CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - Cult of the Sanguine One" Creepypasta

Episode Date: December 15, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by WeirdBryceGuy: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm...Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►Boris Groh: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/Ka...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

There is a poison-coated blade embedded just beneath my heart. Ordinarily, the wound itself would be fatal, but due to present circumstances, it isn't. I'm actually happy that it's not, because otherwise my death would allow him to take control of my body through his profane, necromanic usurpion, one of his many dark and sorceress abilities. But his partial possession of me grants my body certain resistances. I am able to endure far more physical trauma than the average human, able to sustain injuries that would kill a stronger, healthier man. The poison is gradual in its distribution, long staying in its occupancy of the body. With my resistances, it will take months, perhaps even years, to kill me.

For that, as grim as it may seem, I am thankful, because those are years the world will be spared, his world-shaking iniquity. his calamitous devilry. I will lie here among the rubble of this time-forgottened fain, dying with maddening slowness while he sleeps or seeths within me. When my heart stops and his spirit awakens, he will take for himself control of my necuitised body and use its more discrenched hands to cast the evilest maledictions. To water, with my death-dried lips,

blasphemies and diabolic incantations memorized from his time as a fledgling incubus under the tutelage of some ultra-mundane priest. He desires neither fame nor riches, only the destruction of the human race, and the races of all the people planets throughout this galaxy. I should mention that his residency within my body was not something I willingly allowed. It was forced upon me by a man, a Professor Warrington, who, along with two of my closest friends, trapped me within the this temple, the feign of sanguinity. The betrayal on part of one of my friends, Alexandra, was not malicious. She, upon learning of the plot, became complicit in it only to save herself,

a reason for which I cannot wholeheartedly blame her. I probably would have done the same had I been in her position. The only other option was death, or worse. If Professor Warrington's Threats of soul defragmentation are to be believed. Under the promise of uncovering some rare anthropologically forgotten artefact of vast antiquity, we were led to the temple by a professor of anthropology, and, once there, he briefly related the history of the site, the temple and those fell members who, centuries ago, congregated within its glimmering, slanted obsidian walls.

Therein, under a much younger moon, the cultist, would perform the most heinous and violent rites, practicing with immense perversity the rituals and ceremonies of their order. All these efforts in obeisance to the infinitely baneful entity whom now resides within me. The temple itself was reared

amidst the swath of ancient wood within the dark heart of Missouri, and the site has been largely left and noticed, or intentionally ignored. The environs immediately beyond it, however, are wrongly populated, a suburban neighbourhood sits just a mile to the north. According to the Professor, legends of the temple were forgotten by the early 1900s, and a new kind of evil had since been ascribed to the area by those aware of it.

It is said that the half-moon arc of woods, with its gnarled and curiously bent trees, is now the home of deranged meth addicts and other mundane degenerates. We encountered non during a half-hour bountiful sunlit trek, from its perimeter to its heart. But I do recall hearing strange, incomprehensible, though plainly human noises, and smelling fulsome, unusually sweet scents, always off in the distance,

wafted by the wind by some unvisited corner or depth. Upon finishing his short lecture, the professor led us through the half-crumbled, ovoid-portled vestibal of the temple, wherein sat various pots, vases, jars, and basins of multiform shapes an unguessable purpose. The walls themselves, shimmering blackly,

gave off their own eerily profuse illumination. There were no sconces, chandeliers, candelabra, or any other source of, nor fixture for, artificial or natural light. Professor Warrington gave only the briefest remarks of the artefacts and architecture, and, despite our collective curiosities, we rarely ask for clarification or explanation.

The vestibule held an atmosphere of ageless morbidity and the deathly impression given off by the darkly luminous walls and dust-blanketed receptacles only deepened as we progressed farther in. It was aggressively disquieting and by the time we reached the subsequent foyer we were all, including the professor. The foyer immediately led into a large hall, the only real spacious room of the temple,

which was, unsurprisingly built in the orientalions. of an inverted cross. The two wings, the short offshoot of the cross shape, held crips. The partially shadowed and cobweb draped alcoves visibly tenanted by the members of the cult. We were not immediately told how they had come to be collectively interred within the temple, since the legend goes that they allowed no one to join or even know of their order and slaughtered all trespasses without mercy. It is rumoured among historians at least, those with cult-prosephers.

propensities, that there once existed a coven whose leaders sought to ally themselves with a cult, but was summarily executed upon making contact. This massacre, in which some two dozen females were butchered, is said to have most likely occurred due to the cult's profound misogyny, however. We crossed quietly to the far end of the temple, and my friend, the one whose betrayal was premeditated, made various comments that I found impressive at the time, but now no, we're rehearsing remarks made us strengthen my trust in him. Had he not presented himself in a trustworthy authority, second to the professor on the ancient temple and its bizarreness, I probably would have left

before the ritual could be completed, and their plans would have failed. In the nadir of the temple, the far-flung corridor has, through time, declined somewhat steeply into the earth, we found a curiously reddened artifact atop a short, unremarkable altar, which the professor confidently called the skull fragment of the sanguine one. My traitorous friend, Oscar, then gave a supplemental anecdote, saying that it was the only surviving relic of an ultraterine prodigiously inimical demon, who was allegedly the most powerful pupil of the black horologist, whose existence and powers are allegedly mythically immune to the ordering of time.

The Sanguine One My body's unwelcome but irremovable greek. learned from his Attenborough master many sorceries of a cosmic and deplorably satanic measure with probably the most profane having been the sacrilegious art of necromancy the rearing and subsequent misuse of the dead

how the sanguine one came to meet such a pitifully fractured end was not shared neither of the informed men seemed to know that part of the entity's law but the fragment was recovered at some point by the cult and therefore honoured and celebrated through unmentionable

acts of post-humorous adoration, many of which involved the cruelty-enthused sacrificing of men, women, and even children. Alexander and I listened intently, simultaneously enthralled and chilled by the sheer villainy of the self-fable cult. Before that night, I wasn't particularly religious, hadn't ever gone to church or attended any kind of spiritual gathering. But now, now I can only hope that there exists an equal, if not great, to measure some balancing force

or presence of good to rival the enormity of evil presently bolted to my spine, waiting for its chance to commit its black atrocities with my undead hands. A soft whistle was all that precipitated the act of betrayal while Alexandra studied

some hieroglyph upon the walls when I heard the hammer of a revolver slowly being pulled back. I managed to half turn before the bullet rocketed into the back of my skull and exited through my temple. I had the crack of the shot for a split second after. I went down shouting something like,

What? A dumb expression of incredulity. I heard Alexandra scream, and before my vision faded, I heard Oscar threaten her with a bullet, and Professor Warrington offer his own warning. The aforementioned threat of soul defragmentation, should she do anything but follow their instructions.

With her compliance secured at gunpoint, they instructed Alexandra to remove a portion of my skull and replace it with that of the Sanguine's One. This I learned later on through a sort of transference of consciousness when, upon joining, the Sanguine's one's memories were implanted to my mind. The fragment had somehow retained not only life,

but awareness throughout its buried and fractional existence and perceived my execution with as much sensorial clarity as if the full being had been present to over. see it. Alexandra had to peel away a portion of my skull to make enough room for the sanguine one's cephalic chunk, and in doing so, she nearly vomited into my

unceremoniously exposed brain. It's weird. Even now, I can somehow remember the feeling of the heavy channel air upon my lobes, even though I was very dead by that point, and they say you can't actually feel anything on the surface of the brain itself.

At the completion of the savage cranial transplant, she was then instructed to leave, and to never speak of what happened to anyone. Professor Warrington reminded her once more of the fate that would befall her if she did not do as instructed, and then turned his attention to me, confident that he had sufficiently frightened her. Oscar, being less mature and quite possibly psychopathic, fired her few resounding gunshots into the air, and at these, Alexandra ran off, screaming.

Her terrified shrieks, somehow overriding the ringing shots, echoed bizarrely within the interior of the temple, the slantingly built walls possessing unique and therefore unnerving acoustic properties. Not the first screams to have bounced off those architecturally confounding surfaces. They weren't the last either. I was brought back to a state of wakefulness a few moments later. The recollections from now are my own again, and came to a wobbly awareness with Professor Warrington, an Oscar kneeling before me.

I remember laughing at the sight, had the irony of it, and then abruptly stopping upon hearing how oddly, deeply intoned my voice was. This catural intonation only served to further prostrate my now ex-friend and former teacher, and I realised with a sort of grim clarity

that something darkly transformative had occurred during my brief period of brain death. Professor Warrington, ignorant of the miraculous renewal of my consciousness, offered a few words of reverence, and then, shockingly, confessed himself to be, to have been for years, a follower of the sanguine one. Oscar likewise confessed to his fellowship, and after a few more utterances of praise, during which I remained broodingly, appropriately silent, they threw themselves face first under the dusty, bloodstained floor,

and begged me for the opportunity to herald my coming. With my voice still modulated, as if pitched to the pipes of some deeply sirenous organ, I, with convincing verbal grandiosity, gave them the permission they had so empathetically asked for. It seemed, in the moment, the best thing to do, considering the presence of the revolver. Still on their bellies, they rejoiced, and then, rising to the knees,

performed odd and highly theatrical gestures with their arms and heads, to which I responded with a slight nod. Satisfied, they asked what I would first have them do, as my first servants of this, soon to be, subjugated era, and I told them to go out and inform the local authorities of my resurrection, and explain in detail how exactly they had facilitated my return. To this they clapped their hands and offered more praise, and before I found myself rushing at them in irritation, I dismissed them.

Even as they departed to confess their crimes, they extolled my black and brilliance. I thought it would be fitting for them to watch. willingly confessed their murder, and released attempted murder, for even if they weren't believed, they'd still be held for questioning once Alexandra was contacted and corroborated their stories. When they'd left the fane, I found myself walking toward the left, facing from the altar whereupon we had found the school fragment, wing of the cross, with no conscious intention in mind. But upon reaching the first of many precesses, wherein were held the bodies of the cultists, A sudden feeling overcame me, not dissimilar in discomfort to a vicious migraine.

Reeling, I barely managed to catch myself on the almost insupportable smooth walls and only prevented myself from falling onto the floor by kneeling beside the aforementioned burial alcove, which sat at about waist level. I waited for the headache to subside and then peaked in and involuntarily cried out an alarm. For inside, I saw not the hollowed skull of a long-dime. dead acolyte, but a face fully fleshed with piercing black eyes, and lips curled into the most malignant grin you'd ever see on a human face. Astarnished, I fell back onto my butt, and the impact of my phone, which had been in my back pocket at the time, but is now presently

my hand, caused a metallic clink that resounded with startling audibility in the stuffy room. A moment later, there came a chorus of rustling sounds, and of throats, dried by centuries of disuse, being cleared and rewetted. The combined sounds were deeply unsettling, and I knew at once what they collectively meant. I, or more specifically, my phone, had somehow reawakened the death-immune cultists. The stirrings of these long-entombed preto-humans caused within me a sort of responsive reaction. I felt the return of that headache, and before I could do something to relieve it, I was brought to the floor from the sheer pain of the cranial pulsarer.

My eyes began to water, and I felt an immense, decidedly alien pressure arise within my skull, until I found myself howling, howling madly, my voice rising above the gasps, groaning, and terrifyingly coherent murmurs of the reviving cultists. I think I might have even prayed for death at one point. The pain was just that awful, that unprecedented for my ordinarily healthy body. When, after a longer period of agony, the pain again subsided. I shook away what I could of its embers and rose the stand on wobbly feet, only to find myself suddenly facing an ensemblege of ancient, though very much alive, cultists.

They all wore the same outfit, crimson vestments girdled at the waist by black-tasseled ropes, though all were varied in their oppression of age. I surmised then that they had not died altogether, as many organisations like these seemed to, but individually, gradually, gradually, with the fallen brought to the tomb and stored within the alcoves but they're still living cohorts. I have no shame in admitting that I was incredibly, unbelievably terrified and might have dampened my groin area of my otherwise dust-coated pants. After all, I had only minutes ago heard the barbaric crimes against all manner of men.

To see them before me was a sight so utterly frightening that I, forgetting with whose power I was endowed, screamed a second time. But to the cultists who had not uttered a word upon fully gathering, my scream of terror must have sounded like some authoritative, though beastial declaration. They straighten their death-larch postures at once, and arranged themselves impressively before me in rank upon rank of evil formation. Inexpressibly disturbed, it also somewhat impressed, considering their assuredly moulded muscles and bones. I stood a little straight to myself, as befitting a demonian leader as. the head of his infernal horde. Seemingly awaiting some command of proclamation,

they silently and inexpressively stared at me with their black pupil eyes and mottled faces, and I found myself impelled by some internal force to speak to them. With words I didn't consciously form, but drew from some alien sapiens parasitically joined to my own. I spoke to those accursed servitors, who in turn listen hungrily,

though quietly. These were the words, more or less. Together, my children, we will flood this era cities with the blood of their inhabitants, and take for our plunder the hearts of every man, woman and babe, sparing no one, leaving nothing unstained, nothing unsanguinated. I have watched from the depths of this fallen temple. This world and his people live free of fear, go about their insignificant lives oblivious to the ultraterine horrors

that cause malignantly through the cosmos beyond their planet. Today they will be properly educated Tomorrow they will be exterminated The age of men will come to a swift and bloody end And in its place I will usher in a never-ending epoch of ensangination I will bleed this world dry This and every world

Until naught but lifeless husks remain Admits the cosmos Unshackled from their stars Left to list forever more Through the pitch black gulfs Together my choice children, we will prove ourselves worthy of transcendence into the black horologist realm, the sidereal, paratemporal garden beyond the grasps of time.

For response, the undead flock muttered her cloutive gasp, a deathly exhalation of excitement that made me inwardly recoil. Still, under the influence of that sinister indwelling spirit, I turned and proudly marched across the cross-section, and, with some necromanic word, raised from their more Liam's slumber the other half of the cultists. I gave them more or less the same, evilly prophetic speech,

and received from them a similarly baleful response of joyous gasping. With my congregation fully mustered, I, the being inside me, led them back toward the altar, on which the school fragment had rested, and with a series of unrepeatable lyrics, summoned from the cycle's accumulated dust and corruption,

a sort of fleshy totem from the temple's floor, The altar, the head of the totem, rose ceiling wood, and beneath it came a column, comprised, or merely wrapped in human skin, from which protruded several yellowed objects that were plainly bones, presumably from long-dead sacrificial victims. With the entity now in near full control of my body, my hands went to one of the bones, a particularly sallow femur, and pulled it down in a lever-like motion. From behind me came a sound, oddly mechanistic. and shrill, and upon turning, I saw, incredibly, the flood splitting apart. As the two great longitudinal slabs parted, my cold-hearted votaries gathered themselves in equal divisions on either receding side, so that a two-fold audience gazed upon the darkness between them. Finally, the floor ceased his parting, leaving two shelves on either side

of a long stretch of voidness, with the two hars occultists standing densely on either side. saying a few more incontory words, I raised my hands and a light, read an evil, suddenly filled the chasm. The courtists then took on the diabolic, heart-stilling chant, and together we recited some song of extreme wickedness, became a choir out of some theatre of hell. We ceased our lyrical chanting and lowered our hands

when an unsettling viscous fluid rose nearly to the rim of the chasm. I hoped that it wasn't blood, but some inner voice, which before had yet to acknowledge me confirmed that it was. It was unbearably sardonic and told me, in no kind words, that I would watch my loved ones drown in the sea of crimson malignant that submerged in this incurably toxic blood they would writhe in the deepest agony until naught but their atoms remained.

And upon their deaths, their own blood will be added to that inimical concoction cellularly repurposed to become likewise toxic. The infernal sea replenished by the barestished by the bowels. blood of his victims. The thoughts of my family dying in such an excruciating and blasphemous way stirred something within me. Unconsciously,

but powerfully, I caught forth some remnants of human strength that hadn't been blasted from my being by the presence of the demon and its horrors. And using this, I managed to regain a semblance of control of my doubly insouled body. With titanic effort, I wrestled control

away from the incubus, and with my voice still modulated by its own, I gave a command for the cultists to march themselves under the steaming sanguineous chasm. I didn't have time to give some epic and verbose pronouncement. Could feel, even as I uttered this short command, the demon wrestling madly with my briefly emboldered spirit. The cultists looked to one another with an almost childlike uncertainty, as if to find assurance in the dry orbs and gaunt faces their compatriots. Struggling, I shouted out the command again,

and silently thank the demon. for his monstrously booming voice, even as he rained spectral blows upon my soul. All doubt and ideas of insubordination immediately vacated the cultist's minds at the repetition of my command, and one by one they stepped forward to suicidally plunge themselves into that simmering tract of blood. They leapt forward in silent thraldom, and, even as their forms were bloodily consumed and turned molten to intermingle with a spume, they remained silent and during the hellish end with a deathly solemnity. The demon within me roared in anger, and I found it odd, and then amusing that a being of such grand iniquity

would need such a flock of undead and dim-witted followers to achieve his goals. When the last had thrown himself headlong into the sea, its surface now frothing redly, I turned and in a moment of bleak ingenuity, plucked from the bone totem an object I had taken notice of earlier. Kneeling at the head of the pit, I dipped the object into the foul liquid and then rose with it fairly coated in the blood slush. Turning, I pushed up the bone lever, closing the floors over the chasm. With a sanguine sea now hidden away, I held the dripping object out before me,

so that the demon could see through my eyes the coming of his end. I felt its abominable roars reverberated my skull, as if I'd made them myself, and laughed mockingly in response. Then, without any sort of speech or chance for a change of mind, I plunged the object, a simple blade of bone into my chest, meaning to pierce my heart. But the demon at the final moment wrestled control from me, and diverted the blade's course to have it pierced just beneath my heart. A blow that would have nonetheless been fatal, had I been a normal human. But the demon's fortifying spirit saved me from death.

With my demise now forestalled for quite some time, I sit here, leaning against the totem of flesh, surrounded by dust and the lingering mists of that unwholesome sea, inhaling the tombunk of this decrepit temple. The demon, defeated but not deterred, sleeps within me, awaiting my death. I've saved the world from a truly nightmarish end, paying the price of my life in the process. It is a perfectly acceptable transaction,

as far as I'm concerned. I've told all there is the tell. My phone's battery will die soon. I will post his tale and hope that his readers will take it as a warning, not to delve into the dark and forgotten places of the earth, not to plume their sepulchral depths, the mysteries and horrors of bygone years,

lest they awakened something that wasn't dead, but merely slumbering.