CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "He only eats the best of us" Creepypasta

Episode Date: October 25, 2023

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Verastahl: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm...AUTHOR'S BOOKS► https://www.amazon.com/stores/Brandon...SITE► https://verastahl.com/SUBREDDIT► https://www.reddit.com/r/Verastahl/YT CHANNEL► / @verastahl7669 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...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

The festival season is Aangbroken, and that betekent mudder. And so, ging Kim to come to comasone.com. On the look at a waterdict tent, a comfortable luget,

oh, so, knus, and Lupeart print regalarze. Miao! Now, now he'll keep Kim not sure of the modder, just like that the dancing,

the modder man there, oh, wait just even, has he now only modder on? Oh, yeah, only mudder. DROG blithe? Goar for.

Find what you need you need to need on Amazon.com. I worked as a social worker for 12 years out on the East Coast. I saw children who were mistreated, women that were abused, and plenty of others that had mental health problems, bad judgment or worse luck. So many people suffering and you get invested and try to help and then have to leave it at the job so it doesn't eat you alive when you go.

And for the most part, I was good at compartmental. But then, five months before I quit and moved across the country, I met a young, traumatized woman. And everything changed. Her name was Hattie McGovern, and she was a college student who had been attacked the night before as she crossed through a park on the way to a neighbourhood. When I saw her, she was on the first day of three days of observation. She had injuries, sure, but they were largely cuts and abrasions to a scalp.

And what she was saying didn't entirely make sense. When we were alone and I was finished telling her about the government services she might benefit from, I asked her if she wanted to talk about what happened. I'd heard enough from the nurse outside to know it would be wild, but I had no idea of the details, until she began to speak in a soft, hoarse voice. She said she'd been halfway through the park, walking at a fast pace

because she planned on taking a shower and then heading back out to meet some friends and was running behind. When she realised an older man was walking next to her, well, not next to her, she said, about 50 feet away, travelling across the grass, stepping over hedges and sidewalks without slowing

or even looking at where he was going. Instead, he was just keeping pace with her, step for step, and staring at her with a wide smile that made him look like a skull between his pale skin and his bald head. This freaked her out, of course, and she began walking faster. She didn't run, she said, because she felt like it was kind of like running from a bear, You shouldn't show weakness or fear, but just get away before things went from weird to bad.

So, she turned to look to where she was going and to see if she saw any people closer than her apartment complex a block away. There was none, and when she looked back to where the man had been, he was gone. That's when she felt her hand plunging into a long, blonde hair and pulling her to the ground. I'd known he was going to be something about her hair. Her injuries, other than a bruise on her throat, and a couple of other scrapes were all in her head. Dozens of oozing places with a strange bald man had held her down and roughly cut off all her hair with a straight razor.

Crying softly, she showed me a picture of her the week before. Long, curly hair, the colour of summer honey, framed her then smiling face. I passed her that didn't know what was about to happen. The version of her before me looked ten years older and broken in some fundamental way. Sniffing back tears, she said that when the man yanked her to the ground, the breath went out of her, but she immediately started trying to get up and get away, that he had grabbed her by the throat and held her back down.

But just for a moment, Just long enough that he could spit in her face. Hattie said it made no sense. But after he did that, she couldn't move anymore, not at all. The girl told me the doctors had tried to say it was shock or fear. But she said that was nonsense. She was paralysed by the thick, foul-smelling wad he'd spat onto her face. And even him producing the straight razor from a hidden pocket.

didn't get her moving again beyond the hammering of her heart. He never said anything, just smiled as he began gripping handfuls of her hair and scraping them off a scalp. I asked her if it hurt, and she gave me a watery laugh. She said that, sure, it did, but that wasn't the worst part. It was feeling so violated and having a part of her taken away. even more than the fear of what he might do to her after that feeling had been the worst

when he had rolled her over to her stomach to cut the rest of her hair off she felt the first tingles of movement starting to come back not enough to really move but some small stirring twitches she decided to wait let it come back more and then try to run when the opportunity came

or he was distracted not that she was just sitting and waiting for him to do whatever he wanted every moment she was tensed to try and fight if she saw the blade coming for her neck or if he tried to take her clothes off she just knew that she couldn't really move or fight yet and she wanted him to either go slow or just stop and leave her alone

he chose the latter when he had cut off the last of her hair he scooped up the pile next to her head and walked a few feet away out of a line of sight. She heard some kind of gasping, choking sound then and while it took all her strength, she managed to turn her head slightly to see what he was doing. He was eating her hair.

All of it. Golden fistfuls were crammed in, one after the other, as he chewed and gasped and choked and swallowed. The sound was disgusting, but seeing it was worse. She said it scared her worse than before,

though she couldn't have said why. And it was then, as she lay frozen and horrified, that the man suddenly let out a gasping groan and toppled over onto the grass. He lay there, twitching for what felt like a minute or two. And though, from her angle, she couldn't see his face,

she felt like he was either having a seizure or choking to death. She hoped for the latter, but didn't dare rely on that. Forcing her limbs to move, she got to her hands and knees and started to crawl out to the street. Everything felt weird and slow, but she started making progress, periodically looking back to see if the man was still out. first time still down and twitching second time he was sitting up and staring at her

it was at this point that she started shaking and crying harder so after waiting a couple of minutes I asked the question to prompt her did he come for her again no she said they looked at each other he gave her another smile

and she started crawling faster while screaming her head off a guy was jogging down the other side of the street and came over to help when she looked back the next time her attacker was gone thank God I said and she nodded in mute agreement

but I could tell there was something more when I asked she paused a long time before shaking her head. You'll just think I'm a crazy liar like they do. I had to reassure her that I wouldn't think any such thing several times before she finally told me the rest when he sat up, when I saw him that last time.

He wasn't bold anymore. He had long, curly hair, blonde hair, just like mine. He ate my hair and stole it from me Over the next couple of months I checked on her case Hattie had moved back to Wisconsin to be with her family and while her physical wounds were healing well enough

She still had emotional issues She was working through from the attack When I called her mental health counsellor At a new college She tried to talk very broadly and not give me any details. But toward the end of the conversation, she did let one slip.

The poor dear, it's so strange how a hair won't grow back. It was another month and a half before I saw the graffiti. I normally took a bus home to just two blocks from my work, but one day my normal bus line was delayed due to an accident,

so I had the choice of paying for a taxi or walking further to a different stop. I picked the latter, and while the neighbourhood I travelled through didn't seem especially rough or dangerous, it was more run down than the places I worked or lived. More closed businesses and um Kent lots and graffiti scattered along the walls here and there.

It was when I was nearing the bus stop that I had to walk under an overpass bridge that had colourful drawings and sayings, insults and boasts. Yet, among that riot of lines and squiggles, one thing stood apart, as though none of the rest wanted to be close to this single line written in simple letters of dark red. He only eats the best of us.

A year earlier, I would have laughed at the line, wondering if it was a social commentary or a line from a movie. But, walking through that patch of shadows as the words burned down at me from above, my mind immediately went to Hattie, and I walked faster until I reached my stop. When I reached it, I looked back, and that's when I saw him, a thin, pale man with long, flowing, blonde hair. I might have let out a little scream right then. I don't remember. I do recall turning back to the street, thinking I needed to call a taxi

or get someone's attention. When I saw the bus turning the corner a block down, and I nearly cried in relief. Running to meet it, I jumped on as soon as the doors opened, and when I looked back, I saw no sign of the man anywhere.

Heart pounding, I scanned my pass and took a seat in the room. the middle of the bus. It was only half full, but the comfort of being around other people, even total strangers, was undeniable. I felt like a gazelle hiding in the herd from a stalking lion. The dramatic flare of the thought made me laugh. Wasn't I overreacting?

Had I really seen the man? Or had I just imagined it because I was tired and taking a strange route that made me uneasy? glancing at my phone I guessed my nearest stop to home would be about 20 minutes away after a moment's debate I set my phone alarm for 15 in case I dozed off though that seemed unlikely

given the panic I'd felt a few moments before I might not ever sleep I woke up to words being spoken right next to my ear you have lovely eyes I jumped in my seat and started to turn around when I froze. The evening had fully come on by now and the windows of the bus were all black

with the growing night outside. In the reflection of the window closest to me, I could not only see myself, but who had spoken to me. It was the old blonde man, leaning against my ear like a whispering lover. In the reflection, my terrified gaze found his milky eyes,

hanging like infected moons above his sickly, sickle smile. He held me with that look for a moment, before rasping out the words again. You have lovely eyes, my fear broke the spell this time, and I jumped out of my seat and rushed to the front, yelling for the driver to let me out. Let me out now, God damn it.

Looking surprised and irritated, he pulled at the curb even as my phone alarm went off. I was just two blocks away now, and I wasn't above running the entire way. So that's exactly what I did. I jumped off the bus as the doors opened, pulling off my heels and running barefoot down the sidewalk for two blocks to my building.

I never looked back the entire time, and it wasn't until I was behind my door and the deadbolt was thrown that I took a breath or dared to look back out through the people. I saw no sign of anyone out there. And when I went to my windows to look for any sign of the old man following me, I found none. Good.

It was maybe a coincidence. But even if it was Hatty's guy, he couldn't have followed me all the way home, not with how fast I was running. There was a knock at the door. stifling another scream, I crept back to the door, not wanting to betray that I was home. Looking back through the peephole, I saw nothing. Maybe it had been a mistake, and the person had realized they had the wrong door and went on.

I waited for a couple of minutes, watching and listening for someone, and there was nothing. It wasn't until I turned to go into the living room that a new knock riddened. turned. This one more rhythmic and familiar. Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock. I gave a shudder as I realised I recognised what that was. Shave and a haircut,

two bits. Byting my lip, I went back to the door and stared out again through the hole. There was still no one out there that I could see. Not that I was about to open the door to fully check. What if they were just standing to the side, waiting for me to crack the door?

I debated calling the police, but I wasn't sure what to tell them, or if they'd even come for something so small. So instead, I called the building's handyman, George, told him I thought a creepy guy might have followed me into the building, and now someone kept knocking on my door. I asked him, did he mind coming up and just see if he saw anything? He sounded sleepy and irritated initially, but when he heard the fear in my voice, he said he'd be right there. Less than five minutes later, there was a new knock on the door.

This time, it was quickly followed by George's voice. Miss Castillo, there's no one out here now. I'm going to double-check the other doors, but I think you're okay. Someone did leave you something out here, though. I unlocked the door and opened it partway. Left something? What? George pushed the item to the crack and handed it to me.

There. That's for you, I guess. I think you're okay. But you'd be careful, okay? There are some bad things out there. I noticed that he said things instead of people. But I let it pass. George, is something wrong.

He looked a little paler as he forced a smile and shook his head, never raising his eyes to me. No, I think everything is okay. Just keep your door locked, okay? And let me know if you have any more trouble. I got to get back downstairs. I thought about reminding him to check the other floors, but then he was gone. Shutting the door back and locking it, I decided it didn't matter. I had a feeling he wasn't going anywhere except down to his own apartment to turn his own deadbolt.

That feeling only grew when I turned on the lights and looked more closely at what had been left for me. Maybe it had been a mocking threat or a warning. But I knew what it felt like, a promise. So, the next day I gave my notice

and moved most of my stuff into an extended stay hotel. Three weeks later, I was driving a moving truck across the country to my new home. The first thing I set out in my new house was the gift I got that night. I hate looking at it, but I need to see it,

be reminded of it, like a head or heartful of scars or the red letter scrawled underneath a bridge. It warns me to see it. never let my guard down, to never assume that the darkness has nothing but empty fear waiting for me in its depths. Even now, I can see it on my mantle, gleaming a dull grey. I think it's made of pewter, and it feels very heavy and old the few times I've been able to make myself touch it. Not that I need to anymore. I still see it when I close my eyes.

A thick-handled metal spoon with a deep, round bowl that tapers to a sharp edge on the outer rim. Not by initial design, but by use of wet stone or a grinder. It's more of a razor now, hard and cold and bitingly thin, shaped for cutting and digging. And I know without checking that if someone would to stick it into it. my eye socket, they get sliced through the lid and scoop out my eyeball like a bit of overripe melon. My hands are shaking as I tell you this. I can't quite look at the mantle any longer, so I look out the window instead. It's not dark yet, but the shadows are growing fatter with each passing morsel of the day. I force myself to keep looking into the deepening twilight,

and some nights I even tell myself I'm not still afraid. But the whisper in my heart is enough bravery or strength. It's the dreadful double-thrum of the gazelle's heart looking out into the darkness. Not looking out of courage, but out of terror and necessity and weak, trembling hope, hope that when we look out into the darkness, nothing looks back or is drawing near.