CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I visited my dying grandfather one last time. I wish I had let the old man rot instead" Creepypasta

Episode Date: February 2, 2021

At the request of my parents, I visited my dying grandfather one last time. I wish I had let the old man rot instead.AUTHOR'S SUBREDDIT► https://www.reddit.com/r/Bryceverse/​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►Metautomata: https://www.deviantart.com/metautomat...​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/CreepsMcPasta​CREEPYPASTA 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-

When my parents invited me over for brunch, I didn't expect to be asked to go to visit my dying grandfather. I knew that he was dying, but I figured that I'd be the last person he'd wanted to see in his final days. He'd never show me any kind of affection. No grandfatherly advice was ever given, no inside jokes ever shared, no parent-angering and mischief encouraging gifts ever snuck into my hand beneath the table at birthday dinners. I'd experienced none of the things I'd come to know about a grandfather-grandson relationship, Learned through books, TV and movies. But my mom swore that he wanted to see me.

And not just have me come visit, but come alone. My parents hadn't been asked to join me in my weekend visit to his house. I loved my parents, especially my mom. No offense to my dad, he's great too. So I agreed, figuring that despite the apathy he had shown me my entire life, I still had a familial duty to uphold. my mom assured me that the visit wouldn't be as bad as I had anticipated and that my grandfather had softened in his old age

that coming to phase's mortality had humbled him I told her that I wasn't worried about not getting along and promised that I tried to have a good time she smiled and I saw how much it meant to her by the tears that gathered in her eyes I knew she and her dad were close that he hadn't married or so much as dated another woman since his wife's death almost two decades ago. That gesture of death-defying faithfulness,

that long-held abstinence had meant so much to her. My dad always said that she loved her mom more than anything and that the old woman's death had seemed to irreparably dampen her spirits. Fortunately, for everyone involved, I had recently been promoted at work and my boss had been kind enough

to give me a short, paid vacation before I started my new position, which was sure to keep me busy and devoid of free time for the foreseeable future. I promised my parents that I would go to my grandfathers later that day, and we finished our food with smiling faces. Later that day, I packed my things. My mom promised me that, regardless of my thoughts at the moment,

I'd eventually want to stay the whole weekend with him. I tried to think of some memory, some nice moment I'd shared with the old man. But, after several minutes of earnest thinking, nothing came to mind. I couldn't recall a single moment in which is cold, almost scornful demeaned, me had been broken.

My dad called me, just as I finished packing. He wished me luck and echoed my mom's promises regarding my grandfather's change in personality. Still, he sounded a bit troubled, as if there was something he wanted to tell me, but couldn't. I would have pressed him to speak his mind, but I wanted to be on the road before dark. There are no streetlights along the roads near my grandfather's woods and closed house, so I only thanked him for the reassurances and promised to text him once I arrived. With everything packed and the house locked, I drove on to my grandfather's house. He lived about an hour away, preferring the less suburban, abundantly silven spaces of Missouri,

presumably so he could brood and grumble in solitude. As I drove, I tried to keep my thoughts light, even as the sky darkened. It would have been easy to allow the darkness to act as a viable testament to my preconceptions about my grandfather and the time I would have. but I suppressed the negativity and thought only about the dying old man who wanted to make amends for 23 years of grand parental indifference I arrived just as a night fully settled

and the moon had beautifully nestled itself amidst the clouds above my grandfather's house casting a few brilliant rays on the loosely shingled roof and the chimney which seemed to have weathered its fair share of storms its bricks faded, dislodged and pockmarked the house appeared deceptively small on the outside

two stories sandwiched together with no structural attachments or supplemental buildings but once inside the place seemed sprawling with many nooks, hallways and curtains concealed recesses and which statues and busts were curiously hidden from view there wasn't really a driveway

more of an intermittently paved path that led from the road all the way to the front of the house I parked my car a few feet away from the porch shouldered the one bag I'd brought and walked to the front door I could hear nothing inside and the single window that overlooked the front yard no yard to speak of

and its thick curtain drawn I wrapped my knuckles on the heavy door five times for good measure not remembering whether or not the old man was hard of hearing a few moments of silence passed then I heard the varied metallic sounds of some absurdly complex mechanism

from the other side of the door the door opened revealing the slightly hunched but broad-shouldered figure of my grandfather There was a fire going in the fireplace of the living room The only source of light visible through the doorway And the outline it gave him was almost sinister The all man's face was grave

Deeply scrutinising Giving him the appearance of a butler Coming to the late night call of some misdirected traveller I smiled and he stepped aside Allowing me to pass across the threshold He closed and locked the door behind me And the metallic noises again rang The locking mechanism firmly secure

I withdrew my phone from my pocket so I could text my dad but my grandfather nudged me and said I asked he here to talk not to watch you fiddle with that device put it in the bowl He hadn't gestured towards anything But before I could ask to what bowl he was referring I saw a carved clay bowl in the table beside the front door Several keys

Organated by a bronze ring sat therein I quickly turned my phone's volume down and placed it in the bowl Then join my grandfather in the living room. He'd taken a seat in one of the two armchairs, each angle towards the fireplace. Its glow filled most of the room, as did its warmth, and I was naturally drawn to it, even though the man beside it would have ordinarily repelled me. I sat in the remaining chair, whose arms and back had had the fabric embroidered with

some aesthetically elaborate design that was unfamiliar to me. The chair was comfortable enough, although, from what I could tell, by quickly studying his before meeting his eyes, mine hadn't been occupied for quite a while. It was a stiffness about my seat, whereas his appeared worn and almost seemed to contort itself to his form. I figured that my seat had been my grandmothers, and visitors, if he'd even had any, weren't allowed to seat themselves in the chair. Finally, I turned my attention to the old man, who hadn't taken his eyes off me since the moment I entered the house. The shadows caused by the fire danced about the room, making it seem, as if there were other occupants, which in turn eased my mind a bit.

I was severely nervous, unsure of how to proceed in conversation with a man who hadn't even someone just smiled at me my entire life. He opened his mouth, preparing to speak, but then shut it and reached down to the side of the chair for something. He then raised a large mug, took a hearty sip of whatever was inside, and sat it upon his lap, over which was drawn a velvet quilt,

whose handiwork as I recognised as, being that of my grandmother's. What do you see when you look around this room? His voice was intoned with a surprising vitality. I hadn't heard him speak in years, and had expected his voice to be at least be soft-spoken, if not rough and interrupted by coughing. His illness hadn't been described to me.

My parents had only told me that he was certainly, inarguably dying. My eyes scanned the room. I was happy to put off having to look directly at him. even if it were only for a while. Above the fireplace was a mantle that held frame pictures. Most hadn't been dusted in years, but two, which held pictures my grandmother,

had been positioned in a place in front of the rest, nearly to the edge of the mantle. The firelight lit up the glass within the frames, making the captured images behind them appear in motion, as if my grandmother's smile grew wider or smaller, depending on how the light played upon the glass. The walls, which bore a faded crimson wall page, held other photographs and even paintings,

though none of these have been cared for like those of my grandmother. Nearly every wall throughout the house contain a curtain section, and behind the curtains, I knew sat sculptures, statuettes and busts of my grandfather's ancestors, and other historical figures he allegedly knew or admired. Photographs, paintings, statues?

I kept my voice light, casual, trying not to somehow offend the man. His eyes hadn't left me for one moment, and they only narrowed in response to my answer. No, this room and every other room in the house contains history. History, our past, is all we have. It is by the wisdom of history that we may chart paths for the future. Our future must go on.

For the first time since inviting me in, his gaze wondered. Travelling down, though I doubted his thoughts rested on the fire-end, floorboards. He cradled the mug in his hands, absentmindedly caressing the ebb and surface with his thumbs. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, his breathing perfectly measured. If I hadn't known of his imminent death, I would have thought him appropriately healthy for a man of his age. I couldn't think of how to reply to his statement, which had seemed somewhat prepared, so I kept quiet and peered around the room. Nothing seemed to have changed since I last visited. Was last brought as a teenager, and yet I sense that something major, something imperceptible but momentous,

had happened within the home. My grandfather stirred, coming out of his reverie, and I dismissed the thought of this great change as just the half-perceived aura of death hanging over the whole situation. Yes, our history is what defines us. One anchors us to this world. Reality, as we know it, is nothing more than histories attesting to each other. stories, those of fiction, rather legend, are what binds these great histories together,

the resultant weave, the great tapestry, being reality as we know it. Have I told you any such legend before, my son? The shock of his words caused me to stutter out a reply of, No, you haven't. Not only had he spoken more in that brief moment than he'd ever spoken to me before, he'd also called me son.

Something I would have never expected to hear from him, He rarely referred to my father outside of his name, and it always called me boy, or the child. He nodded, took another sip from whatever he had in his mug, adjusted the quilt laid over his legs, and turned his gaze to the fire. His green eyes, not at all dimmed by age, sparkled in the firelight, and he proceeded to tell me a legend. Many, many years ago, before the lives of your eldest ancestors, there existed a man in despair.

the man's despair was born of his inability to obtain a certain piece of knowledge, a knowledge to undo, or at least indefinitely forestall, death and its reaping. The man's wife, gravely ill, was certain to die, and there was naught to be done besides prepare the funeral rites and ensure that her passage into the mortuary state be carried out comfortably, respectably. On the day in which she was, by physician's decree to die, The man stumbled into his home early in the morning, having been out all night in desperate search of a collection of books whose contents proposed methods for the prolonging of mortal life.

The man only managed to attain one volume from the half-crumbled attelier of a wizard long dead, before the sun's light began to blanket the mountains and awaken the moon-suppressed flowers, nearly delirious from the over-exertions of having overturned stones and pushed aside bookcases which had survived the ruination of time through some nonsensiorned. The man sat heavily upon his chair, opened the blinds of his dust-chalk study, and began reading through the sole remaining volume of that necromanic collection. An hour later, he stumbled into his bedroom, which had become a veritable sick room, and closed the blinds, which had remained perpetually open, so as to allow his bedridden wife the lights of both governing celestial bodies in the futile, pitiable hope that the rays of one might have some healing effect upon a body. startled by a sudden intrusion, his wife opened her eyes and raised her head from her pillows. The most movement her debilitated body could muster. The man nearly crushed her in his embrace and wetted her gown with the tears of joy that fell hotly from his face. Weekly, she asked what the matter was, and he responded that he had beaten it.

When she asked what it was, he exclaimed happily, proudly. Death, I have not the secrets of perpetual. life and in turn cancelled that appalling dreadful appointment with the Reaper. As a parent might read a bedtime story to a child before they sink away into a dreamful sleep, the man read from that curious book, the necromanic secrets of death's evasion, just before his wife would plummet irretrievably into the ever-yawning, ever-darkening abysm of the afterlife. An hour later, he closed the books, having read the requisite passages, and stood away from the bed, his eyes dry, utterly bereft of tears.

His wife rose from the bed and stood to her feet, before nearly falling upon the floor. But she hadn't faltered due to some remnant of the illness which had plagued her. No, she was completely bodily cured. Shock and a complete recuperation had turned her legs to jelly. The man held her to her feet and laid a kiss upon her forehead that reddened her cheeks, and this in turn had brought more kisses, but he had not seen such vitality in her face in what felt like centuries. When she was finally stated by his passion, she cried out,

To what God must we make ablations? Upon what altars, before what idols, must we cast ourselves in thanks to the eternity of heaven or hell that has given you this ultimate death divine power? He smiled and replied, If you must give thanks to some ultra-mundane spirit, give it to the god of love, for they alone had instilled me with a vigour

at the direst hour to go out and search among the ruins of that necropolis beyond the city, in which it is rumoured exists the libraries of those half-remembered wizards and preceptors of great magic. This volume is the last remaining book of the whole lot, and I have plundered it and boldly poured over its assuredly sacrilegious contents so that I could restore the life that was so unfairly stolen from you. The woman cried out many things to the god of love and hugged her and hugged her.

When the priest and the physician arrived sometime later, they were shocked, almost petrified by the sight of the woman flitting around the house in her apron, a tray of freshly baked cookies resting nimbly upon a mitted hand, and a porcelain kettle held in the other. She beckoned them to be seated, and, in the manner, often displayed by the dumbstruck, they sat quietly, with mouths agape and eyes practically bulging. She had offered them cookies and tea, and they accepted. The husband entered a few moments later, accepted the same offerings from his wife, and sat in his favorite chair by the fire.

The wife sat upon his lap, and together they stared pleasantly and warmly at their guests, who ate and drank automatically. After a time, the physician, having practical inquisitiveness that demanded he understand what he believed was in mundane secret to the world, asked how exactly the woman had so speedily recovered. He himself had declared the inadequacy of then modern magic and the restoration of her vitality, and even his companion, the priest, had sensed or divined the irremediable wilting of a spirit.

The man, after taking another sip of his tea, bend his head and kissed his wife on the forehead, eliciting that sudden crimson vibrancy of her cheeks. She smiled and nestled her head into his chest. He looked up to his slight-jaw guests and said, It was love, my friends. Throughout the story, my grandfather's eyes had remained fixed just beyond me. When he finished, his gaze ran.

relaxed, first going to the mug in his hands, then to the fire, and finally to my right, where a bookcase sat against the wall. I didn't know what to say. The story clearly had some personal meaning to him, possibly a fantasy told to him, all constructed by him that reflected his sorrow and not being able to save my grandmother from the illness that had taken her. After an interim of prolonged silence, I finally spoke up, saying, that was a nice story, Grandpa. I had never called him that before, or his grandfather, but in the moment the shawson term had come naturally, almost lovingly. He nodded and even smiled, though not at me.

His eyes remained in that bookcase, steeped in the darkness of the far end of the room where the fire's light couldn't reach. He took another sip from his cup, then set it on the floor beside the chair and rose from his seat. I got up to help him, but he waved away the offer. Confidently, almost proudly, he walked over to the bookcase, retrieved a book and returned to his seat. The book was plainly old, and the shadows which passed over it seemed sufficient enough to destroy its weathered frame. But my grandfather opened it, as he would any other book. Without any special care or acknowledgement, as if knowing the book could withstand such heavy, indelicate handling.

Without giving any information about the book, he began to read from it. He didn't read out loud, but his eyes scanned the pages quickly, fervently, as if the words therein fled from his sight, and he endeavored to catch them before they leapt from the page. I stared, both surprised and unsettled by his hyperactivity, demonstrated by a man who should be lying upon his deathbed. I don't know how much time passed before he closed the book. He placed it on the floor just beside the mug and stood again. instinct, or maybe just the old glint in his eyes, it made me stand up as well. I'm sorry, my boy, but it is done.

Confused and growing increasingly alarmed, I asked what he meant by that. He smiled, discarded the quilt, and pushed his chair several threes away with the kick of his foot. He seemed to grow in that moment, his stature becoming unnervingly imposing. His body, though still retaining the signs of his age, seemed to have been empowered by some spell read within the book.

Terror seamed into my veins as I witnessed this bizarre transformation. Forgive me for the coldness I've shown you over the years. All this time, I believe that the offered soul must be alike with the soul to be restored. I cursed you for being male. But the book, the necromanic volume, which has survived uncountable cycles since its initial publication, states that the nature of the soul needn't be exactly the same. all that is required is the soul to be related to the would be deceased. You, your grandmother's grandson, will do just fine.

The arms swung at me before I'd even fully processed these words. The vists caught me in the temple, sending me sprawled onto the floor. My head knocked against the floorboards, dizzying me even more than the punch did. Dazed, pain arising like a climator's wave in my head, I tried to scramble away, but my grandfather seized one of my ankles and pulled back to the wall. towards him. Forcefully demonstrating a strength well beyond anything I'd ever felt or seen before, he pushed my face to the edge of the fireplace. Only through instinct did my hand reach out and land on the brick of the threshold, stopping my progress into the searing flames. My grandfather's

strength was immense, indomitable, and I felt my arms bending as his manic power surmounted my desperate resistance. The fires heat singed the skin of my face, and I smelled the awful, horror-inducing stench of burning hair. I knew by the almost beastial grunts that escaped his lips, the pleading with him would be useless. He was lethally determined to mercilessly end my life, in the bizarre hopes of somehow extracting my spirit for the necromanic resurrection of his long-dead wife.

I remember then the fully-scaled statue of my grandmother, resting behind one of the curtains in the room, and how it disturbed I had been as a child by its ultra-real likeness to the woman it depicted. I was impelled toward action when a tongue of flame licked my face, eliciting a horrible, mind-clearing pain. In a moment of supreme agony that I'll never forget, I quickly plunged one hand into the burning pile of wood,

gripped a log, even as my skin was hungrily attacked by the roaring flame and withdrew the flame-coated piece, swinging it with a quickness and force aided by my body's natural urge to recall from extreme heat. The log crashed against my grandfather's head, knocking him back and under the floor. I fell away from the flames, dropping the still-burning wood upon the quilt. I cradle my scorched hand, not wanting to look at it, but feeling the patches of charred skin and heat-borne blisters. I started towards the door, but an unconscious inhibition stopped me, and, before I knew what I was doing, I had turned and kicked the old wizard's tome into the fireplace.

It took several kicks to break the door's complex locking mechanism. Once the door swung outward, I dashed into the night. While behind me, I heard the insane raging on my grandfather as he rolled around the floor. The cool air tinned my burnt hand, but I couldn't tell if the tingling was a good or bad thing. I quickly got into my car, started it, and backed down the intermittently paved pathway. Before me, the house seemed to preternaturally glow from within, and I realised that the flames, either from the dislodge log, or, as some consequence from the book's destruction, I'd spread throughout the house.

No figure emerged from the front door. Automatically, I drove to my parents' house. I'd grown known to the pain in my hand during the drive. It wasn't until I pulled into the driveway that full awareness returned to me, and I realized I'd forgotten to grab my phone from the bowl in my grandfather's home, but the loss seemed inconsequential compared to what I otherwise could have lost. I stumbled to the front door, and, as I knocked, I realized how much I smell like smoke.

I saw in the small and distorted reflection of the brass knocker that streaks of black lie in my face, and that great swaths of hair had been burned away, exposing a blackened scalp. As if seeing this had reminded my body of the damage, I felt the related pain shortly after. My mom opened the door, and, upon seeing her half-burned, wretched son,

abruptly and surely screamed. I smiled, stumbling into the fire, and kicked the door closed behind me. It was late, and although I felt awful, I didn't want to attract the attention of the neighbours. not until I told my parents what had happened. My mom quickly quieted, perhaps coming to the same line of thought,

and watched me with wide eyes as I walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table. She paced around, hands in her head, eyes alight with terror. I asked for some water, realizing only then how terribly thirsty I was. She nodded and brought me a picture of water and a cup.

A few moments later, my dad entered the kitchen and I saw shock, and something that almost resembled relief on his face. There was a wordless, inscrutable exchange between them, and then my mom finally asked what had happened. Through several sips of water, I told them the story, and by its conclusion, my mom was in tears. My father stood behind her silently,

eyes averted, hands delicately placed on her hips. I could understand grieving the violent loss of a parent, especially since she had already lost the mother, but she seemed someone inappropriately saddened by her father's death, as if he hadn't died in the process of attempting my murder. When my mom pulled a face away from her hands, I saw a black, malicious rage in her eyes. Before my day could stop her, she lunged across the table at me,

knocking over the picture and drawing a nail savagely across my face. I felt back in my chair, landing hard upon the tarred kitchen floor. I heard footsteps surrounding the table, and then a sudden exclamation of surprise, followed by the sight of my mother landing roughly on the floor beside me. She had slipped on the water that had poured in the picture. A second later, my dad had restrained her, kneeling with all his weight on her back. He looked deeply at me, with tears and dark knowing in his eyes, and whispered,

Go. I took one look at my mother's madness reddened and viciously snarling face and got up from the water-streaked floor. A few seconds later, I was in my car. The pieces fell in place within my mind as I drove away. My parents had known about my grandfather's desire to sacrifice me in some attempt to use my soul as the catalyst for the resurrection of my grandmother. My mom, happy to have a mother returned to her,

had presumably held no issue with the idea, and my dad just wanted to see my mother happy again had gone along with it. He had saved me in the end, but only after my grandfather had died. I was only an object, a thing to be used to accomplish something else. That realization crushed me, the pain of it far greater than any of the physical injuries I'd sustained in the night. I drove to a hospital several towns away,

knowing that I'd receive only the most superficial care, care of the body, with no recuperation available for the ghastly emotional trauma and unforgettable terror I endured.