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Chapter 1: What is the premise of the story 'Just Visiting'?
No. This is Creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous, chilling, and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.
Hey, everyone. Hope y'all are staying cool. Not sure what the weather's like elsewhere, but Minnesota has been enjoying our seasonal May temperature swings. We went from about 45 at the start of the month to... Oh, 92.
Chapter 2: How does the narrator's relationship impact his mental state?
Awesome. This being my first summer at the station, I'm not sure what their procedure with air conditioning is, but hopefully I can finally get a chance to talk with someone in maintenance about it. I guess I always assumed radio stations would be relatively cool as far as the AC is concerned because all the equipment, but I guess I was wrong there. Feels like I'm in a sauna at the moment.
So before I start to sweat on the mixing board, let's make sure to shout out and thank our new patrons, Don Luca, Samantha Young, Razik Brown, Mason Newton, and Molly. To see how you can get rewards like logo, merch, and bonus episodes for supporting the show, please check out the donation tiers at patreon.com slash creepypod.
And speaking of merch, a shout out to our April writer-drawing winner Deirdre Coles, who won some free creepy merch in our drawing. As a special thank you to all of those who write for the show, if your story is selected for production, you are automatically entered into a drawing for free merch. Because without the writers, we wouldn't be here. Okay, on to the show.
Chapter 3: What surreal experiences does the narrator encounter?
First up, a deeply lonely man follows a woman into a surreal nightmare realm, where love, death, and obsession blur into something far more terrifying. From writer Jimmy Ferrer, Creepy Presents, Just Visiting. I had always suspected infidelity in my relationship, but I've always had the sad tendency to forgive to avoid solitude. Repeated arguments, abuse, even catching them cheating red-handed.
All was forgiven. It had to be better than being alone, right? What made me wise up and leave, one might ask? Nothing, in fact. I was left after asking her who she loved more, me or the side piece. You can guess the outcome.
Chapter 4: What choices does the narrator face in the nightmare realm?
This left me in a particularly exploitable position, desperate for love and attention from, well, anyone, and so started my visits to what I can only assume were hell. Her name was Rose. And she was beautiful. Curly red hair that held onto sunlight like a halo. Eyes of emerald. Perfect skin. looking up at me with puppy eyes from my lap as she asked if I still worked at the pharmacy.
As I broached the topic of a relationship, she reverted to encouraging me to go to a doctor to get some prescriptions for anxiety. You know, because of how hard I was taking my breakup, and maybe we could share some zannies and cuddle. An offer of physical affection was all I needed.
Chapter 5: How does the narrator's past influence his decisions?
I understand that these are not redeeming qualities for a person to have. I'm not trying to be redeemed, elicit sympathy, or anything. This is a warning about that damn forest. I did go to a doctor, exaggerated the symptoms, although I doubt I'd have needed to, and I was sent on my way with multiple meds. She was more excited than I'd ever heard her when she saw the big pill bottles.
A junkie looking for a fix when I think about it now. But she was pretty. I was lonely and desperate. We made plans and I found myself with her head in my lap again. Something on the TV is background noise.
Chapter 6: What is the significance of the character Rose?
She was tossing back pills like candy. Inside, I panicked, but I lacked the courage to speak up. She must have known her own tolerance. She had to. My concern was wiped like a shook etch-a-sketch when she sat up and laid a firm kiss on my lips, calling me a peach before laying back in my lap and going back to vibing.
My concern stormed back as she turned the pill bottle over in her palm, and the deafening silence of an empty bottle screamed into my soul. Not a single pill falling into her hand. My face must have turned stark as her eyes met mine. She placed her hands on my shoulder softly and calmly informed me that she'd been popping pills since middle school and her tolerance was insane.
I couldn't risk being a nag and losing her in the process. I couldn't sufficiently hide my panic, though, as she reached into her own pocket and pulled out three white pills shaped like little bars and covered my mouth with her hand until I swallowed them, hushing me like an upset toddler, until I relented and swallowed. For the first time in months, I dissociated from my traumas.
Slowly but steadily, the calm caved under the weight of nausea. The room shifted. My head spun. I wanted to go throw up, but I couldn't stand. Not because of my symptoms, but because I didn't want to disturb her. She looked so peaceful. Those beautiful curls of red, the last thing in my memory as I slipped into a world of black.
I awoke to harsh buzzing of fluorescent lights, intense light piercing my closed eyelids. I raised my hand, guarding my eyes as I opened them slowly. When my vision came into focus, I realized I was already standing. I was in a sterile, blinding, white-on-white tile waiting room. It was tight, maybe about five by five feet.
There were four white chairs set up across from each other, perfectly aligned. I thought I saw a silhouette of a chair for a second but on second look nothing was there A nurse stood across from me in the doorway. She wasn't dressed in typical scrubs. Her outfit looked to be from the 1980s. A pristine snow-white button-up dress with a white collar and a white nurse's cap.
She smiled the way you do when you've reached the end of your shift and a customer walks in at 9.59 when you close at 10.00. She looked familiar, but I couldn't place it. She was fit, tall, brown hair tied up in a bun, her tan skin made pale by the bright lights. She stood out like a void in an abyss of white. Are you just visiting or staying?
Her voice distorted and echoed like a fever dream, seemingly from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. I'm sorry? I asked, confused. Are you just visiting or are you ready to stay? If you'd like to stay, take the right hallway. If you're just visiting, take the left hallway. I asked where I was to no response.
I turned back to look for the door I must have entered through only to be met with a wall of solid white. No door anywhere to be seen. The nurse clearly explained I can visit through the left hallway or choose to stay through the right. She sat silent no matter any question I posed. After nervously clearing my throat, I let her know, just visiting. I blinked and she was gone.
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Chapter 7: What themes of loss and guilt are explored in 'Final Words'?
I inched forward and looked right to left. The right hull stretched out in my range of vision, just as stark white as the room before, an eternity of white with no end in sight. The left felt warm, like sunshine gently falling upon me. There was this delicate little window, flanked on each side by yellow and white checkered curtains. Through the window I could see an endless canopy of trees.
A ladder leaned against the window. I felt safe. I turned to look back into the white void, but it was gone. I was now in a wooden treehouse. Radio, magazine, chips spread about on the ground. I opened the window to climb down the ladder and immediately heard the nurse again, as if she was speaking right into my ear. Enjoy.
I turned back to a still-empty treehouse and tried to calm my unease, rubbing my forearms to push the hair down that stood up. Every moment before reaching the treehouse felt wrong. I couldn't place it, but I knew the window felt safe. I hurried and climbed down the ladder. My bare feet met with the soft green grass at the bottom.
I could see nothing but trees in every direction, the only variation being a tight grass trail directly in front of me that stretched into the dark shade of the forest ahead. I felt like there were red flags, but I couldn't get past the visuals. The vibrant green grass growing in the deep shade of the trees where nothing should be able to grow.
Chapter 8: How does the ink in 'Ink' symbolize creativity and danger?
The sparse light shining through the canopy. Thin beams of light fighting the darkness. The trail faintly lit as though candles were placed on the ground along the entire path. The wall of trees so dense that looking in between only revealed more trees. I walked down the path for at least an hour. The tree line finally broke, and I laid my eyes on a small cabin and a circular opening ahead of me.
It was a small, simple log cabin, hardly any weathering. Cozy. I did a double take once my eyes met with Rose, and I ran over. She placed both of her hands in mine and kissed me deeply, pulling my body to hers and wrapping me tightly in her arms. I looked around the home to see various photographs of us over time, over what must have been years.
I was so deeply focused on the photographs that I didn't notice that Rose was saying something to me. Every photo was similar, only very slight changes in us over time. I couldn't put my finger on it, but something did not belong. Like other times in my life, I ignored these feelings. Rose loved me here. I turned and apologized, asking her to repeat herself. Clear, she said sweetly. What?
I asked, confused. Clear! The paramedic yelled as he jumped my heart again. I started coughing, trying desperately to breathe through the foam blocking my throat and nostrils. He's awake! Hang in there, buddy. We're going to take good care of you. I hung my head off the stretcher, spit and retched, trying to get the thick foam strangling me out of my mouth.
The paramedic helped and then sat me up, telling me to relax. I asked where Rose was and he averted his eyes immediately, pretending to look at my vitals or something. My eyes welled up with tears and I bit my lower lip, trying desperately not to cry. The paramedic put his hand on my shoulder when he noticed. The rest of the ride was silent. She was dead far before anyone found us.
My heart was broken. I felt so scared and anxious. I caused a death, or at least didn't do all I could to prevent it. I cried repeatedly day after day until I felt nothing. I felt as though someone hollowed me out. I was a shell. I woke up each day feeling nothing but hate for myself and my cowardice fueled by a selfish need to be loved. I didn't eat. I didn't move from my bed. Why should I?
This was my damn fault. Continuing my life was pointless. You can recover from a breakup. You can even talk to that person again in the future if you really wanted to. You kill someone, and that's it. There is no recourse for failing to render aid because you wanted fucking company. In failing to act on reasonable concern in exchange for company, I became the reason she was gone from my life.
I was fading from dehydration and starvation. I never reflected on anything that happened to me in the forest until then. I remembered that voice. Are you just visiting, or are you staying? I remembered the waiting room, the nurse, the window, and Rose. This was the solution. In coming close to death, I was able to go to Rose, where we had a life together, where I hadn't failed the saver.
I decided to go back. I'd always used a single-blade razor. I knew that I had a 50-pack of single-edged razor blades sitting on my bathroom counter. That night, I dragged one of those razors deep up my arms in the bathtub, a searing burn running along the razor's line, the heat from the cuts distracting me from the pain. It felt like my anguish found release through the deep gashes.
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