is very, very long, we've decided to keep it as three separate parts as it was originally written. Just a little heads up for what to expect. In the meantime, hoping everyone out there is holding up the best they can. Let's get to today's stories. First up, a man recalls a terrifying night from his childhood when he walked through a strange noise and came face to face with an intruder in his family's rural home, while his parents were mysteriously gone. What he later learned about that night left the experience even more disturbing. From writer P.D. Thompson, creepy presents, a stranger in my house. I slept through what was probably the most frightening night of my parents' lives. I was seven years old at the time, and my oldest brother was sixteen and had just gotten his driver's lessons. My dad bragged on him, saying that Michael was a good driver, and he was extremely proud that he had now entered the adult world and had been given a privilege to take to the highways. There were a couple of stipulations, or I guess I could say catches. Attached to my dad's proud moment. First, Michael could not stay up past 11 o'clock at night. He had to buy his own gasoline, and he was dev no other teenagers in the car with him until dad was sure that Michael could handle the road and other drivers. Michael was also required to phone the house if he was coming home or if he was changing locations. So my parents would have the assurance that not only was he responsible, but that he was safe. We lived out in the country, or as the city people call it, the boondocks. But it was really just a few rural farms, and we weren't that far from the city and the traffic. When Michael had left that night, the roads were somewhat clear. He was commuting only five miles to his friend's house, or either two of them were joined by two other teens to play a video game. The visibility was good, the weather created the perfect driving conditions. Between Michael's house and his friend's house, there was only one stop sign in two turns. Being young, I hung around the house and, without any closer playmates, because the nearest house was a half mile down the road. I played by myself and kept myself amused by racing my hot wheels on a track I got in for Christmas. When that ran its course and I became disinterested, I entertained myself for a bit longer on my own video console. At nine o'clock, I only knew the time because that was when Mom came and told me it was time for bad. I brushed my teeth, said my prayers, which I was taught early on, and made myself comfortable sleeping with my security blanket, which I carried since age 2. Mom always tucked me in, kissed me good night, and Dad always poked his head in right before I dosed off to say, Good night buddy, love you. This was a ritual that was innately constant. It assured me that the house was safe, and Mom and Dad were looking after everything. My bedroom was upstairs in the middle bedroom. Mom and Dad had a large bedroom with an ensuite two-ball sink at the end of upstairs hallway, and Michael set up his bedroom in the basement. Mom and Dad had been reluctant to turn the spare room into a bedroom, but Michael convinced him that, since he would be coming in a little later now in driving, having a bedroom in the basement would mean he wouldn't disturb anyone when he came home. Dad saw no negatives in this scenario and had agreed. Michael moved most of his belongings to his new room, calling it his, Man Cave. Dad laughed and told to me it'd be married man to call it a man cave, and defined it as a boy's nook. Michael had left some disposable items in his old bedroom, which I didn't hesitate to confiscate for myself. Michael had outgrown a few things that he kept over the years, and for me it was a gold mine. One of the items on the list of things he abandoned was a Lego set, one I was rarely permitted to play with, and now it was mine. I couldn't wait to build and construct with the set. I was out like a light, fast asleep. I've been asleep for about three hours. I knew this because I was jolted alarmingly awake by the sound of a slamming door downstairs. I thought how odd. His past Michael's time to be home, and I knew Mom and Dad would have gone bad at eleven. So I was Michael late. I bet he was in big trouble because Dad was very serious about the restriction of his driving privilege as if he didn't follow the rules. I was only there wide awake, listening to hear if Dad was going to talk to Michael before he went down into the basement. I could listen to things being moved downstairs, which I guess was Michael looking in the refrigerator for any leftovers from dinner he might snack on. Rattling continued, but there were no voices. Maybe Dad hadn't gotten up to confront him, and call him out on a riving past his curfew. I stayed in bed, not wanting to wake Mom or Dad because I didn't want to give Michael in any trouble. I heard further unexplained commotion downstairs, and was beginning to wonder what Michael was doing. It sounded as if he was going through every cabinet and every drawer in the kitchen with no regard for anyone sleeping. How I was awake, and Dad was not already down there ringing his neck was beyond me. Something inside me wanted to sneak downstairs, slip up on him, and give him a funny fright. But I thought better of it because if Dad came downstairs and found the two of us in the kitchen, it'd be double trouble. Michael was playing with danger, and he seemed more relentless than whatever pursued he committed to. In my distant reconnaissance, I noticed a spider on my window moving across the threads towards the center of its web. It appealed my curiosity, and looked like a harmless spider, not a brown recluse or a black widow. It always said we shouldn't kill the good spiders because they were one of the best exterminators of pesky insects and bothersome bugs. It crawled up the window, clinging brilliantly to the glass. And that's when I saw more magnificent webbing up in the corner. Mom cleaned my room daily. I couldn't imagine she missing the immense cobweb, or as I call it, it's net. It was a size of my hand. That spider must have been hard of work to get its spun in such a short amount of time. I was surely going to catch some food overnight. We didn't have myriads of insects running around, but if you looked hard enough, you could always find the odd cricket, ant, your wig, mosquito, and more. I caught my breath from reverie and focused again on the sounds emanating from below. They eventually quieted, and I'd deathly silence and sood as if the air had become vexed. The shadows in my room seemed to lengthen, and a cricket sounded off nearby, but I didn't get up to investigate. If Michael was finished making noise, I was ready to go back to sleep. Once again, I wiggled around until I was settled in a warm concave in the mattress surrounded by pulled-up sheets, and of course, my special blanket was up around my face with my nose cleared of breath. For whatever reason, I'd cover my entire body up to my chin, but I always allow one lone barefoot to remain sticking out from under the covers. I'd often wake up in the mornings, almost too hot, but my nose would be cold to the touch, being exposed to the open air. We didn't run our furnace at night, but if the temperatures drastically dropped in the winter, Dad would decide to fire up the stove. He was quite frugal like that. It was what I described now as thrifty to a fault. I was in between worlds, flanked by the land of awareness and the terra firmer of dreams. My dosing off was stopped in a fright, and this star-loving intrusion sharpened my sight and gave my senses an acuteness of perception like a big-eyed forest owl who would hurt a rabbit in the bush. Then there was a chirping of a cricket, which sounded like an alarm, a warning. There was barking of a dog outside, which was curiously unusual because we had known neighbors in proximity, and the nearest was a couple of fields away. I wasn't even sure if they owned a dog. With a furiously beating heart, I caught myself holding my breath, listening without distraction. And what I heard confused me. Heavy footfalls were making their way up to stairway. If I were more nervous, I would have fainted. But I stayed keenly aware as the indefacable footsteps approached my bedroom door. I kept telling myself that it was only Michael. My mind was warring with the relative facts. The last remnants of my bravery was wearing a thin. Someone rattled my door knob, and let go of it. Pointing in to anxiety climaxed and I inhaled greatly and started to call out. But I couldn't be sure about doing that. I concluded quickly in my calculations that it might actually be a foolish thing to make any sound whatsoever. I seized my voice within my throat. The door knob slowly turned. It was as if an invisible power was ceasing me. My eyes fell solely on the door. It began to push open as I shrank back, intentionally trying to make myself smaller. As the door ominously began to open, light from the hallway flooded in. A man stood silhouetted in the doorway. He was bigger than Michael. I tried to convince myself that it was dead, but I was afraid to call out and begin to shiver and fear at the mystery. The inscrutability of the moment and with my vague apprehension felt those between a rock and a heart place. I'm sure my face was livid because I could feel my hair standing on hand. If I weren't my dad, I couldn't imagine who it might be. I suppose at the time I could have been one of Michael's friends who came home with him. I tried to call out, but even to my ears, it sounded unintelligible. I finally put the words together in the form of a question. Dad? The silhouette came in no further. But there was no answer. Michael, is that you? I innocently asked. Craning that a familiar voice would answer me. I needed assurance. I was desperately hoping to hear a recognizable voice, a rass, a croak, but there was only a muteness. This darkened figure opened the door just a little wider, as if they were going to come in. And the light shone clearly upon his face. I was racked with terror. I did not know this man. He was an uninvited stranger in my house. I screamed with my highest note. And it must come to a terrible surprise that this would be thief because in a rush, he impetiously took flight. I heard his feet stomping down our stairs. Although it appeared he was in full retreat. The image of the stranger pursued me without cessation in my mind. I jumped out of bed and hit the door full force, and it closed with a bang. I turned the lock and jumped back into bed, still shaking. I had never seen that hardened face before, and it engraved itself in my young, impressionable mind in such a way that I would never forget it. I can't say it was certain, D. Woh compelled me, but I leaped from my bed and went to the window to look out. The spider didn't move, and that didn't worry me in the least. I just looked around the arachnid. My window overlooked the back yard, and it was my lucky day. The intruder went out the back door. He stopped in the middle of the yard, as if he'd blindly lost his way. I ducked down low, thinking I needed to get out of sight before he saw me. Then I took a mindful peep, and he wasn't running. He started back toward the house, carrying something like anguish. I absolutely and provincially freaked out. I couldn't allow him back into the house. I worried that he'd already done something unthinkable, something sinister to my mom and dad, and that's why they had an arisen from their sleep during the wheylay and racket. Concentrarily, thinking I had, I pounded wildly from my post-of observation and shut down the stairs like a bullet, skipping steps in the process, and sliding across the downstairs floor. I had to beat him to the back door. I sprinted through the living room, not noticing the upturned room, the evidence of rummaging, ransacking, and the carnage of shelving pulled out. Furniture moved, and trinkets and ornamental collections strewn everywhere. A dash of the kitchen and sawed through the window that a looming figure almost at the door. I crashed into the front door and ran like the devil into the kitchen. Again, paying no mind to the mess, the man had laughed when he was trawling our cabinets earlier. The man who was now in clear view gazed angrily at me. He appeared to be of a flored complexion. Very unhappy that I beat him to the back door. He hammered the door with his huge fist a couple of times as if it would intimidate me into opening it. I was overwhelmed, and this harassment didn't sit well with me, but I was no fool. The man stopped and glanced around as something had dawned on him. Then it came to me. The front door. That's how he got in, I bet. I guess that he'd left it open as he went through the first time. It became a race again. I spring out, bolting like a gazelle. My short legs were getting added for all they were worse. My suspicion was accurate. The door was indeed open. I rammed it shut with my shoulder, reaching up, gropeing madly for the locks, fumbling with the dead bolt and luckily. I found the slot just as he reached the door. I hooked the flimsy chain lock for good measure, then backed away from the door, knowing now that I had locked myself inside, and if you were to break in, I had no order to run. A sick feeling of despair washed over me as I wondered about the fate of my parents, and where in the world was Michael? Intured to wrap a couple of times on the front door, then I assumed he gave up. I was shaking too hard to chance looking out the window. Concerned for the welfare of my parents, I ran up the stairs and without knocking, swished into their room like the wind. The room was empty with a night light burning. They were gone. The bed was turned down, as though they'd gone to bed, but sometime while I slept, they'd got up and hurried out. Mom and dad used to joke that in bed, dad would flip and flop, and mom would toss and turn, which to me sounded like miserable sleeping conditions. I checked their cell phones, but the phones were missing. As was Mom's purse and dad's wallet, which he usually left on the nightstand. I was simply at a loss for what had happened to them. There were no signs of a struggle, no blood, nothing destroyed or knocked over. They were essentially gone without a trace. I was a nervous wreck. Remember, I was just a child. Now I was alone in this big house with a lunatic running loose and already been inside my house and nearly walked into my bedroom. My thoughts were at full volume in my head, and I struggled to decide what to do next. What if the assailant returned and this time broke down the door? These were the sorts of thoughts that were thickening in my mind. I didn't have a cell phone. My parents had told me that I was far too young to own one. We had no landline because it was hardly ever used. Dad said the cell phones were better anyway. I had no means of communicating outside of these walls. I then began to wonder what this thief was looking for. Was he even a thief? Alternatively, it occurred to me that maybe he was a homeless man looking for food. Could have been an escaped murderous psychopath with all conscience, lacking the ability to acknowledge evil. One night, only a few weeks ago, I saw a scene from the movie One Floor over the Cooke's Nest. Mom and Dad were watching it and didn't know I'd walked into the room behind him. I knew they wouldn't allow me to watch such a graphically disturbing show. So, as many a child would do, I remained quiet and watched the scene. Then we're fighting on the screen and one guy put another in a bear hug. Another man leaped under the back of the other. That man went backwards and squished the man with his back against the wall. The man screamed out in pain. That was when mom noticed I was standing behind them in the doorway and said, What are you doing up young man? You do not need to watch this. This is for adults only. After that, she let me back upstairs and cucked me in for the second time that night. I suppose that snippet of the movie stayed with me in my subconscious and resurfaced and bold, conscious awareness, triggered by this unnamed stranger who trespassed on our house. In my implicit memory, I could only construct the worst possible scenario. At the heightened absolute threshold, my measurable perception automatically began to navigate the world of sensation. And I found this to be a terrifying place of exploration. I stopped speculating because the more I probed for the possible reason, the more afraid I became. I had to regain control and minimize the danger lurking in my mind. I was headed for an overload. I will swear to the exactitude of my story too. Although I wasn't very old at all, these memories were so horrific that they were forever burned into my subconscious. There was no reciciting the calm of the night, and there was no way I was going to go back to sleep. I paced the floors, sneaking from room to room, skulking over the windows to try and catch a glimpse of the thog to whom I'd almost fallen victim. I couldn't fathom an explanation as the warm appearance could be. And then I thought, oh goodness, the basement. Armed with my Louisville slugger, little league baseball bat, I had to investigate the downstairs. What if my family were tied up and bound to chairs down there waiting to be rescued? Not surprisingly. Perhaps the reason for my delay in deciding to go to the basement was twofold. Michael told me I couldn't go down there. This was his room now. I needed to knock before coming down. He had reiterated this many times to ingrain the restrictions in me. The second barrier was plain fear of possibly finding the unspeakable. I went to the basement door with overworked repetition. I gently opened it, holding the baseball bat with my right hand. I had a pretty good swing for a little guy. I was no power hitter, but I could head. I drifted slowly on creaking stairs without even a sparkle light. There was a switch to the bottom of the stairs that turned on the leading basement lights. Right inside the basement there was a pull chain cord over the staircase, but at the time I was immodarily short to reach it. So I had to force myself, will, myself, to the bottom of the stairs. When I reached the bottom I tensed up. My jaw was tight. I raised the bat and flipped the switch. I expected the worst, but what I saw was a messy basement with a few pieces of clothing costs around. My parents weren't down here. Michael was nowhere to be found either. In many ways I was relieved because if they were down here and something bad had happened to them, it would have been more than I could take. With nothing to see down in the basement I opted to return upstairs, but as my foot touched the first step the lights were off. And I was entirely in the dark with only the light from the hallway bathing the first few top steps of the light. The basement door was open as I had left it. But why, of all times, did the electrical breaker trip? I looked to see if the pull chain cord was moving. In case it had been maliciously pulled off, but from here there was no swaying at that I could detect. That was a bit of relief that nobody had mastered the lights. I began my upward climb when I was forced to stop bed in my tracks again, profound fear joined me on the stop. I'd be pressive, pivishness stole away my courage, for when I looked up. I could see blocking the doorway and silawided within the doorframe. Was a man. There was an immediate infiltration of my senses like a chilling creep crawled into my flesh with fresh and decisive pivolence. My heart should have been beating out of my chest, but I swear in that moment of sudden fear it stopped right there on the spot. I could see from his lode-sympasture in the way he slightly leaned to one side that it was the same intruder. He must have broken in silently because I never heard a sound from upstairs. He was staring levelantly at me. I returned his gaze, still gripping the baseball bat firmly. Evidently, this was it. I knew I was a small boy, but I was ready to take this hulk of a man on. Any friend would have advised against such a notion, but I was alone, the David to his goliath. I could have retraced my stabs and hoped you'd found a lucky hiding place among Michael's things, but that meant prolonging me inevitable. In this predicament, I had to swing for the fences. Right when I was about to charge out my San Juan Hill, just like Teddy Roosevelt and the rough routers had done over a century before in the Republic of Cuba, the image in the doorway turned his head to look behind him. Then, almost as if in a panic, he fled. It disappeared. I thought to myself, but did not say it out loud. You coward, you didn't want any of this. After the advantage I heard the sound of the front door opening, I could only imagine it as a escape. I didn't question or imagine what could have spooked him more inspired as quick getaway. I hoped whatever it was that it was running for his life now, far away from here. Braver now, just seconds before, I did my charge with the bat swinging over my head wildly in every direction. I heard a voice even before I saw who it was. Whoa boy, put the bat down, it's us. It was my parents, with Michael, whose arm was in a cast. It's some stitches on his forehead and a couple of black eyes. I dropped the bat and relief and hugged them all. Michael, not as tight as a hug mom and dad. Turned out the Michael had followed the rules of the road and had phoned home before leaving his friends house. On the way home, a drunk driver plowed into his car, slightly injuring Michael in the collision, totaling out Michael's car. But unfortunately the drunk driver didn't make it. He died at the scene. It was entirely due to drinking and driving that the man lost his life. Mom wasn't happy with that after I told him about the hearing what deal I just suffered through. Mom yelled at dad for freaking to secure the door when they rushed out to the hospital, not knowing at the time how badly Michael had been injured. The call had been vague and stirred up the worst case scenarios for my parents at the time. They were only given the basics, which in the short narrative, the nurse had just advised them that their son had been in an accident and had been admitted to the emergency room. Dad wasn't content with just my word alone at the intruder flat. He phoned the police and then, with a handgun I didn't know he owned. He searched through the house alone, having this hallway outside on the lawn. But there was no one hiding inside. A couple of days had passed, Michael was on the mend and looking for another used car in the internet. While Mom was preparing breakfast and dad had gone out to retrieve the morning paper, he still liked to get his news the old fashioned way. Late in ink and in his hands. Look at your hun, you dress mom. Michael's accident made the paper. Dad sprawled the paper open on the kitchen table, woking the plates at an already been placed there. Michael came lumping in. Michael, I don't know if you care to see this or not, but your accident made the paper. Mom told him as he squeezed around, looking over to his shoulder. I wanted to see but everyone was crowded so close. I pushed my way between mom and dad. And I couldn't breathe when I saw the paper. There was a picture of the accident. Michael's car had been hit head on, who was crunched up like an accordion. The second picture of the paper featured was of the deceased drunk driver, Barry James Emory, 33 years old, who was pronounced dead at the scene. Barry James Emory was the intruder from the other night. I even said it clearly for everyone to hear. That's him. That's where that's the man who's in our house. What? Dad knew I didn't lie, but he said, he must look like the man who was here. They can't be the same man. That man was dad. When we got the police report back, it turned out there was no evidence pointing to an intruder of any kind. As suspicious as these events were to my family and the authorities, no conclusive evidence ever emerged that pointed to anyone being in our house that night other than me. There had been no objective evidence other than the few things strewn about carelessly and one terrified seven-year-old boy who pulled the most unbelievable story. Nothing was found that indicated anyone else had been inside the house. It must have been in my panic that I thought things were messy and strewn about when I ran by. The mind does funny things in panic, I guess. Friends, it's confirmed that the only fingerprints found were the house where ours. I don't know what to make of it. I don't know what you might think of it. Maybe Barry James Emery was looking for Michael to apologize? Or maybe something else? I can't say. And next, a theater director's charming new boyfriend becomes disturbingly possessive as strange tendrils begin appearing on her body. And as she discovers the truth, she's forced to fight back. From writer Rachel Horrick Dempsey, a nearer to by-leash actins, creepy presents, Strangle Weed. Derek wasn't the first man to proclaim, I can't live without you. So by the time I understood he meant literally, it was too late. Like most co-dependencies, ours began gradually, with a subtle clinging I mistook for passion. Opening night of my new show, velvet curtains and fog machines, we sat in the back row of the theater for the widest perspective, and so I wouldn't distract my actors, most of whom were still young enough to care about pleasing their director. I split my focus between stage and audience, observing friends, family and strangers alike watch my work. Some, like Derek, for the first time. He held my hand so tight I had to rent it free at an omission to applaud. In the lobby, I was met by a flurry of congratulatory hugs which I returned with gratitude. The gifts of champagne I passed on to Derek. Never drink on opening night, a mentor once told me. I'd accepted the advice as sage wisdom, rather than the baseless superstition it probably was. The following day, after all the corrective notes I gave them, my actors would always say they wish I'd drunk myself into oblivion. For the full twenty minutes of intermission, Derek chugged glass after glass. His scowl knotting ever tighter as my entourage nudged him farther from center. When the chime finally sounded, signaling we should return to our seats. The former roommate Liza raised one magnificent eyebrow nearly to her Auburn widow's peak. A look I knew from many a cast party meant. This guy bothering you? I smiled, telegraphing back. All good. Thanks for checking. The energy and pacing of the second act far surpassed the first. So much so that I forgot all about Derek's pouting. Until the lights rose for curtain call and he launched to his feet. Not for standing ovation, I feared. He drained the last swallow of champagne from his lidid cup and dropped it beside the other empties littering the floor near his seat like peanut shells at a baseball stadium. If we go now, he insisted. We'll beat the rush. I made the mistake of laughing. Explained I couldn't leave. That all the people had come from my show. For me. I leaned closer, blasting me with sickly sweet breath. Guess I'm just in a hurry to get home so you can come from me. I swatted him away, hoping it passed for playfulness despite the force. Back in the lobby, my arm's full of bouquets. I refused my assistant director's kind offer to take them to the green room as per my usual custom. Not because I didn't want to share. Because the garish fragrant blooms and thorny stems created a much welcome barrier between my body and Derrick's. By the time we left the theater, Derrick had down so much champagne he didn't even protest when I insisted on driving home. Slowly and painfully, we managed to stagger up the stairs to my third floor apartment, where Derrick collapsed on the couch. When I emerged from the bathroom mere minutes later, face scrub, teeth brushed and wearing my least sexy pajamas, he was already in bed, still fully clothed and snoring. I curled up with my back to him, too relieved dwell on the fact that he had an utter one complimentary word about my production. At least he'd shown up, which was more than I could say for any previous boyfriends. The bar was so low it was underground with the worms. I'd met Derrick at a friend's book launch in Rhino, immediately drawn to the mysterious man with bountiful hair and muscles, but none of the typical swagger. Almost like he didn't register to the zire and envy trailing him around the cramped bookstore like Musky Cologne. And he could read, did so by choice even. Overdrinks afterward, I'd learned he'd loved his mother, but hadn't lived with her since high school. He worked long days in corporate finance, yet spent his precious off hours coaching basketball at the Rec Center, and volunteering in his neighborhood garden. This was five months before my show opened, and in all that time it had never occurred to me that a person as disarming as Derrick could be insecure. As much as his behavior at the theater hurt me, I decided before falling asleep that night to overlook it. Just this once. All men, or at least the many I'd known, got possessive sometimes. Probably a residual side effect of evolution, something to do with the necessity of being territorial to survive. Not an excuse in the modern world, clearly, but an explanation that helped me dredge up a crumb of empathy. What I really wanted to do was suggest Derrick date one of those chatbots people apparently fall in love with, if he wanted unconditional loyalty and validation. Why do women so often ignore their instincts? Is it because we're trained to please? Threatened with a life of solitude, except for our legion of cats, if we fail? Or because deep down, spreading like black mold in the haunted cellar of our internalized misogyny, is the belief that a woman's worth is defined by her usefulness to others? As if a body independent of service might as well be dead. Nothing so existential entered my mind the next morning, as I waited for Derrick to wait from his alcohol-induced coma. Instead, I lay on my back staring at the ceiling fan I hadn't used since Derrick started sleeping over, because it's faint-clicking reminded him of knuckles cracking. Another thing I'd stop doing. Last the time, I brainstormed places to get brunch without a reservation. Beneath the sheets, something tickled my bare calf. I rolled onto my side, away from Derrick, assuming it was his robust leg hair. Then, the same feathery sensation grazed the back of my neck. Shivering, I slapped a hand to my hairline. Afraid I'd smashed a bug between my fingers. But opening my fist, all I found was a thin yellow thread, the width and length of a spaghetti noodle. I thought about showing it to Derrick. He was good at solving household mysteries like where I'd left my purse, or how long the leftovers had been in the fridge and if they were still safe to eat. The peculiar string would give us something to talk about other than the previous night's disappointments. Then Derrick rocked it out of the bed for the bathroom, and the noise of his heaving made me forget all about the thread. And brunch. We enjoyed several weeks of domestic harmony after that, thanks to efforts on both our parts to prioritize the relationship. Now that my show was running without training wheels, I could dedicate more time to Derrick's interest. I tended one of his basketball games at the Rec Center, to the delight of his pre-teen players who reveled in teasing Derrick about his famous girlfriend. One particularly savvy kid had unearthed an old headshot of mine on Instagram, and decided I was secretly related to Chapel Rhone. Or her stunt double if Popstar's had such a thing. I told the kid I didn't know, but thanked him for the compliment regardless. Derrick pitched in around the apartment, stalking the pantry with our respective staples, changing the batteries in a smoke detector I couldn't reach, and even picking up a replacement box of tampons, right brand and everything, without by having to ask. Our only argument arose when Derrick, returning from a gardening shift, tracked dirt across my favorite rug. I demanded he wipe it up immediately, not after getting some water, before the cloth sank deeper into the wool fibers. He gave a, you're so type A, roll of his eyes, but complied. We had sex every day except Wednesdays when he coached in the evenings, twice on Sundays to make up for it. On one such afternoon, we lay in bed after, our bodies still slick and entwined. I drifted in and out of sleep until a sudden sharp pain jolted me awake. There, between my shoulder and elbow, was another of those weird, yellowish strings. I moved to flick it away, then stopped, frozen and horrified awe. The thing had burrowed in and out of my flesh like a sewing needle. I shrieked. Derrick bolted up right beside me. To a pole to speak, I flapped my violated arm. He brought it closer to his face, muttering something about bedbugs. Biles surged in my throat. I do not have bedbugs. Did I? No. I couldn't. Unless. You must have brought them here. I snapped. He rose with a wounded look, pulling on boxers and a t-shirt he'd left on the floor. I almost apologized, but revulsion overpowered by remorse. I didn't want him in my bed. At that moment, I was unsure I wanted him in my life, period. Flinged to the bathroom without a word, I found the tweezers, pints the thing by its tail, then scrunched my eyes shut and yanked, hissing in pain as blood spurred from the small but deep wounds. I doused them with hydrogen peroxide, then stood under a sculling shower until the water ran cold. In the steam fogged mirror, I scanned my naked, reddened body for signs of more gross worms, or whatever they were. Nothing, thank god. The skin around my twin punctures and my tricep look swollen and discolored. Prodding it brought up clots of foul smelling pus. I struggled to breathe as the walls seemed to pulse around me. What if that thing carried some nasty disease? I should go to the emergency room. Forgetting my early loathing for Derek, I swung open the door to ask him to drive, but he was already gone. Nothing I've ever seen before. Was the ER doctor's unhelpful diagnosis after examining both my arm and the shriveled corpse I'd brought along in a plastic sandwich bag. He promised he'd send it out for testing and let me know if anything alarming came back. In the meantime, I should take antibiotics, just to be safe. Back in my apartment, I dawned a pair of Derek's gardening gloves and shears, cut my bedding into manageable strips, then stuffed everything in a trash bag and carried it immediately to the dumpster. I placed an online order for new sheets and pillows and sectoside spray and a zippered bug proof cover for the mattress. Scrubs steamed and vacuumed every surface in the apartment, focusing on the spots Derek had occupied most often. By the time I fell into my makeshift bed on the couch that night, my muscles throbbed. Beneath the bandage, both holes in my upper arm had crusted over, stinking of rotten fish and itching uncontrollably. I tossed for hours trying to find a comfortable position, finally crashing into the fitful sleep of the traumatized. I dreamt of pasta that came alive in my mouth, squirmed down my esophagus, and coiled around my heart until it stopped beating. I didn't hear from Derek all the next day or the one after. Instead of slided or repentant, I felt relieved, elated even, as if I'd narrowly escape some impending catastrophe, and who says I hadn't. Thinking back to opening night, before our brief reconciliation, I'd convinced myself it was for the best, though a six-month relationship warranted a more thoughtful, thoughtful separation than ghosting, in my opinion. Then again, what else was there to say to each other? I'd heard plenty of break-up stories and survived enough of my own to know cordual partings are as rare and precious as lasting love. Months passed quickly. A pruning phase lies acquainted, trimming down the relationships that didn't serve me to make room for the ones that did. I spent more time at the gym, went out with friends, in auditioned and rehearsed actors for my next show. When opening night came around again, I sat in the back by myself, armored and black leather pants so tight I couldn't bend my knees. Then, at intermission, I saw him. Still fit and well groomed as ever, yet somehow diminished, like an actor who missed his mark in flounders, half lit. What's he doing here? Lies aground, faithful as any watchdog. Why do women so often ignore their instincts? I pondered even as my feet carried me toward the dark corner where Derek waited. His eyes looked different, a paler blue than I remembered, as he tracked my progress. I'd like to stay for the second half, he said. But only if it was alright with me. He promised not to bother me after the show. Just need to see how it ends. He extended a bouquet of roses so deeply red they appeared black. For farewell or new beginnings, I couldn't help wondering as our fingers brushed across the cellophane. His nails grimy from a day of tilling and planting. A swell of dizziness hit me, from the power of the roses fragrance I told myself. Thanks. You can stay. I said, hoping he couldn't decipher the subtext of my lines. I want you to stay. He was the first to stand in a plot at the curtain call. I noticed from the rear of the audience. And the last to lead the theater, except for me and Liza. In parting, he collapsed Liza's dainty hand in both of his. Thinking her again for explaining the more subtle thematic elements of the show. Claiming he was too engrossed in the acting, the emotional journey to follow the plot. Liza smiled, rolling her eyes at me as soon as he turned away. I said between them, wavering. Should I? I telegraphed to my oldest, truest friend. She shrugged back. At least he's trying. I followed Derek outside, leather pants glued to my thighs. Needing help to peel them off felt like a good enough justification for inviting him over. Unlike last time, Derek drove us home. All night, he toasted my latest success with only the tiniest sips from the same flute. He'd asked about my process, what notes I'd planned for the actors. More than his actual questions, I found myself trying to answer whether Derek really cared about the show. Or was simply trying to please me. Did it matter? Giggling, we raced each other up the stairs to my apartment. As soon as the front door clicked shut behind us, we fell upon one another like scavenger birds, swooping in the tearway clothes, rising to fling them, diving back down. I tried so hard. Derek panted against my neck. But I can't live without you. The feeling wasn't mutual, if I'm honest. But he gazed at me with such intensity, like I was in the spotlight instead of doing all the hard work, and in watching from the back row. I reclined on the bed and let go of my constant need to control the action. For once, it felt nice to have someone else in the director's chair. Derek's palm grazed my knee, slipped lower. A twinge deep inside my thigh muscle, irritating at first, then agonizing. Ascreamed, pushing against Derek's chest with both hands. Long, yellow tindral snaked from his nose, ears, and mouth, writhing between our faces. Ascreamed again, clamping my mouth shut just as one of those things tried to slip inside. The amputated segment rye dawned my tongue, gagging, I spit in Derek's eye. He blinked and more sinewy cords spilled out. I bucked my hips, trying to throw him off, but his fingers fused to my wrist. Still more strings piercing my skin. Stop fighting! He huffed. Won't hurt as much. I'd worked with enough actors to know when a person believes what they're saying. Derek wasn't lying. He'd done this before. I thought back to the ER doctor's message from months prior. One I hadn't been able to make sense of at the time. He'd gotten the lab results on my specimen, something about it being organic material. But not an insect, at least not one previously identified by science. Here he'd laughed nervously. Maybe a plant or fungus. They'd found human DNA, not just on the thing, from my blood, but inside, like it had been grafting itself to another organism. I can't live without you. My boyfriend, decidedly ex-boyfriend by this point, was a parasite. I howled and thrashed, drawing pain and blood from all the places he had already breached. But Derek only clung tighter, with the desperation of a creature incapable of surviving alone. Vine sprouted from every part of him, encasing me like a cocoon. All the strength drained from my limbs. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Living as one. Completely dependent on each other. What would happen if I tore away? I'll die. Derek answered, as if already inside my head. And it'll be your fault. He believed that, I could tell. It was his confidence that saved me. He never imagined I would choose myself. Rrenching to the side, I fumbled for the handle of my nightstand drawer. Prane. I left them in here, please, I know I did. I rooted around inside until my fingertips brushed cool, comforting metal. Not murder, as he'd have me believe. Self-defense. Brandishing the garden sheers. I sliced through his millions of history as easily as roastems. I'd take the ones he'd given me to the funeral, I'd decided. For farewell. And new beginnings. And finally, a man recons his escalating feud with his strange flatmate Clara, which ends in a violent fight. He later realizes his memories can't possibly be true. For my third curtain, Ibrahim, an area to buy JV Hampton Van Sant. Creepy presents. My flatmate is a fucking witch. Sorry, typo. I meant bitch. My flatmate is a fucking bitch. And unfortunately, moving out isn't really an option for me. Clara seemed great at first. But she did. I mean, I probably wouldn't have moved in if she showed her true face from the start. Now, that's a lie. I was crazy desperate, and all the red flags in the world wouldn't have kept me from moving in. My only other option was becoming homeless, as I was about to be kicked out of my uni flat after graduating. On top of that, the housing market in my town was quite literally hell, so I was happy when I found a place that I could actually afford. Clara sounded nice on the phone and invited me right over to have a look at the place. Two bedrooms, one living room with an open kitchen, and a decent-sized bathroom. She greeted me with a friendly smile and showed me around. The interior was a bit minimalistic, mostly black and white furniture, one or two pieces of art. The kitchen was clean, and she had a shit ton of spices. We can share everything in the kitchen. I think it's easiest that way. If you don't want to share groceries, that's fine, of course. But if you want to use any of my stuff, that's cool. She said during our tour. Oh, sharing is fine. I smiled. I wanted her to like me. I needed this room, and I wasn't sure whether me being a guy might be a problem. I didn't have to be nervous, however. Clara adored me. She called me the very next morning after the tour and offered me the room. And I accepted right away. I felt a great vibe from both her and the place. And I have to admit, when she smiled at me during that first apartment tour with her poisoned green eyes, I may have felt a little mesmerized, too. But not anymore. No. Not after going through hell with that bitch. During our tour, she never showed me her own room, which I later learned was the opposite of the sterile and clean apartment. Her room was full of glasses and containers, filled with different stuff I didn't recognize. She had all sorts of different candles and shit tons of books on the floor under her bed and on the shelves. There were around 15 pillows on her bed, and a bunch of lamps everywhere. Clara never actually showed me her room. I broke in one time when she wasn't home. Yeah, I know. That sounds bad, but there was a reason for it. I swear. The consequences of the war that my flatmate herself initiated. It all started with the passive, aggressive note she left on the fridge door without a reason in the world. It was only one day after I'd moved in, and I swear I hadn't given this girl one reason to hate me yet. House rules. No guests after 1am. Any visitors must be announced first. No pets. Shared rooms must stay clean at all times. No going into my room without permission. She came in just as I was reading the rules and smiled like that list was the most normal thing in the world. Everything all right. Did you have a good fast night? She asked and smiled at me. Yeah, for sure. I answered and then pointed my finger at the piece of paper with a raised eyebrow. So I just found this. Oh, yeah, sorry. I always share these when I have a new flatmate. It's important for the place to keep things as they are supposed to be. The other ones weren't that great, but I have such a good feeling about you. She smiled again, and it felt so genuine that I had to smile back. Oh, yeah, me too. If I bring a girl over, I don't have to kick her out at 1am though, right? I joked. She laughed. I'm so glad you moved in here, Julius. I don't even think I picked you. The apartment did. I tried to laugh back politely, but it sounded weird and forced. To be perfectly honest, I was sure it was all a big joke at first. The stuff she'd randomly say about the apartment and her weird rules. But that girl was dead serious as I'd find out sooner than later. One time, I left a half-empty cereal bowl on the table before going out. And when I came back, Clara had thrown it on my bed. I couldn't get the smell of spoiled milk out of my room for days. Another time, my buddy Matt came over spontaneously, and when Clara saw him, she acted super nice and even made him a cup of tea. As Matt told me later, he spent the entire next day throwing his guts up. Of course, that could have just been a coincidence, but she acted ice-cold to me after that evening. The good vibes were dead. And these were just a couple of examples of our back and forth. War had begun, and it got worse and worse. I threw a big house party, and Clara somehow managed to convince all of my friends that I was a vile, disgusting person. She had this effect on people. Her charisma was magically persuasive. When my friends started ghosting me, I decided to buy a pair of birds. I named them Julia and Clara's, which my flatmate didn't find funny at all. A few days later, I came back to an open bird cage, a living room full of bird feathers and splatters of blood. Maybe I should have left then. But I felt the need to confront that psychopath. I shouted for Clara, but she wasn't home. I can't even say for sure if I was more angry or scared. Thinking about it now, I should have left right at that moment and never come back. Clara wasn't normal. I was so excited to break into her bedroom. As I mentioned, it was far more whimsical than I'd ever imagined. There was so much stuff and clutter that I wasn't sure why I was so angry. I was so excited to break into her bedroom. As I mentioned, it was far more whimsical than I'd ever imagined. It was so much stuff and clutter that I wasn't sure what to do next. My initial plan was to trap her room, but instead I decided to go through her stuff to find something she loved and destroy it. Leave a message to her and then fuck off. I knew that Clara was weird and clearly had anger issues, but I still didn't expect to find the things I did. There was something satanic about this room. I found books written in Latin or Celtic or whatever. Papers with anagrams, curses, weird lists. All still somewhat fine, I guess, but then I found the paintings. Paintings of me, portraits where she had burned my eyes out with a lighter and filled in the empty holes with red paint. Another one where my eyes were wide open, the flesh of my nose was decaying and the bones were showing. Another one with dozens of maggots climbing out of my mouth. It wasn't only the paintings. Her room made me feel sick. I felt nauseated and dizzy, and for a while I think I even lost track of time. My blood was freezing, I couldn't move. For a second my breathing stopped. And that's when I heard the door shut behind me. What happened afterward is a bit blurry in my head. We fought and Clara shouted things I didn't understand. I think I pushed her, tried to move her out of the way to get out. She fell and I grabbed the lamp from the table closest to me and threw it at her. It shattered and there was blood. But Clara was still moving. I was completely in survival mode, not thinking straight, but so was she. Finally I managed to pass through and leave her room. I ran through the living room toward the door, but when I tried to leave the apartment I couldn't. I physically couldn't get out. Something was holding me back. Clara had somehow bound me to this place. She cast a spell on me. That was the only explanation that made sense to me. I kept trying to leave, but it simply wasn't possible. This again. Come on Julius, I thought we were making progress. I slowly turned around, scared and confused to see Clara standing there, looking completely fine. Not a scratch, no blood. She tilted her head and glanced at me with eyes that seemed more tired than angry. What's going on? I whispered. What did you do to me, you fucking witch? She rolled her eyes. I'm not a witch, Julius. Come on, we've had this fight at least once a week for months now. Can you make your memory work, please? This is getting exhausting. I can't deal with this rollercoaster. Clara was interrupted by the sound of birds tweeting, loudly as if they were in the apartment. And I could swear it sounded like Julia, but she and Clara's had died months ago. Months? Right, months. I started to remember. Our fight about the birds must have been at least six months ago. Just around the time Matt stopped by for the last time. Well, the last time he stopped by, well, I was still alive. He came once more after he hadn't heard from me for a while. That's when Clara gave him the letter explaining I had left. Clara, did you kill me? I whispered. I really couldn't remember for sure. No, well, maybe. I hate this, Julius. Do we really need to do this again? I nodded. Afraid so. I killed your birds, which I guess was a little over the top. I didn't mean to. I just wanted to let them free, but I forgot to turn off the ceiling fan and, well, she took a deep breath. Anyway, you came to my room. We had a huge fight, and it got out of control. You threw a lamp at me and missed. I threw another one, and, well, didn't miss. She mumbled those last words. The images in my mind were mixing. My memories were not right. Some were of the past when I was alive, and some of them were new. I forget. All that occult stuff in your room. Was that already there? I carefully asked. Some of it. I've always had some interest in it, but it really sparked when I realized you were still here, even after I got rid of your corpse. She shrugged. You know, this was a lot for me too. I sat down on the ground. This wasn't new. I had just forgotten. Clara had killed me, but I had tried to do the same to her. When I finally understood what happened, the first time, not now, we made some type of arrangement. I was never really close with my family anyway, and I've lost touch with most of my friends. They believe I'm traveling somewhere, living a new life or whatever. I'm not sure if other people can see me. I hide the very few times someone rings the bell. This still feels kind of new to me, you know? Clara stayed because, one, she can't really let anyone else live with me, I guess. And I suppose she really is curious about how any of this is possible at all. And some part of me hope she'll find some answers for me. My memory is still a bit hazy, and time works weirdly. So I guess we're kind of stuck with each other, hopefully not forever. I mean, yeah, my flatmate is a bitch, but who wouldn't be if they had to live with a fucking ghost? He must learn to obey. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit CreepyPod.com. You can also follow us at CreepyPod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative comments, share a light licensing, or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the CreepyPodcast production team and the stories author.