CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I stole a sheep from the Baba Yaga. I have been punished accordingly" Creepypasta

Episode Date: February 10, 2021

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This story is part of the long-legged universe. If you want to see the full playlist, click the link in the description, top comment or card on screen. For years, my soul has been heavy with guilt and fear. For countless nights, I've stayed dreamless, questioning whether my transgression could ever be forgiven. I've spoken to the village priest. I have kneeled down in the confessional,

yet, whenever the time for me to pass forgiveness from God comes. I cannot speak. I cannot verbalise the nature of my sin. So instead, I come here to this corner of the world made of wire and screens. Perhaps by sharing my story with the faceless choir of the internet, I will be able to find some amount of respite. I sincerely hope that by confessing to the masses, I will be able to rid myself of some of the guilt.

But I know that even if I forgive myself for what I have done, the fear of what I have brought into the world, will never let me leave. I have stolen a sheep from the Baba Yaga, and I've been punished accordingly. For most of my adult life, I was employed as a construction worker in Austria. The pay was better than anything I could get back in the village.

Work came in manageable bursts, and during the winters I could rest back in eastern Slovakia with my wife. We were trying for a child. We were hopeful for the future. One misplaced steel beam skewed all of that. After the surgeries and after the recuperation, I could work, but no construction would hire a cripple. There were our jobs around the village, and my wife had taken to sell in woolen hats on the internet, but most folk in rural Slovakia are handy with a hammer, and one cannot feed a family with hats.

Our savings got us through the first winter, and the charity of our neighbours made sure we never went hungry. But time was running out. A second winter approached, and our neighbour's graces wasn't infinite. Every moment of my life, an alarm clock counted down above my head, steadily leaking dread. It is with that, invisible clock, just a couple ticks away from my family going hungry, that I met the sheep. I was hobbling in the forest when I found it. Perhaps I was there to clear my mind, or maybe I was convinced that with enough walking I could cure myself.

But regardless of what thoughts were drifting through my mind, as soon as I saw the sheep, my attention was singular. The animal stood opposite me on the dirt path A judoff road dangled off his neck And its eyes are as dumb as those of any other barnyard animal But there was something about the sheep's wool That made the rest of the forest disappear Without a second thought

I made my way up to the creature And stroked its fur Like a soft summer wind The wool caressed my palm Somewhere in the cozy embrace of the comfort The thought started to manifest My wife could do wonders with this wall. Bah, the sheep said, as if agreeing with me.

I looked around. We were alone in the forest. There were no witnesses. Yet, before my mind stumbled down that dark path, my eyes drifted toward the rope around the sheep's neck. Someone had the sheep tied up. Someone owned the sheep, and the animal had simply run away. I bit down on my morals, grabbed one end to the rope,

and led the sheep down the path. path to where it came from. I convinced myself that its owners would be happy that I brought the animal back and might even provide a reward. I convinced myself that I was doing the right thing. As we walked, however, I couldn't help but look at the sheep's ears. Neither of them was marked. The sheep did not have an owner, not legally at least. Bah, the sheep said as if agreeing with me. The way from which the sheep had came was not a need of a need of a little. easy one to walk. The path turned jagged and steep, and for a moment I feared that my leg couldn't

handle it, but I pushed on regardless. A voice deep in my mind demanded I'd do the right thing. After a painful climb, I reached the clearing on the top of the hill. Before the sheep in me stood the queerest cottage I'd ever seen. It was built of tile and logs, just like any other home one could see in the village. But the cottage had no front door, no door and stood a couple meters off the ground on top of what looked like a giant chicken leg. In lieu of an entrance, there was a ladder that led up to the base of the home. A rope chewed down to a stub hung from one of the steps. My healthy leg went numb, thinking of how painful the journey up the ladder would be.

Is anyone home? I yelled at the cottage in the sky. I found your sheep. I waited and waited, but there was no response. The rope was beyond. repair and wolves were known to stalk the woods. I figured that the sheep would be safer with me. I convinced myself that taking the sheep back home was the right thing to do. Bah, the sheep said, as if agreeing with me. When I walked inside our cottage, I took the sheep with me. We had no barn to house the animal

in, and I feared that if someone saw the sheep tied up in front of the cottage, they might take us for thieves. hiding the animal in the hallway I went to prepare my wife for our new house guest When I entered she was ecstatic While I was out hobbling in the woods My wife found an antique set of porcelain while cleaning out the attic After a cursory glance online

She tracked down a collector that was willing to part With a hefty sum for the cups I was excited about her money-making opportunity But she was not excited about mine When I opened the door to reveal the animal in the hallway my wife was furious. She told me that I should have left the sheep where it belonged, that I should have stayed away from the strange cottage,

that I should have kept to my own business. Yet, when I convinced her to touch the sheep, when she truly understood the softness of its wool, my wife relented. From those clouds of white, she could make hats fit for a lord, combined with the porcelain money, we could comfortably scrape by through the coming winter.

Bah! The sheep said, as if celebrating with us. For a while, we simply ran our hands through the sheep's wool, bathing in our good fortune. But soon enough, a question slithered into the room. I do not know if it was I or her that verbalised the sentiment, but it was in the air long before it was said. How much can you sell a sheep for? Bah, the sheep said, as if it too found the question interesting. At first, my wife and me simply guessed.

We fantasised about what we could do with a sudden influx of money. Soon enough, however, the yearning for the potential money galvanised into a concrete need. With the hat and porcelain profits, we could scrape by. But if we sold the sheep, we could prosper. That evening, I left my wife alone with our soft houseguest and made my way to the pub. Halshian, the portly general store owner, was quick with a price estimate, but he was even quicker to ask about the sheep. At first, I avoided the topic and told him I was merely curious about the economics of animal husbandry. But, with a couple of plankar shots, he loosened my tongue.

Ah, Furko, you scoundrel! Houshen laughed as I finished whispering my tail. And you say that the sheep isn't marked? And I nodded. Well, aren't you lucky? that I have a cousin with a stamping machine. It would be more than happy to help the sheep find a home. If a small finest fee would be involved, that is...

How much? I asked. Five euros, he said. Nothing steep. It has been a hard year. All I'm looking for is a symbolic price. We'll even help you find a buyer. With a handshake, he was settled. With a handshake, I'd crossed the line from a reluctant good Samaritan to a thief. After a couple shots of Planker, we sat down with the woodsman.

His wife had started raising sheep just a couple months prior. After a couple more shots, we had a buyer. The barkeep kept the blinker shots coming, and the closing time of the pub dragged along into the night. By the time we were finally asked to leave, all of the road lights had been extinguished. With borrowed flashlights, our ethanol-scented crowd started to stagger its way back home.

Even in its drunkenness, the group moved far too fast for my hobbled walk. Soon enough, other beams of light disappeared. Soon enough, it was just me, the village road and the dark forest beyond. After months of worry, I finally found a moment of respite.

In the euphoria of alcohol and sudden financial gain, I found myself happy. Peasant, have you by any chance seen a sheep come through here? The voice of an old woman creaked out of the darkness. That damn animal chewed to the rope that held it. I sensed that it might have come through here.

There was a gentleness in a tone, as if she wasn't calling me a peasant as an insult, but rather as a means of stating a fact. I spun my flashlight searching for the stranger, but found only more darkness. Are you deaf or are you a dumb peasant? The voice asked, its kindness crackling. Have you seen a sheep come through here?

I wanted to say the truth. I wanted to do the right thing and return the stolen sheep. But the alcohol in my breath had different plans. No, I said. I haven't seen any sheep. You must be mistaken. A pinch? Out of nowhere, I've had my arms clasped between two rough fingers.

Liar! She hissed as she squeezed my skin. With my flashlight caught her, I saw her face so grotesque it gave me a fright. Her face was old, desperately old. Her skin sagged like that of a melted sculpture. And the thin wisps of white on a scalp seemed like nothing but a memory of hair, but it was her eyebrows that truly terrified me. On the wrinkled pale face, they stood sharp and red and defiant.

I know you stole my sheep peasant, the hag said, smiling with a few teeth she had left. There is no need to lie to me. I know all and I forgive all. For a price. The hag cackled. each rasping breath of air shaking her stout body Even though the flashlight was bright when I left the pub It started to flicker

It was as if it refused to be part of the bargain As if the business of the sheep Was purely concerning me and the darkness beyond What is the price? I asked cautiously Oh peasant The price Is a single kiss

I am but an old woman Who misses the affections of hand and men, I will happily trade the animal for a memory of the past. I took a step back. My leg groaned the same way it did before a thunderstorm. No, I said. I have not seen a sheep and I will not kiss you. I wish you a good night, auntie. I moved away from the mad hag as fast as I could, but a voice continued to creak through the darkness. Silly peasant, she said, a voice turning cold. A lie has short leg, but the punishment for one does not.

You may never forget your transgression. May you never forget that you are a liar and a thief? May you never forgive yourself for rejecting my advances. I curse you, peasant, I curse you and everyone that you care for. May the whole village suffer for your misdeeds. The hag's voice echoed through my head all the way to my front door. Yet when I came home, I did not tell my wife. The hag's disfigured face, the strange eyebrows, her cruel words.

It was all still sitting in my mind, and I could not bring myself to verbalise my worries. I also didn't want to worry her. The potential of the antique porcelain and the wall and the money from the sheep. It all made her so happy, so hopeful. I did not want to take that hope away. She tried to lure me in the bedroom with soft whispers, but my mind was far too scattered for romance and my body was in no shape for love. Instead of joining my wife in bed, I stayed in the living.

room with our stolen, woolen house guest, and the antique porcelain. It had been a long day, and there was plenty to consider. Yet, as I sat there, with nothing but the crackling of the fireplace to keep me company, I started to relax. I'd woken up that morning as a man who feared the inevitable hunger that comes with poverty. But, through a cascade of circumstance, I knew that the ticking clock above my head had been pushed back. With the antique porcelain, we would be able to put food on the table.

table, and if I never told anyone about the hag, the sheep could still be sold to the woodsman. My life had taken an absurd turn, but sitting there in the dim light of my cottage, I knew things would get better. Bah, the sheep said, as if, disagreeing with me, the creature was staring straight at me, but the barnyard dumbness in his eyes had drifted off and given way for a wholly different look. It was only through the flickers of the fireplace that I could see the sheep, but the emotion in its eyes was unmistakable. Behind the animal's slitted eyes, there was a raging, never-ending source of hatred. The sheep screamed as it started to lumber towards me.

The animal no longer trotted like it did on the forest path. Its legs moved clumsily on the wooden floor, as if they were foreign to the animal. With a gust of light from the fireplace, I realized. they were. The sheep was no longer standing on its whole sheep legs. Instead, the animal's woollen body was balancing on a steadily growing set of fleshy slit. Baa! The sheep screamed, revealing a set of dull teeth and a dark rolling tongue. With eyes in my veins, I simply rolled off the couch and moved towards the back door. What I was looking at was no longer a sheep. What was looking back at me meant me harm. Yet somewhere in my terrified mind,

I hoped that if I opened the door, if I allow the creature to escape, that I would be left unharmed. The outside world breezed in through the open door. The stumbling beast stopped and regarded the forest beyond the cottage. Its legs continued to grow, but the animal didn't take another step. Baa! it screamed, and then it craned its neck towards the open door. For a moment, the animal simply shook. Its woolen body heaving with effort. but as the beast continued to strain its neck, its body once again started to change.

At first, the growth came in small, staggered bursts, as if the sheep's neck was a tangled rope being pulled out of a well. But soon enough, the stretching of the neck became constant. The beast's malformed body was starting to press up against the ceiling of the cottage, yet its horrible moor was hanging out of the back door. Bra, the creature screamed out into the dark forest. I backed up against the hallway, eager to make my escape. Yet, as soon as I touched the door, the creature before me booked.

For a split second, I registered the sound of broken porcelain, but that tragedy became quickly irrelevant. The tall-legged beast stood directly in front of me. Its horrible jowls descended towards me. The lock in the animal's eyes was unmistakable. It wanted me. Dead. Bah! The creature roared sending out a torrent of spit that smelled of infection.

The beast's entire body shivered with murderous anticipation. The fluffy woolen coat that had once brought me such comfort had transformed into clumps of mucus-covered hair. The creature dipped onto the wooden floor as it lumbered towards me. Baa! I knew he couldn't run. I knew that my crippled leg wouldn't carry me if I were to attempt to escape from the long-legged beast.

So instead, I chose the heart of the heart of the horse. hide. Like a terrified child I ducked beneath the table and like a naive infant I desperately hoped that the beast would simply leave. For a moment among the broken porcelain and ill-smelling detritus I almost believed

I would be safe. But, I wasn't. The long-necked beast swooped his head down below the table and with one swift motion overturned the piece of furniture. I was lying on the floor in front of the beast that looked like it

belonged in hell itself. The skeletal limbs of the creature braced for attack, its pale grey skin shared the rest of its woolen coat. I was about to be killed by a nightmare made of flesh. Bah! The creature roared, readying its jaws for murder. The universe nearly came to a halt. Before me, I could see the spite-filled eyes of the beast. I could see the wet teeth that were about to tear into my skin.

But I could also see something else. the bristles of a broom I watched as the rough strands of the tool scratched against the beast's wet cruel eyes Ah the Grieja yelled as it wretched his head My wife hit it with a broom again She swung away at it

screaming demanding that the monstrosity Leave her home In a state of pure shock and blindness The Grisha stumbled toward the door Smashed into the wall And then ran out into the wilderness For a moment All we could do was

stare out into the forest beyond. Then, my wife closed the door. I once promised sources of wealth lay in the floor, broken and sticky. For a while, we mourn the loss of a newfound wealth. For a while, we tried to make sense of the madness. But eventually, we stopped talking. There was nothing left to be said. I had brought sin into our home, and we had been punished.

My wife grabbed a broom, grabbed a rag, and we cleaned our floor of any trace of the stolen animal or antique porcelain. Neither of us slept that night. Sleep in general has not been the same since that night. It has been two years since I stole the sheep from that chicken-legged cottage in the woods. Yet I still cannot bring myself the talk about it. I want to let go of the guilt. I want to carry on, but my transgression was not as simple as theft. If I had simply stolen something, I would seek atonement with the priest.

Yet the nature of my sin not only lie in breaking one on the commandments. That raving horror, the monstrosity which ruin my home, it is a being of pure evil, a being I am responsible for bringing into existence. For years my soul has been heavy with guilt and fear. For years I've searched for forgiveness. Yet I know that I will never truly find it. My theft might have been forgotten And the long-knit creature may have been driven away from the village

But I know that somewhere out in the Magura forest The long-legged beast still walks Until it is dead Until I can be sure that it can no longer bring harm to anyone I will never sleep easy