A Heart-to-Heart with Ethan & Rest Your Weary Head

I have heard you will have a mobile phone call, but so simply let you not come from there.

Who is with your ex ex-girls dreaming? My second baby? No, I'm going to leave you alone. No, I'm just a dream. With mobile phone in real life,

Frank, from the beginning of the "Owner Mindest" contract, Moon at Lichkundbar, for 10 Euremonat. Frank! Nine. Frank.

[MUSIC PLAYING] No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling

and disturbing creepy pastas and urban legends in the world,

whether these stories truly happened, or a simply fabrication is for you to decide. These stories made in teen graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Hey y'all, can you feel it? The fall is coming. I mean, fall is coming. And you know what that means. That cost quality has Christmas decorations up.

Seriously. There's like one week where there are kids costumes and one display skeleton. I love the book 50 Hotdogs, much as an ex-girl and the ability to buy spices

that I only ever use a teaspoon of per year in bulk, but come on. Give us this. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Maybe the house has been decorated

since August 1st.

“But honestly, at this point, it kind of feels like”

that's what we have to do. We just gotta take it when we can get it. I'm not saying there's a war on Halloween, but I am saying that if it comes to it, I gotta say as Wolverines.

Okay. Let's celebrate the spookiness we live year round.

First up from writer David Corson,

a personared by Michelle Kane, creepy presence, a heart to heart with Ethan. You don't know the real reason why my family left New York and moved to Coli. I told Tiffany, it was because my mama got a job managing a hotel.

That's not a lie, but it's not the truth either. My mama and I came here because of what happened to my best friend, Becca Kale. Last fall, Becca disappeared. And everyone in my hometown thought, "I had something to do with it." More than a few of them thought, "I killed her."

But the thing is, Ethan. There is no body, so no one can prove it. All everybody in town knows is that Becca and I had a fight in her parents driveway before she disappeared and that she pushed me so hard I fell and scraped my palms.

“The incident, that's what detective Hopewell called it,”

was caught on a home security camera that hung above Becca's garage. We were finding because Becca had a new boyfriend and had stopped spending time with me. His name is Chase. And last I heard, he transferred to new high school

and joined the marching band. I still think about what it would have been like to swallow him. But I'm getting ahead of myself. You don't know about that yet. What happened was that I showed up at Becca's house

and she spiraled. She told me I was possessive that I was stalking her. And I told her that it's not possible for a girl to stalk another girl. That's when she told me that if I didn't leave her alone,

she'd tell everyone my secret. Have you ever been angry and sad at the same time?

“That's how I felt after Becca said those terrible things to me.”

I lost my temper and I called her her. That's why she pushed me. Ethan stopped squirming. I tied the knots myself. You aren't going anywhere unless I let you.

One, two, three eyes on me. I need you to pay attention. The next part is important. Look at my mouth. It's why it isn't it.

You want her my feelings if you agree.

At my old school, they called me mouth because of it. And they said a lot of nasty things behind my back. Mostly about what they wanted to put in my mouth. But that's not what I wanted to tell you. Not really.

“My secret is that I can swallow people, Ethan.”

My mouth opens like a snake. My jaw and locks and my cheeks stretch and stretch. Then when my mouth is as wide as possible, I inhale. And the person gets sucked up. It's like using a straw to get the last bit of chocolate milkshake.

It sounds a bit like it too.

A slurping that's kind of gross but also satisfying.

After I swallow someone, they slide down my throat and go somewhere. Not my stomach. It's someplace that's outside of my body but still part of me. Like how a detached garage is still part of a house. Becca called it my carrying cave.

She was creative like that. She wrote these heartfelt songs and wanted to move to Nashville to be a singer. One time, she wrote a song about the two of us. And what it'd be like when we grew up. She named a gush.

Short for girl crush. I'm sorry, I'm rambling. I love Becca.

“More than I've loved anything else in my life.”

I could talk about her for hours. We don't have that much time though. I was telling you about my carrying cave. And I can tell by the way you're staring at me that you think I'm full of shit. I'm not.

When I swallow people and drop them into my carrying cave, something happens to them. Becca said it made her feel euphoric, like the whole world loved her. It feels different for me when I swallow someone I feel satisfied. Like I've eaten the best pizza of my life. It's like I'm lying outside in the sun and I'm perfectly cozy.

Becca would stay inside of me for hours. And then I'd squeeze my muscles surrounding the cave and spit her out. Good is new. She'd have a dreamy look on her face. Eyes, glassy, lips, barely parted.

“I need you to understand that my world was perfect, Ethan.”

I had someone I loved and who loved me. We had a plan that stretched for decades. I found happiness, but then chase transfer to our school and ruined everything. Becca felt sorry for him because he didn't have any friends. I know what that's like.

I didn't have any friends when I moved to Koli. Until Tiffany asked me if I wanted to see a movie with her. Becca invited Chase to eat lunch with us. She told him it was social suicide and that people would spread rumors about three of us. He did it anyway.

At first, I thought Chase would make other friends and leave us alone.

But he didn't. He kept coming around. No, no, that's not right. Becca kept bringing him around. She had a crush on him and he had won on her.

And sometimes she'd get so excited when she saw him. That she'd need to take a puff from her inhaler. It didn't take long for them to start dating. And for me to become a third wheel. Becca still wanted me to swallow her though.

She picked me up in her little white syphic with the rust patch on the back passenger door. And would take us to an old apple orchard of Wycliffe Road. It was our special place. People need special places where they feel safe. Everything changed when she asked me to swallow Chase.

And I refused. She called me selfish. And I told her she was a bad friend. I told her I felt violated. We didn't speak for weeks.

I tried to apologize but she ignored me. She wouldn't answer her phone or reply to my texts. That's why I showed up at her house. I didn't have a choice.

I didn't tell you this earlier but she told me she told me she didn't want to be my friend anymore.

That's why I said what I said.

“Back up broke my heart, Ethan. It was like having the perfect future ripped away.”

We were going to be roommates. We had our lives all planned out. When she got famous, we were going to buy a cabin out west and live in the desert. I left after she knocked me over and wandered around for hours just walking, trying to make sense of what happened.

My feet took me to the orchard. Where I sat down and tried to imagine a world without Becca. All I saw was endless loneliness. Becca and Chase came to the orchard at sunset. When everything was golden and romantic,

I heard cars crunching down the dirt road and I hid in the trees because I didn't want to talk to anyone. I stifled an angry cry when I realized who'd interrupted me. Seeing the two of them in the orchard, it felt like betrayal. It was like they were defiling a sacred place. And it made me angry that I'd been in my whole life.

Holding my breath, I crept forward and watched Becca climb into the cab of Chase's truck and kiss him. I watched them do the things that you and Tiffany do, Ethan. Yes, I know about you and Tiffany.

“That's why we're having this discussion.”

Chase drove off first and I continued to watch Becca.

She leaned against the hood of her car and stared into the orchard as if she sensed me. Stop grunting, Ethan, you're distracting me. I'm not removing the duct tape. And if you knock your chair over, I'm not going to pick you up. You'll just have to lie there in the dirt, now shut up and listen.

I stood there, watching Becca growing angry here and angry here, until I couldn't take it anymore and I stormed out of my hiding spot to order. Why did you bring him here? I shouted. She cried out in surprise and clutched her chest like she was winded.

It took her a moment to recover, and by then I was close enough to Becca that I could reach out and touch her. You were watching me? She asked. What's wrong with you? Why did you bring him here?

I said again. You don't own the orchard? This place is special. Not to me.

“Becca tried to leave, but I threw myself in front of her car and refused to move even when she laid on her horn.”

I smacked the hood of her car and yelled. I'm not moving, until you tell me why you chose him over me!

I was relieved when she finally got out of her car.

I thought I had finally gone through to her that I would get my answer and could fix our friendship. We were going to talk like we used to. When we told each other everything, I didn't happen that way, though. Get out of my life! Becca cried.

She moved faster than I'd ever seen her move and slapped me across the face so hard that I felt down. That slap was worse than when she'd shoved me. It was more violent and escalation. I don't deserve this. I said looking up at her.

I didn't do anything wrong. The look she gave me, Ethan. I'll never forget it. She furrowed her brow and recoiled and discussed. Get help! Becca spat at me before turning to leave.

I've replayed what happened next in my mind a thousand times. Relifted over and over in my dreams. Nothing changes. Time doesn't magically rewind. No matter how badly you want it to.

Lying there in the dirt. I thought that if Becca could understand how she had made me feel, she'd take me back. I shot to my feet, wiped tears from my eyes and opened my mouth to swallow her.

Becca grabbed her car door and held tight as I created a vortex of air around her. Even when her feet were lifting off the ground. Stop! Don't do this! Rebecca cried. Right before I sucked her into my carrying cave.

Once she was inside of me, I sent all of my hurt and pain to her.

“Because that's what she didn't understand about the carrying cave.”

I control how people feel when they're inside of me. Becca felt loved because I loved her. Instead of sharing Becca with love, I gave her my hurt. I made her feel what her betrayal did to me. How I'd slapped myself across the face to feel something more than sadness.

She kicked and punched my insides trying to get out. I felt like I was being repeatedly poked, not painful but not pleasant either. I sensed how terrified she was but I refused to release her. I just kept pushing my negative thoughts at her. Even after she stopped moving.

Minutes or hours later after I'd come down, I spatter out.

And she fell face first into the ground with a soft thumb.

I stood there looking down at her, waiting for her to move, waiting for her to speak, waiting for her to do anything. Becca? I asked. She didn't reply. I had dropped my knees and rolled her to her back and recoiled. Her beautiful face with all its freckles was as blue as a clear afternoon sky. Deep nail marks ran the length of her throat, from where she tried to claw air into her lungs.

She'd had an asthma attack. A bad one. Becca? I asked again, shaken her bit. She didn't respond. She couldn't. Becca was dead. I killed my best friend. Time is strange when you're panicked. It's slow and fast at the same time.

“That's what the next couple of minutes felt like.”

Every breath I took every step I made, even my thoughts felt stretched. Like it was somehow made of chewed gum pulled in opposite directions. I tried to save Becca. I rushed to her car and scoured it hunting for her inhaler and found it sitting on the passenger seat. This won't make you better.

I said puffing the medicine into her lungs. When that didn't work, I tried CPR, but I didn't know how. I blew into her mouth and pumped her chest so hard I felt something break inside her. I didn't know I was supposed to stay in a live while I worked. That's how Tiffany and I met.

I came to coli and enrolled in a first aid class.

I couldn't bring Becca back, but I thought maybe I could save someone else. Tiffany was there too. She saw that I needed a friend. I'm sorry, I'm meandering again. I need to finish telling you about Becca.

I was terrified, Ethan. I killed my best friend. It was an accident, but I knew no one would believe me. That's why I did what I did. Instead of calling for help, I swallowed Becca's body.

Because if there is nobody, there's no crime. You can't jail someone for rumors and speculation.

“And I knew more than anything that that's what Becca would have wanted.”

The weeks that followed were of the worst of my life. Her parents posting missing person flyers on every utility pole. And in every shop in town. I couldn't go anywhere without seeing Becca's bright smile. Her straight father and hair.

A reporter from Cincinnati interviewed Becca's mother.

I've never seen someone look more tired than she did.

Big, dark circles hung from her eyes and her clothes hung off of her. Like she'd stopped eating. I'm begging. Please. Please help me find my little girl.

Becca's mother said, the whole time Becca was inside me. And no matter how much love I shoured her with, she stayed dead. The police questioned Chase first and then me.

That's how they found the video of Becca shoving me.

“That's how the rumors started that I knew what happened to her.”

Detective Hopewell took me to a small office that looked like it could have been anywhere. And asked me questions about Becca and Chase. He wanted to know where I was, the night Becca disappeared. If she had another boyfriend, if she talked about running away. Then when I wasn't helpful, he asked me about the shove and my bloody palms.

"I don't know where Becca is," I said. "I want her back as badly as everyone else. She's my best friend." Hopewell didn't believe me. No one believed me. And no matter where I went, people stared at me, judged me.

They smothered me with their eyes, suffocated me with their hate. What was so strange about those stairs is that not one of them cared about Becca when she was alive. They talked shit about her behind her back, but the moment she disappeared, Becca was a sweet and a sit young woman with a bright future. They talked about how much they missed her and shared stories. Those people made Becca's disappearance all about themselves.

How her absence made them ache. Mom and I left New York after someone threw a brick through our living room window. Whoever it was wrote killer in "Blocky Letters" on it with a black marker.

“I think it was Becca's mother and might have been Chase.”

I don't know who did it. What I do know is that it scared my mama. And she brought us to Coli, hoping to start fresh. I met Tiffany a few days later.

And for the first time in months, things felt like they did before Becca died.

It felt like I had a friend again. Tiffany doesn't know this yet, but we're going to live together after graduation. I found us a little house over on Goden Road. There's a tree in the backyard that produces little sour apples. I'm going to make jam with them.

Doesn't that sound lovely? Doesn't it sound perfect? But the thing is, Ethan, I won't let what happened to Becca and me happen again. I won't let someone come between me and my best friend. That brings me to you.

I thought about what happened when I swallowed Becca. What I should have done was swallowed Chase and Kippen there until he went away.

If I'd done that at the beginning, when he first started coming around, everything would be different.

Don't look at me like that, Ethan. You had to know I wouldn't let you take Tiffany from me. I've heard you're going to take your mobile phone. But I don't really want to come from you. Who's with your ex ex L's Dreaming Abou?

My second time? No, I don't even want to leave you alone. I just want an album. With mobile phone in real life, Frank, from beginning to end to end,

it would be impossible for you to see a hero. Frank! Nine. Frank! And next, from Iter Alex Tucker and Nared by Need to Fort. Creepy presents.

Rest you or weary had. A new day, another opportunity to further my research. Upon the latest guests arrival, I initiated my usual routine, stretching out the introductory tour as much as possible.

Over-explaining the limited space, they'll be using.

“In between demonstrating the side door key code”

and showing them the private bathroom and bedroom, I casually dug up what information I could. What brings you to the city? I asked. Fraising it this way suggests some sort of outside force brought them to me.

Although, perhaps that's the case. They explained they were here for a job interview tomorrow morning. I pretended to share in their excitement, but the possibility of them moving here permanently was an unsettling roadblock. The only point of relief was the revelation

that they have no family or friends from the area. Starting over was the phrase they used before, awkwardly shutting down the conversation as it often goes.

They have no more interest in interacting with the host

“than someone looking for an entire space of their own.”

A guest with no ties to the area is ideal, but certainly not required. Loved ones from other states could still fly here in demand answers. However, it would certainly make things quieter if they were all alone in this city.

The job interview was the curveball, though. If they get the job, the employer will expect them to return. Depending on the company, there might be heightened interest should the new hire miss their start date. It seems too risky.

On the other hand, if the interview doesn't go as they hope, it opens the possibility for rash decisions. The disappointment and not getting their dream job could be devastating, perhaps permanently so. These are the things I've been pondering since leaving the guest alone

an hour ago. But I'm going to make this my grand debut. I'll need a lot more information. As if on Q, they're now departing through the side door of my house. Perhaps to explore the city they might soon call home.

This gives me an opportunity to snoop.

“The bedroom door has been locked with the key I gave them.”

It's a false sense of security considering I obviously have another.

I often wonder whether my guests are too trusting or simply never consider this fact.

Inside the room, I find the one rolling suitcase they've brought. Searching through their belongings yields nothing useful. Only clothes and toiletries. The professional attire they planned to wear tomorrow is hanging by the window. A hopeful attempt to lose some of the wrinkles collected during the journey here.

Sadly it's the most interesting thing they've packed, putting wrinkles in my plans. On a positive note, they've already had a glass of the wine I provided as a welcome gift. Perhaps it helped alleviate the pre-interviewed jitters, and they'll only require more should the interview go poorly. That seems to be my only option if I'm going to pull the trigger this time.

When they return tomorrow, I'll gauge their reaction, and if I detect even a hint of disappointment,

I'll provide a second bottle as consolation.

“Believe that one will have a little something extra inside.”

It's not perfect. Leaving me very much on the fence about it. A toxicology report would cast unnecessary suspicion on me, and I can easily throw doubt into the matter. They seemed quite upset, officer. Maybe they took too many drugs to cope.

That kind of attention could ruin my long-term objectives. I'm not ruling this one out, at least not yet. I'll have to see what tomorrow brings. That first bottle of wine is all they'll be getting now, and they're probably already polishing it off in celebration.

The cocky little fuck came back from the interview with the silliest smile on their stupid face. It took everything in me not to smack it right off and put them right back under my control. And all likelihood I wouldn't have given them the least wine. The whole thing would have been too messy, regardless of my guess, smooth. I suppose my fury has more to do with their smugness.

The fact that they have no clue how close they came to death, that it does in my disappointment and abandoning all potential plans. It's not necessarily about winning or losing, but about predicting how the game ends. But again, this is more like a tournament of many games, as long as I win one and win it big, I'll take home the only prize that matters.

My new guest is already shaping up to be more promising than the last, because he's traveled here for pleasure, not business. Tonight he'll be attending a music festival as one of thousands and attendance, a perfect place to die in anonymity. Fortunately, I hadn't yet replaced the standard complementary bottle of wine,

the untouched version, providing an opportunity. Assuming he'd want to party hard for the event and his entire demeanor screened as much, I took the liberty of offering the other bottle I'd prepared for his predecessor. The mice of prize, he declined it right away saying he wasn't a drinker. Sobred amuse it festival, I said in this may. Good luck.

I added a little chuckle to possibly lay on some peer pressure. He assured me he wouldn't be sober explaining that he preferred other methods. Of course, I said, giving him a wink. I quickly racked my brain for a backup option. I could have offered him free narcotics, but there was no guarantee he would give the result I wanted.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to me, an incredibly genius plan,

“so delightfully diabolical that it nearly made me laugh aloud.”

By the way, I began. You won't find me here when you come back later. I'll be staying with a friend tonight, but if you're hungry after all that standing and bouncing and singing, feel free to help yourself with whatever you find in the kitchen. I've got the freezer stocked with frozen pizzas and all kinds of other stuff.

They're all yours. His eyes lit up as he professed his sincere gratitude, exclaiming he'd likely take me up on the offer. I bet you will, I thought to myself. Truthfully, my fridge was nearly empty, but as soon as he left for the festival,

I made a quick trip to the grocery store where I picked up all the essentials for an intoxicated concert gore. Pizza, lasagna, mozzarella sticks, nuggets, tater tots, and so on. The only criterion was that they'd be frozen, requiring the use of my oven.

Once everything was stuffed in the freezer, I ran my final errand. At the hotel on the other side of town, I booked a room for myself. After checking in, I changed into a simple disguise.

“New clothes, wig, sunglasses, and stroll through the lobby”

and out the door as a different person. Now that all my preparations are complete, I'm sitting in the best seat in the house, waiting for the real show to begin. When my guest returns, I'll be here in the shed out back, watching his every move.

I'm certain you'll cook up a meal that could feed much more than just himself, and perhaps he'll even have guests over. As far as I'm concerned, the more the merrier, increasing my body count would be a happy little accident. Once he and the potential others have passed out,

I'll sneak back in through the kitchen. Assuming they haven't left it on themselves, which could very well be the case, I'll flip the gas oven back on, propping the door open.

I've already done the math many times before today. Taking into consideration the volume within my home, which is sealed as tightly as money can buy,

“and not for the purpose of saving energy,”

and the rate of discharge from the oven, I can safely expect anyone inside to expire within two hours. When that time arrives, I'll sneak back inside to eliminate the only incriminating detail. While holding my breath, I'll rush over to my carbon monoxide detector

and return the battery, thus removing my culpability. Especially since I'll be nowhere near here as far as the police know. I'll have snuck back into my hotel, where I'll be unlikely to sleep from all the excitement.

Then when I check out the morning, I'll have the perfect alibi. All that patience and planning over the past few months, including the obnoxious gas I've had to entertainer, finally about to pay off. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

A piece of shit never came back last night,

begging me stay awake in the shed like an idiot. What's the sun came up? I had to begrudgingly throw in the towel. Since I hadn't left anything behind of the hotel room, there was no need to go back there.

Instead, I went back inside where I waited two more hours before my guests finally returned. Where have you been? I demanded to aggressively. He jumped at my voice as he hadn't noticed me behind the kitchen counter.

He was clearly still tipsy, mumbling something about meeting someone and staying the night with him, where he added a proud smirk. Trying to sound less parental and less crazy, I calmly explained that I was simply worried about him.

Confusion washed over his face as he remembered a loud that I wasn't supposed to be here last night. Change of plans, I responded with a shrug, offering no further explanation. His demeanor quickly shifted as he tried it off

to his room to wash up and catch a couple more hours of sleep. That was the last I saw of him. The interaction must have unnerved him because he immediately packed up and left without a word, leaving the keys behind.

I shouldn't have allowed myself to get so flustered. When I started this journey many months ago, I accepted that success wouldn't come overnight that impatience would only result in failure and imprisonment.

I must remind myself of these rules once again. There will be other guests and I can only satisfy my needs when the conditions are absolutely perfect.

I've never hated a guest as much as the current one.

An emotion I really need to keep in check. Who might choose must never come down to personal feelings, only technical details. A body is a body.

For one, she hasn't offered a real reason for coming to town. Only passing through, she said,

“"A vague answer that has gotten under my skin.”

I need to know more, else I have no power over her. Also, she hasn't left the room since checking in for hours ago. Perhaps she's just tired from her journey here, whatever that entailed. But perhaps she's just a boring person with no interest in exploring the area.

I even offered several suggestions for things to do with and walking distance, but she brushed them off with nonchalance that frankly pissed me off. If she won't provide any useful details about herself, the least she can do is get the hell away for an hour,

giving me a chance to dig up some dirt on my own. But so far, it doesn't seem she'll be going anywhere. There is another option to consider a way to regain control over her life. If I can't kill her, perhaps I can thrust her into long-term agony. I don't mean physically either.

“What I'm envisioning would be torture of her mind, not body.”

The one and only piece of information I have is that she drove here, which is actually something I can work with.

First, I'll need access to her keys somehow.

Perhaps when I hear the shower running, I can pop in and out without her ever knowing. Then comes the real challenge. Donning my usual disguise, I'll take her car out for a little spin, specifically to a part of the city that's thick with pedestrians.

However, I'll have to be selective in where I choose. It needs to be busy, but not so much that I can't get away. The police will eventually tie the hit and run to the woman's car, but it has to be well after I've brought it back here. The description of the driver will be vague at best,

leaving them with one obvious suspect, the car's owner. She'll be arrested and likely convicted for a vehicular man's slaughter. If I'm lucky, maybe I'll add multiple counts to the charge.

Even if the woman never serves a day,

still relish and having forced the accusation and scrutiny upon her. She'll never understand what truly happened either. She might even question her own sanity, wondering if she was behind the wheel, but can't remember. It'll drive her mad until the day she dies.

But at that point, it won't matter that it wasn't by my hands. This is all too perfect, making me childishly giddy.

“The more I think about it, the more I realize it's a win-win.”

I'll be able to satisfy that thirst for blood, and at the same time ruin the life of this woman I detest. The big day is finally here, and it'll be more glorious than I ever could have imagined. I was beginning to lose hope, but the woman is finally taking a shower. I've counted to 60 enough time to ensure she's stepped behind the curtain.

Now, it's show time. As quietly as possible, I unlock the bedroom door and step inside. She's left the bathroom open, allowing the rest of the space to fill with steam. I look everywhere for the keys, but the added haze isn't making things easy. Every couple of seconds I glance over at the shower,

making sure the curtain is still closed. I've searched everywhere I can think of, including her backpack, the jeans she was wearing before, and even the drawers in the dresser and nightstand. Wherever she's left the keys, there'd be on my rage. Stuffing down my anger and disappointment, I begin my retreat, casually backing away from all her things,

and returning them as they were. As I turn around to exit the room, something strikes me in the stomach, as if I've stumbled into a piece of furniture. I look down, dumbfounded, as I discover a large knife lodged my midsection. The pain hasn't hit me in, because it's overpowered by confusion.

As it's pulled away, I squint through the steam that continues to fill the room and find my guest holding the bloody knife.

She isn't naked or even wrapped in a towel, suggesting she was never in the shower to begin with.

She also makes no eye contact with me, as if I'm not even here. Even as I collapse to the floor, she pays me no mind. I watch helplessly while she wipes my blood away from the knife with toilet paper, which she then flushes. Now she's turned the instrument on herself, slashing her arms and shoulders. Even without a verbal explanation and despite my obscured vision, I can follow her logic perfectly.

The cuts on her will resemble defense wounds. If anyone were to test them to make sure they wouldn't find any blood other than her own, eliminating the argument that this was staged. With that complete, there's only one remaining step she needs to take.

Now that I understand what's happening to me, the pain rears its ugly head,

“making me scream and anguish. But despite it all, I can still appreciate her perfect placement.”

I've studied enough human anatomy to know this will be fatal.

The woman maintains her silence, demonstrating a power over me that I can only dream of.

“She doesn't need to glow because her work is doing it for her.”

As my vision begins to fade, the last thing I see is her smile. It's a reaction that should make me furious as if she's gloating after all, and I can tell it's a different kind of smile.

“For as long as I can remember, I've been seeking a certain level of joy.”

Looking into this woman's eyes, I can tell she's found it.

A thirst has been quenched, a hunger has been fulfilled. She's achieved something I'll never have.

Perhaps I'd be angry if I weren't so jealous. 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.

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