CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I never told another lie after my trip to Lithuania" Creepypasta

Episode Date: September 9, 2020

AUTHOR'S CHANNEL► https://youtu.be/-G1UJRxVV3cCREEPYPASTA STORY►by TimothyNurley: 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- BennyKusnoto:►https://www.artstation.com/bennykusnoto►https://www.deviantart.com/bennykusno...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-

Growing up, I was not a pleasant child. I would often lie. Not big, grandious lies. I wouldn't tell other kids that I had superpowers or that my dad worked for Nintendo. Instead, my lies were sly, underhanded, and full of malice. It started in preschool when I learned that select words had the power to grant my desires. I had that toy first. He pushed me.

I feel sick. She called me names. The grown-ups around me soon grew wise to my trickery, and would give the other children the benefit of the doubt in a dispute. Instead of this teaching me a valuable lesson about being truthful, it instead taught me that I needed to be smarter. Clearly, my lies were not believable enough. At age five, I packed some berries from a bush and squeezed them into my shin.

The berries came from a bush just outside the school fence, and I was able to squeeze my hand through the bars to pick a few. Clutching just above where I crushed the berries, I limped towards my teacher, who was supervising the playground. I told her that another boy had threw a rock at me, and that it had hit my leg. When she sent me to see the school nurse, I instead went to my backpack. I took it from the peg on which it hung, rummaging through for the plasters I'd stolen from my mother's first aid kit that morning. At the end of the day, exiting the school gates, hearing the boy receive a scolding from his father, put a smile upon my face.

It was clear that I had been believed and the teacher had informed the boy's father of his misdeeds. I skipped past the boy, holding my mother's hand, poking my tongue out at him as he was lambasted for the act of violence

he had supposedly committed. When we were a distance away from the boy and his father, my mother turned to me. I saw you poking your tongue out at him, did he really throw a rock at you? She asked. Yeah, mommy, I said.

He did. Look, I have a plaster. I point into my leg. Remember, monsters eat the tongues of little boys who lie, she frowned. Her accent was thick, though mine was non-existent. She had moved here from Eastern Europe before I was born. No they don't, you're lying, I grinned, smugly at her, knowing that I had a beat. My mother just sighed and continued walking alongside me. Years went by, and my lies increased in their elaborateness.

At seven years old, I pressed my hand into the gravel of the school park and placed the blame on the same boy. Another time, I poured water over my head at the bathroom sink and claimed that another boy had given me a swirly. By age nine, I was willing to sustain injury to commit to a lie. My mother and father sent me to a counsellor. I lied to my counsellor, though I'm certain she saw right through it. It doesn't take a genius to work out that a compulsive liar, and a particularly devious one at that, would lie in such a situation. I had been going to counselling for a year, and I had made a lot of progress, in the sense that my lies had become even more undetectable by grown-ups. I knew that I was under close scrutiny, so my lies had to be perfectly undoubtable.

At ten years old, in class, we were tasked with drawing a picture of, of characters from a book that we had just read. I needed the green pencil from the pencil pot on my shared desk. My classmate had the green pencil. Give me the green pencil, I said. I'm using it, she continued colouring.

You can have it after, I'm almost done. I need it now. I lowered my tone, as much as my prepubescent voice would allow. No, I'm using it, she said. I snatched the pencil from my hand. Hey, she cried. I drove the pencil into my own shoulder, piercing through the sleeve of my school uniform.

I cried out in genuine pain, and the class looked over to us. Why would you do that? I yapped at my classmate. My truthful agony creeping into my deceitful voice as I withdrew the pencil from my skin. By now, you have probably gathered that my lies were no longer tools to gain that which I desired. At that point, the lies had become the thing I wanted. No longer were my false words to get something I needed or to get someone I didn't like into trouble. They were horrible little compulsions that I could not help but do.

If it was about personal gain, I could have told the teacher that the girl had taken the pencil from me, but it wasn't about the pencil. I had decided to punish her for not immediately giving me what I wanted. My mother received a call and picked me up from school not long after. That evening, I heard a muffled argument between herself and my father through my bedroom door. She booked two plane tickets to Lithuania. My grandparents' home was a humble farmhouse in the Lithuanian countryside.

It had a cosy attic room, through which the restored masonry of a stonebrick chimney ran. Just outside was an ancient tree, Planted far before my grandparents were the owners of this home. Some of its lower branches rested tentatively against the roof of the farmhouse. Looking back, it was a beautiful work of antiquity that few in this world would be so lucky to spend their time at. At the time, however, I thought it was old and boring. I couldn't watch TV or play video games or do anything fun. My grandfather wouldn't speak to me in English, which irritated me.

I pretended that I couldn't speak Lithuanian, and my mother shouted at me for lying. Shameful boy, my grandfather said in English, shaking his head and walking away, We will put you to work tomorrow. In the daytime, the attic room was illuminated by a skyward window on the sloping wall, a modern addition to the age-old farmhouse. The bright sunlight would caress my body with its warmth as I laid, bored upon the small bed that was positioned in the centre of the room. At night the crescent moon peered over me like a tilted smile,

prying on me as I laid sleepless. The rustling of the great tree unsettled me when I tried to rest, its gentle wrapping against the exterior of my grandparents' home occupying my mind and prohibiting me from drifting into slumber. Luckily, the tree was on the opposite side of the house to the window, so I wasn't subject to the dancing shadows that one would often see in the movies or cartoons. In the morning, I would be awoken by the rooster

that my grandparents, for some reason, decided to keep around. I was given duties, chores and jobs that I never would have been given at home. Collecting eggs, watering crops, brushing the horse. I didn't want to do any of it. When I was asked to feed the chickens, I said I couldn't because I was allergic to the chicken feed. My grandmother made me do it anyway.

When I was asked to pick the tomatoes, I said I couldn't walk around because I had hurt my foot. My grandmother made me do it anyway. When I was asked to refill the horse's trough, I said I couldn't because the water bucket was too heavy. My grandmother, you guessed it, made me do it anyway. It seemed that my no-nonsense grandparents were having none of my antics, and that my mother had informed them of my behavioural issues.

When we were eating our lunch at the dinner table, we spoke in Lithuanian. I see where you've brought him here. My grandfather didn't look up from his plate as he spoke to my mother, talking as though I wasn't there. He is a troubled boy. I'm sorry it has been so long, my mother replied. Not to worry, my grandmother reassured her. You're here now.

It's good to see you. And anyway, I'm sure some hard work will put the boy right. I hope so. My grandfather chewed on his tomato. We know what happens to little boys who lie. I wasn't keen on the food that was prepared for me. There was a noticeable lack of chicken nuggets on my plate. In my glass was some pudry goat's milk, and I refused to drink it.

I spent the rest of the day attempting to make excuses to avoid various chores, none of which worked. Dinner time was much the same as lunch. My elders spoke about me as if I wasn't there, and I forced down a mouthful of horrible slop out of desperate hunger. After our evening meal, my mother and grandmother left to do the washing up, and I was left alone with my grandfather. When I was your age, the Russians were in control of this place, he said.

Cool, I replied in English. No, he frowned, we worked hard, or we went hungry. I didn't respond, so he carried on speaking. The Soviets brought with him nothing but hurt. My brother, may God bring in peace, fought hard against him. With him gone, I was doing all his jobs to help my mother, twice as hard as you were working today, and I never made excuses to get out of it. I sat in silence for a second, confused.

confirming that he was done with his monologue. He sighed at my lack of response. So, what does that have to do with me? I muttered. Let me see your shoulder. Fine. I pull my t-shirt down to show my grandfather

the self-inflicted wound. Why? He crouched by me and held his hand to my shoulder, placing his thumb right beside the scab that had formed on my skin. Your mother told me you did this to yourself I didn't I bloated out The girl next to me stabbed me

I have told two lies in my life My grandfather kept his grip on my shoulder One of them is a lie I have told a few times And it is a lie I may have to tell again What is it? I asked I may tell you tomorrow But know this Over here

little boys who lie do not lie for long. With those words, I was reminded of the story my mother would tell about what monsters would do to little boys that lied. A lie in itself, a story filled with hypocrisy. It aggravated me to no end, and I felt a rage rising inside me. Ow! I screamed. Mom, it hurts!

My voice warbled with sobbing tones as I shouted repeatedly. What happened? My mother came rushing through, seeing my grandfather holding my shoulder. He pushed his thumb into my cut. My grandfather stood, letting go of my shoulder, and gazed downwards at me. My mother was completely aware of exactly what I was doing.

My last stitch attempt to release myself from this hell fell upon deaf ears. She looked at my grandfather with worried eyes. His stay here is much needed. did. My grandfather uttered, his voice laced with a somber gravel that scratched at the back of my neck. I was sent to bed early that night and found myself unable to sleep once more. It took me a good few hours to even become anywhere close to tired, and when I was finally about to fall asleep, the branches of the tree would slam against the roof of the farmhouse. The rest of the house was still, silent, but I could hear the obnoxiously loud, sporadic

slapping and rustling. I noticed, halfway through the night, that despite all the rustling, brushing and slapping, I never heard any wind. I jolted upright and crayed my neck to look through the window at various angles. There, the crescent moon still hung, accompanied by the mid-sections of two thin branches. Two thin branches. The tree didn't have branches that reached that far, They shouldn't be above the window. That much was certain. The branches raised themselves up in unison and brought themselves down on the window. The distinct sound of slamming on glass blared through the room,

followed by that squeaking of something sliding along its surface. The branches left a wet trail along the window as they dragged backwards into the night. As the end of the branches were in sight, I noticed that they each splintered off into five-frags. rail appendages. The fingers clawed at the window as they followed it along behind the receding arms and eventually out of sight. I screamed for my mother, but was met with no response for my family. I got up out of bed and ran to the door, but as I approached it, I had that same tapping upon the wood that it came from the branches on the roof. A set of drumming fingers

musically pattered upon the hardwood door. Panicking, I called out for the head. help again as I dashed behind the chimney masonry, peeking out at the door as a knob twisted back and forth, being fiddled with from the other side. I caught my breath as I hid against the chimney, the stonework cold against my bare skin. I closed my eyes, hoping that I would wake up in my bed, but no such moment came. I waited for someone to come and rescue me, to hear my screams, but nobody came. As the room returned to silence, I let out a subtle sigh of relief.

Perhaps it was gone, I thought. As I enjoyed a moment of solace, I felt the icy, grey stone rumble beneath my back and the grinding sound of rocks sliding against one another. I heard a pop, a slam, and a crack as one of the stones thudded under the floor of the attic, splintering the wood. Out from the hole that had just been made stretched a long, slender arm.

Dark under the shadows of the room, the arm wrapped itself around the chimney. I lurched the way from the masonry so that the hand wouldn't grasp at me. From the corner of the room, I watched in terror as he bowled himself from the brickwork. More bricks came crashing onto the floor, and I screamed for help incessantly as the frail man pulled himself out of the hole that had just been made. My efforts to bring attention to myself were futile. Nobody came no matter how hard I screamed. Facing away from me, the man stepped forward into the moonlight that shone upon the bed.

The white glow draped a wrist-smooth, porcelain-colored head, which gave way to a grey, emaciated body. His outstretched arms reached nearly halfway across the room. His fingertips creaked as they curled and uncurled. His breath was heavy, rasping. In a deep, foreboding growl, he spoke in a language I couldn't understand. Somehow, I instinctively knew what he was saying, like he was relaying the message to me mentally

somehow. Little boys who lie get what they deserve. The bed whelped under him as his large, black boots stumped, his body contorting my way before his feet finalized his turn. swinging above his folded ribs and necklace shimmered. Little milky white teeth basked under the skylight. All the while I continued to scream in vain. Nobody is coming, he approached.

I haven't the strength to relive what happened next. When I awoke the next morning, I was in the living room on an armchair with a blanket wrapped around me. I awoke in a cold sweat and felt around. my mouth, throwing the blanket from myself, as I raised my arms to my face. Everything was fine. It was as if the last night had never happened. I knew that I couldn't have dreamt it. Everything that had happened felt so real, but there was absolutely no indication that the events I so vividly remembered had actually transpired. For the rest of the time we spent at my grandparents' home, I never complained.

I did my chores and made up no excuses. I never said a word about what happened, but it seemingly lingered over the family. Perhaps it was just my sudden change in attitude that created such an atmosphere. After that night, I slept in my mother's bed. I was not allowed to return to the attic. My grandfather claimed that there was a problem with the roof

that needed fixing. It didn't sit right with me. A single thought tickled at the back of my mind. As silly as it might seem, I was certain that he was repairing the chimney.