CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I'm a Priest That Runs a Confessional. Someone Just Gave the Most Chilling Confession" Creepypasta

Episode Date: May 22, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by goosejpg:   / confession-129328654  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...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

The church was empty. It was just me, the candles, and the rain tapping against a stained glass like a restless child. It had been storming since dusk, an unending curtain off water from a bruised sky. I sat in the confessional with my hands folded loosely in my lap and my eyelids heavy, but not from a lack of sleep. It had been a long day with two funerals, a hospital visit, and a broken boiler in the rectory. I just started to think I might close early

when I heard the door at the back of the sanctuary open. A gust of wet air followed someone in, along with hesitant footsteps, much different from a regular parishioness confident pace. I straightened. Then the curtain slid aside. I heard the soft squish of wet fabric as they settled on the opposite side of the confessional.

Then a faint rasp of his breath, and how his weight shifted, like someone fighting the instinct to bolt. Finally, he spoke, low and unsure, but clear, forgive me, father, for I have sinned. The ritual took over. My voice came easily and automatic,

though something in my chest had tightened. God is always watching my son, I said, speak freely, the Lord offers mercy to all who seek it. At first, he said nothing in return. Yet the way the air changed betrayed his lack of response. I knew then that he was going to tell me something and it wasn't going to be easy. His voice came again, steadier now, like he had stepped back into the safety of memory.

I grew up on a farm, he said. Just me and my mama, out past the river bend, where the road turns to gravel. We had no neighbours close enough to wave to. He exhaled slowly. She was a believer. She didn't just speak the word. No. She lived it.

Every evening, before supper, she'd read from her old leather-bound Bible. I remember her soft but unwavering voice, even when the storms came and the lights flickered. She'd light a single candle and read Psalm 23, like it was a promise she was making to both of us. He paused, and for a second, I imagined he might be wiping his eyes as he remembered a fond memory of his mind. She carved crosses into everything, the fence posts, the barn doors, and even the wooden spoon she stirred our stew with. She said it kept evil out and reminded the Lord we were watching back. His tone dipped into something warm and fond. It wasn't a fancy life, but it was ours.

We had three hens, pearl, marigold and little sister, and a stubborn old goat name Moses, who chewed through more of our laundry line than I'd like to admit. We had potatoes, turnips, and a patch of carrots that only ever grew crooked. Sometimes we'd trade our eggs for milk. There was never more than we needed, but she always smiled when she said it. The Lord provides. I could hear something shift in his breath, like he was close to brushing up against the memory in which this adult mind saw the truth.

Winter was the hardest. I remember one year she boiled onion skins just to make broth. She told me it was French soup and made me sit up straight like her in a Paris cafe. She even folded a towel for me to use as a napkin. I believed her. That's the kind of woman she was. She could make suffering feel like theatre. The confessional had gone quiet around us, the storm muffled by thick stone walls.

But at that moment, I swear I could feel the cold of that farmhouse kitchen, the scratch of old quilts, and the soft light of candlewax dripping beside a prayer. I let the silence hold between us, unable to shake the feeling that whatever was to come would be a heavyweight for us both to bear. It started with Pearl, he said, the oldest hen. She stopped laying, which wasn't unusual. But then she started acting odd, wondering in circles, pecking at her own feathers. One morning I found a standing motionless in the yard, eyes leaking this dark red stuff like tears. She didn't squawk or anything. I ran to tell Mama.

She looked at Pearl for a long time. time and whispered. And the next day, Pearl was gone. Buried, Mama said, but I never saw a shovel. Then it was Marigold, then little sister, then Moses. All of them followed the same pattern. Their eyes, something in their eyes was just wrong. But Mama told me she'd take care of it, and that everything would be okay. The garden turned next. One by one, the carrots split open from the inside Like they'd been cooked in the dirt The turnips came up black and soft

And the potatoes, when we harvested them, were little more than husks Like something had sucked them dry from the inside I asked if we were cursed And she said no and that The Lord is testing us I could tell she believed it She prayed harder than ever. She would hardly eat so I could,

and in the middle of the night, I'd find her knelt beside the kitchen window, whispering scripture to the wind sometimes, just mouthing the Psalms into the dark. There was something sacred in how he spoke of her, like a child recalling the warmth of a hand that always knew how to hold his without needing to say a word.

She didn't panic. Not once did I think anything was wrong. She did everything to keep me calm. Even when I asked what we do without food, she just looked at me and smiled and said, He will provide. And in that moment I heard it. The quiet turn of something in his voice.

It was the next morning, he said. The frost hadn't even lifted when Mama came to me. Her hands wrapped in a shawl, like she was cradling something delicate. She said, Go to town today. Look for someone cold. Someone who's hungry.

Bring them here. The Lord rewards kindness. It made sense at the time. That was how Mama thought. When times were lean, you gave more. You open your door wider. That's what she taught me.

So I went. I walked all the way into town, kicking rocks and counting steps, and praying I'd find someone to help. Near the train yard, I found a man. He was older, wrapped in layers of newspaper and threadbare denim. He was humming to himself, eyes half closed, like he was dreaming of food. I told him we had warm soup and fresh bread, a barn to sleep in, if he didn't mind the hay. He looked at me like I was a ghost. Then he followed.

Mama greeted him like she'd known him all her life. She called him brother. She sat him down at our little table and served him a bowl of stew. The smell was so strong it made my mouth water, and the bread was still warm. I don't remember where she said she got the flower. I didn't think to ask in fear that it would disappear if I acknowledged it.

He stayed the night in the barn. I brought him an old quilt in a lantern. They thanked me and said we were angels. The next morning, he was gone. Mama said he left early. She said he was grateful and traded us some things before he went. He inhaled, sharp and shallow. There was meat on the table that morning.

real meat, pink, marbled, steaming in its own broth. She said it was a blessing and the man had traded goods. And I, I didn't question it. I just thanked God. After that, we always had something. Not a lot, but enough. Every few weeks she'd send me again to find someone alone and hungry. I didn't understand it then.

She started a new tradition where, just before eaten. She'd take white linen napkins from the drawer we only used on Christmas and carefully draped it over her head so it hung down like a veil. She told me to do the same. I remember the first time I giggled and said she looked like she was playing dress-up. But she didn't laugh. She just looked at me through the cloth and said That's the point baby

We hide our faces so God doesn't have to watch us eat We eat in private hidden from the eyes of heaven And then we'd say the same prayer Always the same words Like a song only the two of us knew Lord bless this meal Bless the soul who gave it and keep our hands from shaking as we take what was given in grace.

She made me whisper it three times before touching the spoon. It was never skipped, he swallowed. We'd eat in silence, chew slowly and pray again when we were done. I was a child, I didn't understand. All I knew was I gained a weird sense of hunger, that only that meal could quench. I sat back slightly in the confessional, the warmth of the wood against my shoulder,

doing little to ground me. I wanted to believe this was all a metaphor that he was speaking in the language of parable, of symbolic hunger, and strange rituals born of grief or madness. But some part of me there was a sharp and instinct honed from years of hearing the worst of people,

wondered where those people he had brought home had gone. The ones who never came back, who were needy, yet still had things to trade. Still, I could not accuse. That wasn't my place. But I felt the hair at the back of my neck begin to rise. I crossed myself quietly, more out of reflex than faith at that moment. I was thirteen when I found it. He continued. It had rained the night before and I was out behind the barn dumping the meat scraps

Mama said we couldn't use for breakfast Into the slop drop for the young pigs we managed to buy Something white bobbed up Half floating in the grease His voice trembled now Just slightly I thought it was a chicken bone I reached in thinking it wouldn't be good for them

But it was soft and pale when I turned it in my fingers I saw the nail and the shape oh God I squirmed in the silence shifting slightly on the bench the air inside the confessional felt too still like the world itself was holding its breath with me

waiting for what came next I clasped my hands tighter and kept my voice locked behind my teeth this was his moment But God help me I wanted it to pass I walked into the kitchen and held it out like I was handing her a riddle

She looked at it Then at me and said Some lambs are meant for the altar Like it was scripture Like I should have known already His breath hitched She said the desperate The forgotten

They don't have much to give So when they offer them themselves in their weakness. We're supposed to receive that. She said it made us holy. My hands tensed just enough for my knuckles to wake. There it was, a confirmation of my suspicion. The clarity of it made my stomach twist into knots. And yet I knew better. I am not a judge. I do not wield the sword, only the word. I have heard things in the booth. that would make most men sleep with the lights on. My duty has been, and still is,

to listen, to witness, to guide. But at that moment, I could not deny the tremble in my breath or the heaviness that's settled in my ribs. I nodded, he continued, his voice dull, because that's what you do when you're a child. Your mama's word is final. So, I nodded.

and sat at the table that night. I ate the stew and wore the cloth to hide my sin from God. But something had cracked. I started waking up sweating, chewing my tongue roar in my sleep. I stopped praying out loud out of shame. I started skipping bites, then whole meals. She noticed. Of course she noticed.

One evening, she reached the crows. the table and gently pulled the cloth off my head. Her eyes didn't look angry, but they had gone hard, like cold riverstones. Don't waste what's been given, she said. Don't turn your nose up at blessings that cost someone else their place in the kingdom. I nodded again like I believed her, but I didn't, not anymore. I couldn't look at her the same way. But it was strange. I still wanted her to hold me when I was scared. He was quiet for a long time.

Then, after a long inhale, he kept going. It lasted almost two more years. I tried to forget what I saw. I think I stayed because part of me still loved her too much to leave. Because she smiled at me like nothing was wrong. She gissed my forehead tenderly every night. and she still sang hymns while cleaning the kitchen. How do you walk away from someone who taught you everything,

even when you find out some of it was poison? But when I turned 15, I packed a bag silently and walked out while she slipped. I didn't leave a note, only took what I could carry. He paused, and... I never went back. I told myself I'd start over, he said, clean slate, clean soul. I ended up in foster care two towns over.

They were kind mostly, kept the fridge full, took me to church when they could. His voice thinned. I tried to be normal. I did everything, brochure said. Join clubs and took therapy seriously. I even started cooking real meals from rice. recipes. I made myself believe that the hunger was just trauma, just something I could fix. I breath, sharp and frustrated. I went vegan. I thought maybe it was guilt. But it didn't work.

Then I tried a carnivore diet, but that didn't help either. Then raw food, paleo, fasting, ice chewing, clay. I even gnawed at the edge of a belt once. I even thought at the edge of a belt once. just to feel the resistance. He shifted on the other side of the screen, wood groaning onto him. And at that moment, a terrible thought flickered across my face, unwelcome and absurd. I pictured his hand slipping through the slats, cold fingers gripping my collar, and his mouth opening wide to take a bite out of me like I was bred and flesh both. The image was so vivid, I almost flinched. It was a silly thought, one I was not proud of.

But it sat there, pulsing at the edge of my reason, refusing to be dismissed. Every meal was a disappointment. Every bite tasted like paper. Even the things I used to love, like roast chicken, cornbread, sweet potatoes with brown sugar. They all turned to ash in my mouth. His voice dropped lower than it had all night. I know now what it is I miss. He let the word settle like dust in a crypt.

It didn't hit all at once. It came in flashes. The smell of broth. The way candlelight hit steam. The weight of linen over my head was so nostalgic. I thought I was just remembering. But it wasn't memory. It was want, a need.

I told myself I could resist that I was better than her, that I didn't have it in me. But the hunger, it, I planned it carefully. I chose a man I saw often on the corner outside the train station. He wore a grey hoodie and plastic bags around his shoes. He never asked for anything, just sat there. I watched him for a week, made sure he was alone, that he didn't speak to anyone, that no one would notice.

If he disappeared, a pause and a breath. We walked side by side through the quiet part of town. He kept glancing at my face like he was trying to figure out if I was real. The whole time my chest ached with something that felt like guilt. He looked at me with trust, with quiet awe, like I was saving him. I wanted to deserve that, but underneath it, deeper than anything I could name, there was the hunger gnawing through every step. A single thought echoed through the prayers I muttered to drown it out.

What will he taste like? At one point he laughed, low and weak. and said, You're one of the good ones, huh? I told him I was trying to be. I brought him back to my apartment, told him I had a hot shower and some food waiting, and mentioned spare clothes, socks,

and even a razor if he wanted. He looked up at me like he couldn't believe it, with eyes wide, rimmed red, hopeful in a way that made my chest tighten. Really? He asked, like he thought the offer might shatter if he touched it. I nodded. That's all it took.

And it hurt because I knew I was lying. I let him take the hot shower first, gave him a towel I'd laid out earlier, let him eat the bread and drink the tea while some soup simmered on the stove. He looked so grateful, called me. a saint and I must have been raised right. His voice cracked slightly. But the cloth was already in the drawer. He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. By now, I knew what that meant. I bought it from a linen shop two towns over, just like the ones mama used, pressed it flat, folded it three times, and put it in the drawer under the knives.

Silence stretched between us. The stew was rich. The meat practically melted in my mouth. I had cooked it that long. He said, I ate it under the cloth, just like before. I said the prayer, every word three times like Mama. And for the first time in years, I felt full.

really full. He exhaled slowly, and I heard the shift, the tremble that had clung to him like wet wool was gone. And his place was a strange calm, like it was waiting for me to speak. So I did. I cleared my throat softly. My son, I said, carefully measuring every word. There are things in this world we have. carry that were never meant for us, burdens passed down like inheritance, cloaked in love and

devotion. He didn't interrupt, so I kept going. You are not your mother, and you are not beyond redemption, but if you truly seek absolution, it must begin with truth, followed by repentance, and then by surrender. Not just of your sin, but of your will. I felt the sweat cooling at my temples. God offers mercy, yes, I said, but not without cost. You must never do this again. You must turn yourself in. You must choose a path that leads away from this hunger.

Silence. There was a faint shift followed by a hush. And when I peaked between the slats, he was gone. He hadn't waited for my blessing or absolution. He vanished quietly as if the act of confession itself had been enough. And maybe for him. It was. I sat there a while longer, hands clasped, eyes closed.

I prayed not to carry his burden with me into the world that whatever darkness he left behind would stay sealed in that booth. I prayed that mercy still meant something, even when offered to someone who may never stop doing the thing they're sorry for. When I finally stood, I moved slowly through the empty sanctuary, checking locks. I stepped into the parking lot. The night air was damp and cool, and the storm had passed. My car engine groaned to life and the headlights carved through the dark. I pulled onto the main road.

And there, under the flicker of a street lamp, I saw a man huddled against the bench, wearing only a thin coat and no shoes. I slowed, and for a long time, I just sat there, hands frozen on the wheel. I couldn't get the confessor out of my mind, how he spoke his truth like a man unburdened, while all I was left with was silence. And in that silence, I wondered if the confessor would stop, if anyone was safe, if he was still nearby, and all I could do was pray.