CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I work in a store that sells haunted objects" Creepypasta

Episode Date: September 26, 2021

AUTHOR'S SUBREDDIT► https://www.reddit.com/r/ManiacSociety/CREEPYPASTA STORY►by TheCrookedBoy: 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►Mike Marra: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/88lgESUGGESTED 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-

They weren't parlour tricks or a scam or just an outright lie. They were actually haunted, accursed, possessed, and we sawed them in spades. I'd never wondered where my brother got them. Evil books and rings and mirrors that showed dead women, dolls that moved on their own, and Ouija boards that did that too. He'd always brought them, sourcing them from all over, and I'd always distribute them, first online, then in our brick and mortar shop in New Orleans. We had done well for ourselves, better than well.

Then he brought me the talking Teresa doll, the one that spoke not of being pampered and having a diapers changed, but of death and blood and raw, pulsing horror of what lies beyond. I wish I'd listened to Marcus, wish I'd never pull that dull string and listened to a scream and scream. I'm serious, Anna, Marcus was saying, as he regarded the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Teresa doll in a pink dress, "'This one is—'

"'He drilled off, looking at the spotlighted doll, crumpled ominously on the work table, "'which hemmed one of our cramped stockroom. "'I looked up at my brother, who looked so much like me "'when his face screwed up into a tired knot. "'I'd always resented him for taking all the good jeans two years before I was born. "'He was nearing forty, handsome as ever, tall, strong, "'with a firm sculpted face beneath a jet of black hair. I was slightly puffy, my face more moon-like than Greek sculpture, and whereas his was tamed

and everlessly cool, my hair, a frizzy, insane mess, did me no favors. Marcus blew a sigh, corkscrewing his fists into tired eyes. When they came away, I saw just how burned out he looked. His eyes were shot through with red, his cheeks were gaunt, hollow, and he badly needed to shave. He looked like hell. which was odd my brother never looked like hell

just don't toy with it he finally said put it up out front and leave it alone our stock had never scared me our messy store more a busy psycho antique shop than anything else was chock full of haunted things cramped shells of dusty wares

all exploding with haunted history filling a small claustrophobic store at every twist and turn you were met with an odd something that clipped a bolt of cold dread through your stomach, that made your skin crawl and your hair rise and your legs dissolve into jelly. But that was usually the extent of the haunted things potency. Never did they levitate or burn you with a touch or shift you when you were looking. If only. It only ever happened behind your back. Things were always moving around,

disappearing, but I was used to it by now. I didn't mind. staying after dark, rearranging shelves, updating our web store. It just never bothered me. And it never bothered Marcus. Until now. He looked stricken. His eyes, bleary and severe, regarded me coolly, waiting for me to say,

OK, sure, I'll leave it alone. Which I did. Visible relief took his cord posture and eased it of tension. He nodded, smiled, pulled me into a hug. Thanks, Anna, he was saying, you're not such a bad sister after all. I laughed and playfully thumped his shoulder.

He mock-winsed, rubbing his arm as he headed out, leaving me alone with the haunted, talking Teresa. I didn't pull the string. Not at first. It was evening, bloody sunlight straight through the front-facing windows, painting our menagerie of the weird and awful in inky shadows. I tucked the talking Teresa onto a shelf That house that dozen of the dolls and toys

Before taking to my nightly duties of closing up shop The clock tick-tocked as the last customer came and went As darkness settled in over our corner of the world As street traffic dwindled and died And the cicada army took to their song At 7 sharp I bolted the front door They were up there sorry with close sign And issued a long sigh that indicated I was alone

but no, that wasn't right. I was never truly alone. The air was always charged, alive, shifting and swirling like slimy black water, thick with the awful feeling of eyes crawling up your back, of heinous things judging you with insane hatred. But like I said, I was used to it, inoculated, immune to the icy fear that hijacked the atmosphere like a parasite. But that night, something was still.

different. I don't know what I was thinking. Don't know what compelled me to the aisle of the dolls. Curiosity maybe. The same curiosity that killed the cat that would nearly kill me. I'm not sure why I ignored my brother and hauled the tugging Teresa down off the shelf. Don't know why I pulled the string beneath a dress. But I did. And for the first time in a while, I felt terror. The doll's abused voice box crackled and hissed as the pulled string retracted like a snake. I waited, breath shallow, heart crash pounding through my chest, waiting for her to... Silence slapped me in the face and I flinched.

The string had withdrawn to its idle position and the doll had not spoken. The silence was suffocating. It seemed to fill my lungs and force out all the air. air. It filled my ears with a rush of hot blood. Teresa's dead, glassy eyes regarded me with indifference. Her smooth, moulded face turned up at me. But behind her eyes was something, something shifting and flowing like a river of fog. I thought what it might have been.

Teresa screamed so suddenly that I jumped. A high, ear-splitting wail of agony issued in a tiny burst from the doll's voice box. I jerked back and dropped her, covering my ears. She crashed to the ground, her porcelain, charmed face, crumpling inward like a human skull under a sledgehammer. The scream decayed as a terrified voice, distant, hazy, spliced with throaty static, growled out of the doll's ruined face, filling the shop. At first, I couldn't decipher the words out of the garbled syllables. It was an incoherent mess of torment that filled my throat with bile. Hello

Hello-hm Hello-hmm Hello-hmm She was chanting Over and over again Her ruined shattered face glaring up at me With animal violence

Alohim Hello-hmm I took a step back As the world began to shake As the shelves in my shop trembled And the objects atop them Thundered and vibrated And began levitating in unison

Rising off their beds of wood as talking Teresa chanted, her three-syllable interment again and again. Allo-hm, allo-hm, all-haw-hm, all-haw-hm. Everything was floating. Books, dolls, pendants, and keychains, all of them hovering in the air, vibrating with impossible and hardly restrained power, rage and torment radiating out of them in frozen waves. I staggered away, my heart screaming through my ribs.

My chest too tight and empty of breath. The air around me thick with a reek of corruption of dead things. And the smell of haunt, of existence beyond death, of... Allo-hm, allo-mm. It punched me in the face. I understood what she was saying. It drilled through my chest like an arrow, spared my heart to the back of my ribs,

flooded my chest cavity with frozen dread. She was saying, Follow him Everything exploded Great sprays of splintered wood And flowered metal And tufted stuffing erupted in silent detonation As if all the haunted things in the world

Had been vacuumed into space And crushed into non-existence By the great black nothing I hauled air through my chest And boiled it into a scream Then I was buried alive Under a mountain of haunted shrapnel And I screamed no more

I awoke in the hospital with my brother by my side. I was fine, unharmed, spare a few superficial lacerations. Otherwise, in an easy convalescence, I would see me at home and in bed by the morning. Our store on the other hand. It's all gone, Marcus grinned. All gone, everything, our life's work. He was troubled, disturbed, his eyes puffy. I'd saw he'd been crying.

He buried his face in his hands, grumbled something into them. All I could do was think about talking Teresa. Follow him. The doctor signed me out an hour later. Marcus drove me home. He never asked if I was okay. In my driveway, Marcus told me he'd be taking a trip to a dealer in Alabama. Told me we need to start rebuilding our collection.

He was leaving tonight to make it there by morning. and that I should stay behind and clean up the store. I hugged him, told him I loved him, and watched him drive off down the street. I hurried inside and grabbed my lucky pendant. I supposedly haunted crucifix Marcus had bought to the thrift store and given to me nearly 20 years before.

It had always brought me comfort. Good luck. It always protected me. The crucifix in my pocket, I dove into my own car and followed my brother, not to Alabama, to the alien-like bio that drowned out so much of a great state. The drive was long and dark. I glided over a black highway, following the two red eyes of Marx's car.

Concrete jungles were replaced by real ones, will her trees dangled sheets of fuss out over the road as we headed into marshland. I turned up the AC as the ripe stench of swamp invaded off the bio, through which the highway ran. A while later, the sky is still black and dead of light. Marcus turned off the highway and joined an abandoned dirt road. I idled at the turn, counted the 30 before following. He led me to a fishing shack.

We were deep in the swamp. It was like a planet from Star Wars. A thin dirt road extended an artery of solid ground through the bubbling, stagnant waters of the bio. Strange growth textures and dark environment. Incredible trees with furry branches, 10 jaws of vine like great brown snow. massive gaiters sluicing through black waters like Soviet submarines. I doubted my lights early on, navigating only by the stray bar of moonlight that fought through the hazy canopy.

I had lost Marcus. I saw no light. I saw. I slammed the brakes as moonlight winked off the windscreen of Marcus's car. A second later and I would have rear-ended it. It was stopped in the road directly ahead of me. It was dark. It was dark, quiet, no doubt, empty.

I killed my engine and stepped out. The air was thick with mosquitoes and the song of insects. They descended me in buzzing waves. I looked around, lost, confused, wondering what in the hell could be. Then I saw the fishing shack hovering out of the water. A rickety wooden dock ran to it from the dirt road, extending a finger of land out over the bio. The shed itself looked like a tumour, rising from the swamp like an ugly grey malady born from slimy waters. It was sagging and repaired, its windows muddy and throbbing with faint light.

They reminded me of dumb, blind eyes. The familiar hum of a generator carried out across the marsh, beckoning me, telling me to, follow him. I hesitated. Follow him. I sucked air The taste made me dizzy Follow him

I started with the fishing dock Which creaked and groaned with each step I followed him Brother wasn't in the shed A girl was I crept around the side of the building And wiped a clean circle in the filthy pane I beard in and my heart bulged

And throbbed with bitter terror Yellow light issued from an ugly overhead bulb Douse the room Lending it a hazy disorienting appearance. I saw the floor first, a rusty blood-stained drain gate tied together in a slipshud job

of sheet metal. Above that, the walls, raw timber, were warped and bulging and stained with gore. Heavy work benches wrapped the perimeter, the surfaces displaying an ensorment of torture tools, knives, pliers, scalples,

razors. And then, there was the centerpiece. The brown-haired girl, bound and gagged in a bolted-down chair, her forehead knotted and bruised, hair crusted with blood, brutalized face lolling limply on a slender neck. She couldn't have been a day over nineteen. And my brother. Follow him. Hey kiddo, Marcus said.

I looked up. The feral beast that had once been my brother towered above me, eyes wild and red. I was a rabid, lips drawn in a tight pain wricked us. He didn't look like the man I knew so well. He looked like a predator. His fist collided with my skull before I could respond. The light ball popped behind my eyes. My legs gave out and I crumpled into darkness.

A spray of mist and my face woke me up. I groaned as curtains of darkness pulled away and the ground me world slowly resolved around me. I was handcuffed to a chair. and gagged in the sickly fishing shed. The brown-haired girl was looking at me. Her eyes bright with terror, reminded me of an animal's just before slaughter. But it was too late.

Her neck was a great ruin, a jagged red grin. Blood roared from a severed throat to the beating of a dying heart. It drenched her like a warm, wet bib. Blood splattered down, draining in thick black puddles through the grate in the floor.

I had it chuckling as it joined the bio-water beneath us. I couldn't see my brother, but I could feel him, watching from behind me. Then the girl was dead, the light leaving her eyes. And I saw it, a thin whisper of energy, join a dainty-o-maker wristwatch on one of the tables. It drilled through my stomach like a gut punch. My brother didn't source haunted objects. He made them Beautiful, isn't it?

He asked as he stepped into view. He wore a leather apron, the kind of yellow gloves He might use to wash dishes And clear plastic goggles He held a straight-edge razor His blade caught the bulb And screamed red light

It was drenched in gore. He smiled at me before turning his back. He stood over the workbench wiping blood from metal and talked. Most of us take souvenirs, a pair of panties, a pendant necklace,

a lock of hair. I'm no different, but my souvenirs are special, trapped souls, retained energy. Who knows how or white happens? It just does. Started with the first one,

Becky Lane, who in that crucifix you're so fond of? My heart galloped ahead, hiding my movement. I so obtitiously reached from my back pocket, I was lazy at first, he continued, taking strays, lots of blizzards, cutting girls who hitchhiked hither and ho. I got smart, found this place, the gaiters take care of the bodies, it's self-sustaining. I felt the crucifix in my back pocket, my fingers skimmed the chain, couldn't get a grip on it.

My brother turned, leveling the razor. He was going to cut me. That was bad But what was worse was the picture on the table behind him He showed us as kids The one he always carried around with him He saw me looking I would never lie to you

And I won't now It won't be pleasant You'll be trapped in there forever At least I like to think so He settled up to me Forcing his right leg between both of mine So that his knee was riding at my crotch It won't be pleasant

He said again Raising the straight-edged razor Still warm with the other girl's blood I'm sorry Anna I really am but You always loved haunted things so much right I guess being one might not be so bad Remember his eyes gleamed with

The animal hatred As he brought the razor down A bolt of adrenaline forced my hands further The handcuffs dug into my wrists I felt blood Warm and sticky trickle out I grazed Becky Lane's tiny cross, strained harder, gripped it, and jammed it into the handcuff keyhole. The handcuffs fell apart, just as the razor invaded my periphery, soaring in on my jugular.

I grunted, forced life into my arms, and plunged up the handcuffs ratchet, the sharp serrated edge that had been securing my left hand through my brother's left eye. It went in like a toothpick through a blueberry. His eyeball popped, releasing a hot. rush of fluid, slimy and awful, over my hand. Marcus shrieked and reeled off, losing the razor. It clattered to the floor, landing in a puddle of blood. The shed was filled with my brother's howls. He was wailing, cloring at his face, blindly groping for a weapon.

I grabbed at the razor, but it was just out of reach. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my brother find a giant cleaver. The blade rusted and scarred. and lurched toward me. I screamed and threw my weight forward. I caught him in the midsection, heard a whoosh of air from his mouth as I sent both of us slamming down.

He fell back, his hands pinwheeling for leverage, his ruined eye bulging from its socket like a squashed frog. Then gravity sucked him down. The back of his head clipped off the edge of the work table under the full force of his body's dead weight. His head snapped forward on his neck with a sound like popcorn in a pan. It was like a switch was thrown.

With frightening clarity and speed, life left my brother's body. It exploded out of him, filled the air like an exiled vapor, swirled and darted forward, before the picture of us sucked it in. His body, empty of life, of breath, felt like a rag doll,

landing and loose pile of limbs and meat beside me. I looked at him through a blur of tears and saw that my brother, serial killer and maker of haunted things was now a haunted thing himself. I just got home, poured myself a scalding hot shower and watched blood and filth swirl down the drain. A steam pooled and bawling water hissed. I thought about the scores.

Hundreds of objects that had passed to our store over the last two decades. All those people, trapped and forgotten. The photo has helped me cope. the one I added to my mantle. As I feel the world crushing in and look up at the framed picture of my brother and Ayah's kids. I stare at it

and hope he's trapped in there forever.