CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I Bought a Creepy Painting on an Online Auction. There's Something Wrong with it" Creepypasta

Episode Date: September 22, 2021

AUTHOR'S BOOK. CHECK IT OUT-►US https://www.amazon.com/Beneath-Asylum...►UK https://www.amazon.co.uk/Beneath-Asyl...CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Jgrupe: 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►Francesco Sala: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/RY...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-

I've always loved creepy stuff. It started off with horror books, reading goosebumps in elementary school, later graduating under Stephen King, Shirley Jackson and a myriad of others. Eventually I started writing my own scary stuff, mostly because I wanted to create stories that I would want to read myself as a horror fan. After about a decade, I got to be marginally successful, and now it's how I pay the bills. I never thought my life would turn into a horror story though. How ironic is that.

Some people decorate their houses with colorful vases stuffed with flowers, normal rockwell paintings, knick-knacks, and crystal sculptures of dolphins and fairy princesses. I prefer to cover my walls with freaky drawings, paintings and prints of artworks by Francisco Goya, Anthony Christopher and Salvador Dali. The weirder and darker, the better. I like my art the same as I like my novel,

horrifying and unsettling. So, when my friend Marcus sent me a text with the title, check out this painting of a creepy old lady, I laughed and clicked the link without too much thought. I was redirected to an obscure foreign site where old and new paintings were being sold in a never-ending online auction. I hadn't heard of the auction company before,

but that didn't stop me from pulling out my credit card as soon as I saw the image that had been shared with me. A woman's hypnotic and bizarre face stared back at me, looking lifelike and yet utterly surrealistic, not to mention terrifying. Her pupils were too big and too black, her smiles stretched too wide like a Dr. Zeus drawing, but devoid of any kind of good humour. It was a portrait of an elderly woman who appeared to be in her 70s or 80s. She was dressed in dark, monastic-looking clothing, which I guessed to be a couple hundred years old.

I figured it was a reproduction of an older painting since the price tag was only $50. The style similar to Renaissance painting, the brushstrokes well hidden, her face photographically realistic as if painted by an old world master. The woman in the painting was sitting on an antique wooden chair

with embellishments carved into the post of the backrest. Her eyes seemed to follow me and looked back at me maliciously. The impression I got was that she was a real person staring back at me through the portrait, like glancing through a window and seeing the face of an unknown stranger standing just outside. I felt as if she could reach through the screen and grab hold of me if she wanted to. Without hesitating, I put in my credit card details

before somebody else could buy it. The thing was just too weird to pass up. After a week or so of waiting, the parcel arrived on my doorstep. I had semi-forgotten about it by that point, since I had been busy with other things. But as soon as I saw its distinctive flat, rectangular shape wrapped in brown parcel paper, I remembered my impulse purchase and brought it inside with giddy delight, happy to unwrap it right away. As soon as I had opened it, my heart dropped and I felt sick. I had rarely felt by his remorse, but I definitely did

when I looked at the woman's face staring back at me. She looked alive. and she looked undeniably evil. I couldn't explain why I felt that way, but I did. The idea of hanging the thing in my wall repulsed me. Just touching it felt like picking up a handful of maggots. It made my skin crawl. After putting it down, I wanted nothing more than to get rid of it,

but it felt wrong just to throw it in the garbage. I've never been that type of person, especially with art. It didn't matter how creepy it was. was, someone had put a lot of time and effort into it, yet it was far too disturbing to hang up on the wall in the living room where I'd see it all the time. More than just disturbing, I seemed to be having a physical reaction to it like I never felt before, a growing knot in my stomach and a rising sensation in my gorge. I went into the kitchen and took the oven mitts from on top of the fridge, baked the portrait up with him and held it out in front of me as if it was radioactive.

I brought it down to the basement of my house and set the giant frame down against the wall of the floor thinking I would leave it there for a while until I get used to it telling myself out of sight, out of mind. There was no way to get it out of my thoughts though. I kept seeing the woman's face every time I blinked, her glassy black eyes and two wide grin.

I couldn't sleep that night, thinking about her down below me in the basement. I felt like I could almost must hear him moving around down there. The gentle creek of a footsteps stepping quietly across the floorboards. But that was impossible, I told myself. Those things were impossible. Still, I didn't sleep. Not even for a second. The following night, I went down to the basement to do laundry, after building up the courage all day to go down there, and I walked past the painting. The woman's stern black eyes seemed to follow me as I went by. Her entire body was

cloaked in shadow, the gloomy details of a face barely visible in the portrait's low light. It was late at night and I lived at home, so I was more than a bit freaked out when I heard something loudly topple over when I turned my back to her, causing a shiver to run up my spine. I dropped the laundry basket and spun around to look. She was staring at me from her place in the portrait. She had not moved, and yet her eyes seemed to be following me. The faintest movement barely noticeable by the naked eye. There was something else, too.

A box had toppled over, spilling its contents on the chair beside the painting. And yet, I had not stepped anywhere near enough to disturb it. The woman's smiles seemed to have grown wider as well. Crooked teeth started to beak out from underneath her broken, bloody lips. Had those looked like that before? But maybe that was just my imagination. I decided not to look closer. I imagined her suddenly climbing out of the painting

as I leaned in to inspect it, crawling out of the frame like the girl in the ring, and racing towards me quickly in all fours. Shaking that image out to my head, I picked up the bin again and reluctantly turned away. I quickly put the laundry in the washing machine and turned it on, then walked past her again on my way back upstairs.

There was no mistaking it. Her grin had stretched, wider, and beneath that, I saw a long row of teeth, dirty, crooked, and utterly inhuman. I was very sure it hadn't looked like that before. Was I seen things due to my lack of sleep? I wiped my eyes and blinked, examining the painting again. No teeth, and yet I'd been so sure a second earlier. When I able to stand looking at it for one more moment, I decided to do something.

My heart was beating rapidly in my chest, and my hand was shaking as I reached down and flipped the painting around so that it faced the wall. Her smile seemed to shrink a little bit. Her eyes following my hand, brows furrowing, and she looked up at me, reaching over to grab the top of the picture frame. My skin crawled when I touched it. I fought through the urge to wretch and spun it around quickly, as if it would burn me if I held onto it for too long. When she was facing the wall, I felt no better, only more uneasy, as if I had turned my back on a deadly enemy. Again, that night, I heard someone in the basement moving around, walking from room to room. I was just glad she didn't come up the stairs, but I had the feeling she would, and soon.

That whole night I stayed awake, listening for the footsteps. Every so often I would hear them, and it would. Every so often there would be a titter of muffled laughter, bemused and unsettling. The next morning I called a friend over. I needed someone else to look at it, to make me feel less alone, I suppose. I was hoping the presence of another person would make things better somehow. But, I was wrong. My friend Brent came by, and I brought him down to the basement immediately.

He took one look at the painting, which was now, mysterious. seriously tipped over, facing upwards, then walked straight out of the room, saying, Nope. He went back up the stairs and out the front door of the house, much to my amazement. I followed him and stood with him on the front steps. Brent was out there with his hands on his knees, bent over and looking oddly out of breath. But then I realised he wasn't just short on breath. He was completely terrified.

Where the hell is you get that thing? He asked. His speech fast and stuttering. You can't keep it. You can't. It's evil, possessed. He looked right at me. How can you sleep with that thing in your house?

Brent hadn't stuttered since back in elementary school, except the odd time when he was really stressed out. He'd seen speech language experts for years and had eventually cured himself with that speech disorder. It only came out when he was really upset. I haven't I haven't I haven't stepped a wink since I got that thing

He looked me dead in the eyes Get rid of it I told him I would With every intention of throwing it in the trash Or burning it after he left But for some strange reason I couldn't I decided I had to do something with it first

I had to find out Some answers The next day After another restless night of tossing and turning I brought the painting out to my car. We were going to go for a little drive together. I'd wrapped it up in a blanket and the portrait was covered up so nobody could see it.

Mostly because I didn't want to look at it, especially while I was driving. There was an art expert about a two hours drive away from my house. I looked him up online and found he was a well-established authority and all things creepy and disturbing. It had taken a while to find someone with this reputation. the better part of the previous day, in fact. While I drove, I looked back at the painting in the rearview mirror occasionally.

From underneath the blankets, I could have sworn I saw subtle movement. The bend and ripple of the sheet kept catching my eye and distracting me from the road ahead. It could have been the wind. But it wasn't. I was certain of it. You've got yourself quite an antique by the looks of it, the man said, beginning to pull back the blanket. it to reveal the gilded frame.

I realized I was holding my breath, closing my eyes, waiting for his reaction when he saw the horrifying woman in the portrait. But when he finally gasped in astonishment, I realized it was not a fearful sound, but one of admiration.

Remarkable. Opening my eyes, I looked at what he was seeing. The face of the woman in the portrait was not the same. I did a double take and wondered for a moment if he had switched them out while I wasn't paying attention. But no, it was the same frame, the same woman in the portrait, only her expression had changed remarkably.

Instead of the horrifying smile, she now wore a benign look on her face, a passive, good-natured smirk that I was unaccustomed to seeing on her. Magnificent, Kiaroscuro. That's a technique which involves heavy-handed use of shadows and darkness with little light, in case you aren't familiar. But the brush strokes, my goodness, utterly invisible, he said, holding up a loop to examine it closely. It looks as if she's alive. Someone went to a lot of trouble to make this.

Do you have the provenance? The pro what? I should have known the word. Did, in fact, but was far too tired to remember what it meant at that moment. I'd now gone nearly four full days without any sleep, I was dead in my feet. Any idea of its origins, or its age? No, sorry.

I got it online at this site, I said, pulling out my phone and trying to show him. But the website no longer existed as far as I could tell. Weird, I guess it's down right now. I'll send you the URL. He thought about it for a few minutes, going over the painting with various tools and magnifying lenses. Ah, here's something, he said excitedly.

What's that? I asked. Damn, I can see only part of the signature. I'll have to take it out of the frame. Can you leave it with me until tomorrow? I agreed, unsure of how to explain to him the situation, other than to say, be careful with it. The art expert didn't pick up the phone the following day, and I thought maybe you just needed more time with a piece.

But instead, I knew something was very wrong already. I'd slept for the first. time in four nights though, no longer hearing the footsteps creaking on the floorboards beneath me anymore, and I wanted one more night of peace before hearing the truth for the man I'd left the picture with. Selfish, I know. In retrospect, I was just terrified to go back there. Who knew what I would find?

After one more night of rest, I called the art expert again, and once more I received no answer, no call back. worried for the old guy now, I got in my car and started driving first thing in the morning. I didn't eat breakfast, feeling like I would throw it up if I did. Despite the lack of food in my belly, it felt like there was a cinder block sitting inside of it the whole drive there. I just hoped he was okay. When I arrived at the man's studio, I found the front door was unlocked. I entered the small foyer and found it dark and empty inside. He did not come out to greet me this time, and the sense of dread I was feeling continued to grow and swell inside of me.

With slow, careful steps, I began to walk through the foyer towards the door where his studio was kept. That was where I'd last left him, and I hoped that I would open the door to find him standing there working on something. I no longer cared about the painting. In fact, I hoped he had destroyed it in my absence. That way, I wouldn't have to do it. The last two nights had given me a clearer mind, and the sleep had afforded me perspective and insight into the situation. The thing had to be destroyed, but it had some power over me which had prevented me from doing so. I had been tricked into hanging onto it and showing it to more and more people.

Pushing open the doormarked studio, I went inside the next dark room. Hello? I called out into the blackened space. A soft gurgling noise responded. It sounded bubbly and wet. I reached over to turn on the light, but found it no longer worked. The room stayed drenched in darkness. And then I heard the same familiar titter of laughter I had heard from my basement.

Her. My heart now pounding in my chest, I swallowed a dry lump in my throat. Reaching from my phone, I pulled it out and tried with trembling fingers to turn on the flashlight app. My hands were shaking so badly I dropped the phone. I bent down to pick it up and heard movement in the darkness. It was getting closer. There was another sound as well, a soft, drip, drip, drip, drip, like a leaky roof, only coming from several different places.

Picking up the phone from the floor, I managed to unlock it as if I felt a presence move past me in the darkness. The air around me suddenly felt cold as a winter's night, and I found myself shamed. shivering and shaking even more as I finally got the flashlight turned on. The light came on, casting the room in its harsh white glow. Kierras Kuro A grotesque sort of art exhibit had been created in the studio, but not by the resident art expert who I had met two days prior. No, he had not made this monstrosity,

but he was certainly part of it. The whole room was filled with his entrails, strung up and down and across the perimeter like party streamers. He was at the centre of it all. His body had been disemboweled and his guts had been pulled out and wrapped around the room. His limbs had been removed as well, but were nowhere to be seen. That was when I saw the most horrifying part. He was still somehow alive.

His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, his skin partially missing from his face, revealing stark white bone beneath, ligaments and tendons. Came from his mouth, and I noticed his tongue had been removed as well, and blood was pouring out, causing him to cough and choke occasionally. The walls have been painted with his blood, which was everywhere. Various symbols which I did not recognise were on every inch of the room, ceilings, floors and walls. They looked druidic and ancient, their meanings unknown to me.

As I looked around, I remember the noise I'd heard by the door. I spun and saw her standing there in the darkness, the woman from the painting. She was dressed in a dark robe and a grin was wider than ever, large and open with silent laughter. Blood was smeared around her mouth. In her hand, she held the painting itself, only she was no longer in it. The background was black and empty, now missing its subject. Realising suddenly what was happening, I noticed that her entrancing eyes were coming towards me. She was coming towards me.

How long had I been standing there, zoned out? The only thing which snapped me out of it was the gurgling screams of the art expert, sounding desperate and terrified. She held the picture frame out in front of her as if to capture me in it. My heart beating fast, I did the only thing I could think to do. I shone the flashlight straight in her eyes. hoping he would be a weakness. A creature born of the shadows

and of the darkness. I thought maybe the light would do something to stop her. It worked. The second the glare hit her eyes, she put her hands up to shield her face, covering it with a picture frame, but her hands continued to burn and sizzle like a vampire in the sun.

Still, she continued moving towards me. Terrified, I backed up, tripping over a chair and falling to the floor. The phone fell from her hand and clasped. He started away in the direction of the art expert. His face was lit up, looking at me in his harsh glow. Vah smitch, he yelled, struggling to speak without a tongue, looking close to death from blood loss.

He was looking at the wall, and I could see a light switch there. Struggling to my feet, I saw she was nearly on top of me, and I heard her quietly whispering some sort of prayer or chant under her breath. I took away just as she brought down the portrait where my head was a moment before. I had the feeling if I hadn't gotten out of the way I would be stuck inside that painting now just like she had been.

In the dull light I managed to find the light switch on the nearby wall with my hand and flicked it on casting the entire room in harsh white artificial light. The woman in the painting screamed her skin boiling and steaming in the glow of the fluorescence boils and blisters bloomed and burst on her skin,

pus and blood running out in rivulets. Covering her face with the robes, she ran to the door and fled, just as she was about to catch fire, judging by the looks of it. I hope she would leave, but she didn't. Her footsteps stopped just outside the door.

She's still out there in the foyer, waiting for me in the darkness, waiting for the sun to go down, waiting for me to try and leave. I can hear her pacing as she waits for me to come out, the next subject for a painting. The art expert is dead now. He stopped breathing a few minutes ago.

It's just me left, with his blood and guts strewn around the room and strung up like a giant intestinal spider web all around me. The drip, drip, drip, begins to slow down as his blood coagulates, and the blood-painted symbols on the walls begin to move and shift and morph as the one working for the rest of the bulb in the room flickers and suddenly goes out, I really wish I just burned that damn painting.