CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I'm a Small Town Cop in Rural Iowa. This is My Strangest Case" Creepypasta

Episode Date: April 26, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Saint ZanderCreepypastas 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 ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creep...  ►"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

Rural Iowa had his fair share of slow days. The small town I worked in made you second guess whether anything ever really happened here. My radio crackled to life that evening, breaking the long lull of the silence. Officer, you there? It was Bill Hastings, a farmer whose land stretched for miles past the town limits,

salt to the earth kind of guy. Steady, not prone to dramatics. If he was calling, it wasn't for nothing. I think my neighbours are missing. I let out a breath, rubbing my temple. Who? The Barnes family. Ain't seen them in two weeks.

Thought maybe they'd gone on vacation, but the house is all lit up, same as it was last night. Livestock still penned up, car still there. Something ain't right. the Barnes family. I knew them, or at least I knew of them. A quiet, unremarkable household. They never caused any trouble, at least not to my knowledge.

Married couple, two kids, always polite at the grocery store, always smiling at church. You'd think they came straight from the normal Rockwell paintings. Not the kind of people you worried about. Maybe they left in a hurry, could have had a family emergency. Maybe, Bill said, but he didn't sound convinced. I wasn't either. I assured him I'd check it out, then pulled my cruiser onto the highway, heading west. The drive was long, the scenery monotonous.

Expanses of golden fields rolling endlessly in every direction, wind turbines slowly turn. like skeletal sentinels on the horizon. The deeper I went, the fewer signs of life I saw. Fewer homes, fewer cars, just empty stretches of farmland and the occasional crow perched on a fence post. As I turned onto the narrow dirt road leading to the barns property, a thin mist had begun to creep over the fields, swirling in the wake of my headlights. The sun had started dipping below the horizon, bleeding deep oranges and purples into the sky,

stretching shadows long across the land. The house was lit up like a beacon in the dark. Every window glowed with warm, golden light, like a dull house staged for no one in particular. I killed the engine, the sudden silence pressing in around me. The wind had picked up, rustling the corn stalks that stood at the property's edge, their dry leaves whispering like unseen voices. The gravel crunched under my boots as I stepped out of the cruiser. The wind had died down now, leaving the air heavy and still.

Even the insects had gone quiet. There was a car in the driveway. I came closer and inspected the old Ford. The tires were sunken into the ground below it, like it had been sitting there for quite some time now. Something about that bothered me. A family this out the way would make trips to stores and work frequently. I adjusted my belt, resting one hand on the holster at my hip as I stepped onto the porch.

The wood groaned beneath my weight. I knocked twice. Mr. Barnes, Missy his barns. No answer. I knocked again, louder. Nothing. I glanced at the windows.

The curtains were drawn, revealing nothing. I tried the tour knob. Unlocked. The door swung open with a soft creak, revealing the dimly lit hallway beyond. A faint smell of cooked meat and something vaguely herbal. Rosemary, maybe, hung in the air. At first glance, everything looked normal.

The floors were pristine. No dust, no muddy boot prints from the farm, no signs of movement. Everything was placed perfectly, cozy but sterile. I stepped inside, pulled the door shut behind me. The silence felt thick. I called out again. My voice didn't echo. The house swallowed sound.

I moved carefully through the hallway, my boots making barely a whisper on the polished wood. Nothing was out of place. No sign of a break in, or at least not so far. But the lights were on. The house was warm. Someone had to have been here recently.

Then I stepped into the dining room and I stopped cold. The Barnes family sat around the table, mother, father, two children. The heads bowed forward, hands folded neatly on the wooden surface, motionless. The food in front of them was untouched but fairly fresh. I felt my pulse kick up. my first instinct was to move forward to check their pulses to say something but I didn't something held me in place a pressure a weight in the air like it stepped into something that wasn't meant to be seen I forced myself to take a slow step forward I looked around the

room and above me carved into the ceiling above the dinner table deep, uneven gashes in the wood It was a pentagram I took a slow step forward toward the table my pulse hammering in my ribs Four people But there were five plates

I hadn't noticed it at first Not until my eyes landed on the empty chair The plate was set perfectly So like all the others But no one was sitting there. I swallowed hard and looked at the bodies again, forcing my breath to steady. I had to be sure. I approached the father first, reaching out to his wrist. His skin was cool, stiff, no pulse. His head remained bowed. I did the same to the mother. The same result,

the kids too. They were dead. I forced myself to stand straight, stepping back from the table, my body itching with something I couldn't place. I needed to call this in as soon as possible. I clicked my radio, voice tight. This is Officer Brims.

I need backup of the barns property. Four deceased, no signs of struggle. But something isn't really. Right. Static crackled. Then the dispatcher's voice came through, calm but firm. Copy that brim's nearest unit is 25 minutes out. I let out a slow breath, rubbing the bridge of my nose. Twenty-five minutes. An eternity in a house like this. My hand steadied on my belt. I had a choice. I could wait outside until backup arrived.

or I could keep looking. I glanced back at the empty chair. I needed to check the rest of the house. The first floor was pristine. There was no dust on the shelves, no dishes in the sink, no coats by the door, no toys left scattered in the den. Not a single sign of daily life. Even the refrigerator, when I opened it, was full.

Fresh groceries, nothing. spoiled. This, at least on the surface, did not seem like a house that had gone through internal turmoil. In fact, it seemed like they'd been living just fine until the very moment I had stepped in. I clenched my jaw and turned toward the stairs. I needed to check the second floor. As I moved toward them, my boots felt too loud against the hardwood. The air felt felt full. thicker. I noticed the first few steps seemed more used than the rest of them. They were cracked, their edges smoothed out as if they'd been used a thousand times. I climbed the first step, then the second. I half expected something to stop me, but nothing did. I made my way to the second

floor slowly. And that was when I saw the first sign that this house wasn't as spotless as it seemed. The upstairs wasn't like the first floor. The hallway stretched before me, long and narrow, lined with doors on either side. The illusion of a perfect home was breaking. Whereas the first floor was maintained to perfection, this one looked like it hadn't seen a visitor in quite some time. Dust had settled along the baseboards.

The air smelled faintly damp, like wood left a rot in an old attic. The doors were all shut, but some had small gaps where they hadn't been pulled fully closed. And then I saw it, a framed photograph sitting on the hallway table. It shouldn't have caught my attention the way it did, but something about it, in Immediately made my stomach tighten. I stepped closer. It was the Barnes family, seated at the dinner table, just as I had found them downstairs. But there was something else in the picture.

My fingers twitched as I reached for it. The fifth chair was not empty. There was something sitting in it, a mass of flesh. warped, uneven, grotesque and small. Not a person. It had the vague shape of a child, but its limbs were swollen, bulbous, unnatural. The flesh looked stretched too tight, bulging in places like something beneath the skin was pressing outward, desperate to escape.

The family was beaming, teeth bared, eyes wide. I carefully placed the photograph back down. I passed a few closed doors, kids' rooms mostly. They could wait. At the end of the hall, one door stood slightly open. The master bedroom. The second I stepped inside, the smell hit me. Copper.

Thick, sharp, unmistakable. Blood. A lot of it. My breath caught in my throat as my eyes landed on the bed. You see a lot of things as a police officer, but each and every gauce scene hits just like the first. You never get used to seeing death, or even a place where something had once died. It leaves a permanent mark. The sheets, the mattress, even the floor beneath it,

all soaked through, dark and wet. The stain had spread far beyond the doorframe, creeping outward in a pattern that made my skin crawl, but there was no body or sign of a struggle. Just a pull of blood and the overwhelming, sickening reality that someone had bled out here. I stepped forward, careful not to let my boots sink too deep into the carpet. My instincts screamed at me to leave, to turn back, to wait for backup.

But I suppressed them. I always did. I needed to understand. I turned my attention to the nightstand. A small, black, leather-bound book sat there, open, waiting. A journal. I picked it up, flipping back to the first few pages. March 4th.

We lost him. We lost him. We lost him. We lost him. The doctor said it was quick, that it wasn't painful. But how would they know? They don't know what his last breath sounded like. They don't know how his fingers felt when they went limp in mine.

They don't know how his eyes looked, staring at me, but not seeing me. I can't do this. I can't. The rest of the page. was scratched out violently, deep black ink slashed through the words, rendering them unreadable. March 14th. I found something. I think it will work.

I searched everywhere. Hospitals, therapists, grief support groups, even church. But no one had answers. No one had what I needed. But I found it, guided by the grace of the holy, tucked away in a library archive. in a book older than the town itself. I read the passage a dozen times, my fingers shaking over the page.

To unbury the lost, the body must be claimed, the name must be called, the invitation must be set. The flesh will answer, if the will is strong enough. I don't understand it fully yet, but I will,

March 17th. I went to his grave today. March 19th. The others don't understand. They say I'm losing myself, that I need help, that I need to stop obsessing, and focus on the children I still have.

They don't understand. If this was one of them, I would never tell them to stop searching. I went back to the grave tonight. I dug, March 29th. It's working, he's come back, I feel him stronger now. He's getting closer, but I don't think he knows how to come home yet. The book says the final steps requires an offering, something from us, something of flesh.

It doesn't say how much, but I think I understand now. We will do whatever it takes. April 1st. Tomorrow is the final step. The table is set, the house is prepared, the offering is ready. I can feel him waiting. We will welcome him home, April 2nd. It worked, he came back.

We are whole again. I let the journal slip from my fingers. A breath I hadn't realized I was holding shuddered out of me. I look back toward the blood-soaked bed. They had done something here. That mass I'd seen in the picture crawled back into my mind. Was that the child they had brought back, downstairs, the door creaked open. I froze.

For a split second, I thought I had imagined it. Then a noise followed. A low, wet, rattling breath that pushed through the entire home. My grip on my gun tightened, the air shifted, not just in the room, everywhere. The walls grown like old bones flexing, the wooden beams above me settled with a deep, unnatural creek. I heard something shudder through the house, not from a single direction, but all around me. I took a step toward the door, gun raised.

boots felt too loud on the floor. A disgusting version of a baby's voice. It wasn't normal, not an actual baby's voice. It was low, warped, deep and slow, like something trying to mimic a baby's voice, but failing. Then the entire house shook. It started with a violent tremor beneath my feet, just one, sudden and forceful, like something massive had shifted below the foundation. The light bulb and the ceiling flickered. Then from downstairs I heard the sound of chairs scraping against the floor. The plates clattered softly as if something had just sat down.

A deep, nauseating instinct crawled up my spine. My fingers ached from how tightly I gripped my gun. I kept it leveled in front of me, moving slowly. This is Officer Brims. If anyone is here, make your presence known, I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. No response followed. I descended the stairs one step at a time, the wood groaning beneath my weight. There was a smell now I had no notice.

before, damp rot and decay. I reached the bottom step. Ahead past the archway was the dining room. I couldn't see the table yet, but I could hear it. Wet, chewing, smacking lips, heavy, labored breathing. Something was sitting there, and it sounded like it was eating. I rounded the corner, sitting at the table, hunched over a plate of untouched food. What was the thing?

A baby, but not a baby. It was massive. It bulged and pulsed, its flesh stretched too tight over a swollen, shifting form. The skin was pale and slick, streaked with purple veins, quivering as if some of the Something underneath was trying to break free. Its arms were thick and meaty, the fingers that ended in blunt, bloated stubs. It was bigger than it was in the picture, much bigger, assuming it was the same thing. A shoveled food into its mouth, gnashing hungrily, slurping and swallowing, grease smearing

across its wet, sagging lips. I could hear it swallowing, thick, heavy gulps like it was trying to fill an endless void. The chair beneath it creaked, cracked, the wooden frame sank into the floor beneath its impossible weight. It was too large that sit properly, too swollen to move. It was stuck here on the first floor. why the second floor was in the condition it was in. And then, it stopped.

Its hand froze over the plate, mid-motion. Its slack mouth stilled, the gnashing of teeth ceasing instantly. The silence rippled through the room. Then, its head began to turn. Slowly. The movement was unnatural, mechanical. Like the muscles in its neck weren't working correctly. The flesh at the side of its throat rippled as if something inside was rearranging itself.

And then, it saw me. Its black, soulless eyes locked onto mine. It opened his mouth to scream. The sound that came out wasn't human. It wasn't even animal. It was wet, gurgling, thick, like something drowning in its own throat, a bubbling, choking howl that ripped through my eardrums. The plate shook on the table, the lights flickered.

Then... It lunged. The table snapped beneath it, splintering into shards of wood as its enormous bloated body searched forward. I fired. A direct hit, sent a mass, then another. The gunshots roared through the house, deafening, and it didn't stop. The bullet sank into its flesh like mud, disappearing with thick, wet plops like I'd

fired into a rotten, swollen carcass. It didn't flinch. I ran. I turned on my heel and bolted through the archway. boot slamming against the floor, breath ragged. Behind me, I could hear it moving, sliding, dragging, breaking things as it followed. Walls groaned, the house shuddered. I didn't look back, entirely focused on creating distance. I barreled down the hall, past the stairs toward the front door, and the moment my fingers touched the door-knob, the entire house

shook violently once more, like something huge had struck it from the inside. The windows shattered, the lights burst into sparks, the walls buckled. From the outside, flashes of red and blue adorned the walls of the house, tires screeching. Back up had arrived. I felt it right behind me. My body froze for a split second, and just then gunfire erupted all around me. A deafening barrage of bullets and shock and blast tore through the walls, the windows, the thing itself. It screamed, not like before. This time, it was different.

It wasn't the gurgling, childlike noise I'd heard in the dining room. This was primal, like something realising for the first time that it could be hurt. And so I raised my own weapon and shot every bullet I had. Glass rained down as the windows exploded outward, the walls buckled inward like the entire structure was caving in on itself. I hit the floor just as the thing convulsed, a massive, bulging body rippled, as if it was. the flesh itself was trying to crawl away from the bullets. But the officers kept firing. Round after round, shot after shot,

the air filled with smoke, gunpowder, and the acreed stench of burning flesh. The thing shuddered, twitched, spasmed. And then... It collapsed, its enormous form sagged, crumpling into itself, like a rotten pumpkin left too long in the sun. The house gave one last deep, sickening groan.

I lay in my back, panting, staring at the ceiling as the dust settled. Someone grabbed my arm, yanking me up. Rims, geez, are you all right? I turned to other voice. It was Officer Delgado, wide-eyed, mouth open and shone. shock, his rifle still half raised. I stood up and made my way out without saying a word to anyone. I sat in my cruiser, still covered in sutt, dried sweat, and something I didn't want to name. The lead investigator, a man I'd never seen before that morning, with graying hair, a stiff suit,

and eyes too tired to still be sharp, stood next to me, watching the flames consume what was left at the barn's home. He took a long drag of his cigarette, exhaled, and then turned to me, forget this ever happened. The cleanup started before the sun even rose. By the time the first hints of dawn broke over the fields, the house was already a husk, hollowed out, emptied, stripped of everything that tied it to what had happened inside. No bodies were taken out, no coroner's report. just unmarked black trucks rolling in, men in plain uniforms moving with eerie precision,

officers who wouldn't look me in the eye. The Barnes family was buried within the hour and the house was burned to the ground. The newspaper printed a quiet obituary, something about a tragic accident, a gas leak, a whole family gone just like that. Like whatever was inside it needed to be erased, scorched from the land, the very dirt salted, so nothing could ever take root there again. Years have passed, and I've buried more cases than I can count, but this one stayed.