CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I’m a New Priest. Every Confession I Heard Tonight Described the Same Presence" Creepypasta

Episode Date: April 5, 2026

april foolsCREEPYPASTA STORY►by CreepsMcPastaCreepypastas 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...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep web" ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher, and...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creepypasta  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / 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

My name is Father Daniel Moreau. I've been the parish priest at St. Aldrich's for exactly three weeks. I'll be honest. When I was ordained, I had dreamed of something grander. A bustling city parish, perhaps, missionary work overseas. Even a quiet but influential role at the diocese. Instead, the bishop sent me here. A sleepy little village tucked between rolling farmland and dense woods.

where the biggest events are harvest festivals and the occasional argument over whose turn it is to arrange the altar flowers. Sometimes I wonder why. Was it a test of humility, a gentle correction for my pride? Or simply, because no one else wanted the position. We've tried not to dwell on it. God places us where we are needed, not always where we want to be. Still, I've settled into the position. the rhythm. Every Saturday afternoon I sit in the confessional from two until five, listening

to the gentle, ordinary sins of good people. Stolen glances, white lies, petty jealousies, missed masses. They are small town burdens, manageable ones, the kind that let a young priest feel useful without being overwhelmed. That Saturday started no differently from the others. I settled into the wooden booth, adjusted my stall, and waited. Sunlight filtered softly through the stained glass windows, painting quiet colored patterns across the stone floor. The church smelled of old wood, candle wax and faint incense. The first penitent arrived a few minutes after two.

It was a girl, Emily, a 17-year-old from the end of the village. Her voice came through the screen. soft and trembling, the way young people speak when they're trying very hard not to cry. Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It was a stupid dare. She paused, breathing shallow. Last Friday night, my two best friends and I were at my house. We were bored, you know. We turned off all the lights in the bathroom, and I stood in front of the mirror. We dared each other to say Bloody Mary three times.

I laughed the whole time. I didn't believe in any of that stuff. Not really. Another long glance. But when I opened my eyes, there was a face behind me in the reflection. Pale, really pale. It didn't have eyes,

just these dark, empty holes piercing through me. It wasn't my face. It wasn't a face. any of our faces. It was just there, standing right behind me. A voice cracked. I screamed and ran out of the bathroom. My friends thought I was joking at first. But ever since that night, every night around two in the morning, I see something. A tall, pale figure walking slowly past my bedroom window. It moves like it's looking for the right room. It doesn't stop. It just keeps walking back and forth, real slow, like it's searching.

She drew in a shaky breath. I'm scared of it, father. I really am, but I'm more scared that. I invited it, that I did something stupid and opened a door I shouldn't have. What if it's not just outside my window anymore? What if it's coming for me or my family? What if this is God punishing me for playing with things I have? What if it's not just outside my window anymore? What if it's coming for me? I had no business touching. I could hear her fingers twisting together nervously on the other side of the screen. I leaned closer to the Latisse and spoke gently, trying to sound calm and reassuring. Emily, these kinds of games can play tricks on the mind, especially at night.

But even done as a joke, this was still an attempt at dark arts. Say three Elmerys and an act of contrition tonight. Pray for protection and try to get some of. rest. God is merciful. He doesn't punish children for silly dares. She whispered a quiet, thank you, father, but I could still hear the fear lingering in her voice as she left the confessional. I sat back, frowning slightly. Just a frightened girl with an overactive imagination, I told myself. But something about the way she described that pale figure stayed with me. Not ten minutes after Emily left, the confessional door creaked open again.

This time it was the old Mr. Hargrove, the dairy farmer. I could smell hay and cattle on him even through the screen. His voice was rough, weathered by decades of early mornings and hard work. But today, it carried a tremor I had never heard from him before. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. He cleared his throat, then continued slowly. Four nights ago, my best hunting dog, Rex, finally passed. He was old, 14 years.

I buried him out behind the barn, proper like, with a cross made from fence posts, said a few words over him. But ever since, I've been hearing things. He paused as if reluctant to speak the next part out loud. Slow, deliberate scratching, right under the barn floorboards. Not like rats, it was too steady. The other morning I went out and nailed extra planks down over the spot. The next morning, every nail was pushed up from below, clean out of the wood.

His breathing grew heavier. And then, I heard it whisper my late wife Martha's name, exactly the way she used to call me for supper, the same gentle tone, the same lift at the end. I haven't slept since. I keep thinking, maybe I didn't give Rex a proper Christian burial. Maybe I disturbed something that should have been left alone. Maybe this is punishment for treating a good dog just like another chore instead of giving him the respect he deserved. He fell silent, waiting.

I sat very still, the image of Emily's pale, eyeless face flashing through my mind for a moment before I pushed it away. I spoke carefully, keeping my voice steady and pastoral. Mr. Hargrove, grief can do strange things to a man, especially when it stirs up memories of those we've lost. The mind can play tricks in the quiet hours. Say five our fathers and five Hail Marys tonight. asked the Lord to grant peace to both Rex and Martha. If the scratching continues, come see me tomorrow.

We can bless the barn together if need be. He muttered a grateful. Thank you, Father. But I could hear the doubt in his voice as he shuffled out. I remain seated, fingers tight around my rosary. Two confessions, two separate fears, both involving something, supernatural, something that knew the voices of the dead.

It was probably nothing, but my brain couldn't help but try see a connection. I took a deep breath to compose myself, and when I did, the church suddenly felt a little colder. Mrs. Landry, the schoolteacher, entered the confessional shortly after Mr Hargrove. Her voice, normally so steady and authoritative, was now tight and barely contained fear. Bless me, father, for I have sinned, she took a moment to steady herself. I stayed late at the school yesterday to inspect the classrooms before locking up for the weekend. I was walking down the hallway, checking that all the windows were closed. When I heard a rattle like something knocking together,

It came from the science room. I thought maybe one of the students had left the window open and something fell off the table. She swallowed. I went in to check. The room was dark, except for the emergency exit light. The skeleton we used that each anatomy was hanging in its usual place in the back corner. But its right arm had moved. It was raised slightly, fingers curled.

As I stood there, staring. The head slowly turned toward me, exactly the way my late son used to turn his head when he heard me coming down the hallway. The same little tilt. Her voice dropped to barely a whisper, fighting back a quiver, threatening to break her. I ran out, locked every door behind me. I kept telling myself it was just a loose joint or a draft. But I can't stop seeing that head turn. I used to tell my students there's no such thing as demons or spirits that it was all superstition and old stories Now I'm terrified my lack of faith has invited something into the school

What if those things are watching the children What if they're waiting for me to leave them unprotected? I sat in silence for a moment The weight of a word's pressing against me Three confessions in less than an hour All strange oddities But this one felt like an escalation, a pattern I couldn't brush away easily.

I forced my voice to remain calm and reassuring, though my pulse had quickened. Mrs. Langerie, old buildings make strange noises, especially at night. Wires loosen, joints shift, the mind, especially when it carries grief, can make innocent things appear sinister. Say seven hail Mary's tonight and pray for your son. son's peace. If the rattling continues, we will bless the school together. God watches over the children. Your doubt has not undone his protection. She thanked me quietly, but I could hear the uncertainty in her footsteps as she left. I remained seated, gripping the rosary tighter than before. The connections were becoming harder to dismiss. Pale figures, voices and gestures of the dead.

All in the same day. I wiped a beeder sweat from my brow and hoped the next confession was something normal. The mayor's wife, Mrs. Whitaker, entered the confessional shortly before four o'clock. Even through the screen, I could hear that she had been crying. Bless me, father, for I have sinned. Her voice trembled with quiet, respectable fear.

For the last week, I've been leaving food out behind the church for local wildlife, scraps from dinner, bread, a little fruit, nothing unusual. The raccoons and stray dogs have been hungry this spring. But a few nights ago, I had a strange dream. A very old, very polite voice asked me nicely to keep feeding it. It promised the town would stay safe if I continued. She let out a shaky breath. A few nights ago, I went out after dark to leave the usual plate. I set it down near the old stone well and stepped back.

That's when I saw them. Long, pale fingers reaching up from the darkness inside the well. They took the food so gently farther, almost gratefully. I didn't scream. I just stood there, frozen. Now, I'm terrified I've been feeding something I shouldn't have. I never meant to do anything evil. It just wanted to give back to nature.

But what if I accidentally entered into a pact with something demonic? What if God is judging me for it? She sounded genuinely heartbroken. The fear of sin weighing heavier on her than any actual wrongdoing. I kept my voice calm the way a priest should. Mrs. Whitaker, Feeding God's creatures is not a sin. Dreams can be powerful, especially when we are tired or worried about the town.

The mind can turn shadows and animals into something frightening at night. Say ten hell marries tonight and ask the Lord for clarity and protection. If you feel uneasy, stop leaving food for a few days and see if the dreams cease. God knows your heart was kind. She thanked me softly. her relief mixed with lingering doubt and left the confessional. I sat alone in the growing shadows, but beating harder than it should.

I thought back to the other confessions, the oddities that were different, yet seemed linked, and now the mayor's wife, watching long, pale fingers reach out from the old well to accept her offerings. I was new here, barely three weeks at this quarter. quiet parish, yet on my first busy Saturday of confessions. Every single person seemed to be describing pieces of the same presence. A chill settled deep in my chest. I closed my eyes and

whispered a quiet prayer for strength, but my hands would not stop trembling. The last confession of the afternoon came from Mr. Koalski, the hunter. He smelled of gun oil and pine. and his voice carried the rough edge of a man who was not easily frightened. Bless me, father, for I have sinned. He shifted uncomfortably on the wooden kneeler. Two nights ago I was out after dark, tracking a deer I'd wounded earlier. I was moving through the tree line behind the old mill. When I saw something standing there,

I struggled to say what it was, but there was no denying it. A skeleton, just bones hanging upright like someone had propped it up. At first I thought it was a prank or some kids messing around with that plastic teaching skeleton from the school. But then, it moved. His breathing grew heavier. It turned its head toward me. Then it raised one bony arm and started waving, slow and deliberate. and then it spoke, a slurred, raspy voicing, run, run, over and over.

I didn't think, I just raised my rifle and fired three times. The bullets hit it square in the chest. It didn't fall. It just tilted its head like it was confused, still waving that arm. He swallowed hard. I ran farther I ran all the way home Now I'm convinced I shotted something that cannot die

Something unholy And because I answered with violence I may have cursed the whole village What if whatever I wounded is angry now What if it comes for all of us because of what I did I sat behind the screen my mind racing A skeleton waving Telling him to run

There was another confession involving bones or pale figures that moved when they shouldn't, four stories touching the dead on the unnatural, all in a row. I forced my voice to stay calm and measured, though my pulse was hammering. Mr. Kowalski, the woods at night can play cruel tricks on even the most experienced hunters. Fear and darkness can make ordinary objects appear alive, say ten hellmeries and an act of contrition we will pray together for protection

over the village if you see anything again come to me immediately God's mercy is greater than any curse he thanked me gruffly and left but the heavy thud of his boots

echoed long after he was gone I remained in the confessional heart pounding the rosary beads digging into my palm five confessions a girl who saw a pale face after a mirror ritual, a farmer hearing scratching and a call in his deadwise voice under the barn, a teacher whose classroom skeleton turned its head like a missing son,

the mayor's wife watching long pale fingers take food from the well, and now a hunter shooting at a moving skeleton that told him to run. On this ordinary Saturday, every soul who came to me seemed to be describing fragments of the same nightmare. A terrible thought settled over me like cold water. What if God had not sent me here to tend a peaceful flock? What if he had sent me here, because something dark was stirring in St. Aldrich's,

and I was meant to confront it. My hands would not stop shaking. I sat alone in the empty church as evening fell. The last of the daylight bleeding out through the stained glass windows in long, dying streets of crimson and violet. The confessional door stood open behind me, the screen still warm from the last penitent. I closed the main doors, the eerie sounds of the outside were gone, but the silence felt heavy. I could not stop replaying the five confessions in my head. Five ordinary people, five unrelated sins.

or so it had seemed at first. I rose from the pew, legs unsteady, and walked to the small rectory library at the back of the church. In the bottom drawer of the old oak cabinet, the one the previous priest had warned me never to open without good reason, were the restricted texts, volumes of diocese kept under lock and key,

not for public eyes. I lit a single candle and began to read, flipping through accounts of local folklore, old warnings about restless spirits, and handwritten notes on strange happenings in rural parishes. One passage spoke of spirits that could slip through small openings, mirrors, gaps beneath floors, and grow stronger when people paid attention. Another described apparitions that could move in unnatural ways, mimicking gestures or voices of the departed to draw the living closer. Another warned that once such a presence was noticed and acknowledged, it could spread through a community like a shadow lengthening at dusk, feeding and fear and guilt until it claimed everything.

My stomach tightened. I kept reading, cross-referencing, making frantic mental connections. The mirror ritual had drawn its attention. The scratching under the barn was it trying to rise. The skeleton in the classroom had moved, because it had been acknowledged. The food left of the well had been accepted. The skeleton in the woods had instructed, which was followed.

It all pointed toward one, ancient, patient presence, something pale, something that knew how to wear the shapes and voices of the dead, something that had been quietly waiting in St. Aldrich's, and was now stirring because it had finally been noticed. A cold certainty settled over me. God had not sent me here to simply bless crops and hear petty sins. He had sent me here because this thing was already moving through the village, and I would be the one to confront it.

My hand shook as I gathered the holy water, the chrism oil, and my stall. I laid them out on the altar like weapons. Part of me wanted to run, to call the bishop. immediately to beg for experienced help, to admit I was only a young priest who would never face anything like this. But a deeper part, the part that had taken holy orders with genuine fire in my heart, felt a strange, fierce resolve rising. If the devil had truly come to my parish,

then I would meet him here, on this ground, with whatever strength God had given me. I whispered a prayer for courage, cross myself, and waited for whatever the night would bring. I was still in the rectory when the heavy church door creaked open. My heart lurched, the candle flame jumped. For one wild second, I was certain the thing from the confessions had finally come for me, that presence that had been moving through the village. I grabbed the vial of holy water and stepped into the nave.

ready to face whatever horror had stepped across the threshold. Instead, I saw a man. He was swaying slightly in the doorway, backlit by the last grey light of dusk, mid-forties, dishevelled, reeking strongly of whiskey. He blinked at me with bleary, sheepish eyes. Uh, is the confessional still open, father? I always laughed from sheerily.

Just another late penitent, a drunk man who had wandered in at the worst possible moment. I composed myself, smoothed my stall, and motion toward the booth. Of course, come in, my son. I stepped into my side of the confessional and slid the wooden panel shut. The familiar Latisse screens settled between us. I could hear him fumbling to kneel. Bless me, father. for I have sinned.

He began, voice thick and slurry. It's been, well, a real long time, maybe never. Anyway, here goes. I could tell by the way he stalled that whatever he was holding back was heavy. He let out a long, embarrassed sigh, and I braced myself for the worst. Last week, I got absolutely hammered. fighting with a wife, lost a bit with the boys, the usual. I don't remember half the night, but the bits I do remember there.

Pretty bad. He paused and continued with the wary honesty of the truly drunk. I was trying to get home and really had to pee. I went in a bush by someone's house since the window wasn't lit. But when I pressed my face right up against the glass in the middle of my business, I scared the hell out of some poor girl doing her makeup or whatever. Felt bad about that. I opened my mouth to absolve this mischievous man, but he kept going.

Then I got thirsty again. I remembered old Mr Hargrove kept a few bottles stashed under his barn, so I crawled in there to grab one or two. I know, I know, that was stealing, but where I usually squeezed back out was blocked off with fresh nail boards. I pulled them up from underneath and cut my hand pretty badly on a nail. I was yelling, my hand, my hand, because it hurt like hell. Mr. Hargrove must have heard me, but he didn't come help, just left me down there.

I thought that was pretty rude, so I might have cursed him out a bit while I was crawling out. Sorry about that too. I only got a word out before he went on. Then I got tired, real tired. So the school was still open. Janitor must have left the side door unlocked. Figured I'd sit down for a minute inside where it was warm. But then I heard footsteps, knew I shouldn't be in there,

and ended up hiding behind that big plastic skeleton in the science room. Got all tangled up in it, arms everywhere. When I finally tried to leave, the doors had locked behind me, so I had to break a window to get out. might have accidentally taken the skeleton with me, thought it would be funny to carry around for a bit. Is it a sin if I just thought it was funny? My smile froze, the classroom skeleton, the head that turned, the waving arm.

I tried to stop him, ask him questions, but he continued oblivious. Got hungry after that. Saw Mrs. Whitaker, the mayor's wife, leaving food out by the old well. I figured it was for the stray cats. I didn't want to scare her or for her to think I was a thief. So I reached down with a couple long sticks I found and fished them out, whispered, Thank you kindly, so I wouldn't scare her. Seemed polite at the time.

The long pale fingers reaching up from the well. I was starting to feel lightheaded. I gave up trying to stop him because he was on a sinful role. A record I prayed would never be beaten. eaten. After that, I was stumbling to the woods behind the mill, trying to find my buddy, Mr. Koalski, the hunter, great guy, thought it would be funny to wave at him with a silly skeleton and yell, rum, rum, to see if he wanted to drink with me. But then, out of nowhere, he starts shooting at me. I was still holding that damn skeleton, waving its arm like an idiot,

bullets whizzed right past. I ran like hell. cursing the whole way. He led out a long, defeated breath. So, yeah, I don't really remember the rest of the night. I woke up in my backyard this morning, with no idea how I got there. How bad is this, father? There was a long, heavy silence. I sat there, rosary beads pressed so tightly into my palm

that the imprint would probably stay for days. The pale face in the face. the mirror, the scratching under the barn, the skeleton that turned its head, the fingers at the well, the waving bones that told a man to run. All of it, one very drunk, very stupid, very non-malicious man who had simply gotten lost, hungry and mischievous on the wrong night. I finally found my voice. It came out hoarse and exhausted. Ah, 10 Hail Marys.