CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "In My Town There's Only One Rule- Don't Open The Door On Sundays" Creepypasta

Episode Date: April 27, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Frequent-catCreepypastas 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

I was born in the small white house at the bend of Croft Road in Yarrow Crossing, raised under the shadow of fir trees, thick enough to muffle thunder. Yarrow Crossing is a town that doesn't see newcomers often. Fewer than 300 of us, give or take, depending on who had a baby or packed up their trailer last winter. No major highways lead here, so we're pretty isolated from the rest of the world. Everyone here greets everyone, even if you don't like them. Parents tell each other whose boy is smoking behind the shed again

and which houses to avoid on certain days, not because of any scandal, but because it's just understood. That's how it is with Sundays. We don't talk about Sundays much unless we have to. It isn't written in any town charter or hung on a plaque in the city hall. but the rule is older than any ordinance. You don't answer the door on a Sunday. Not even a crack.

Not even if it's your mother's voice on the other side. Especially not then. We don't bury our dead on Sundays. We don't hold weddings or picnics. Church is always on Saturday afternoon. If someone shows up to sell you something, you'll know they're from out of town. I've heard people call it superstition or a folk tale, something meant to scare kids out of mischief.

But that's just not what it is. My grandmother used to call it the hush. Some places have winter, we have the hush. When I was young, I used to play this game with the other kids in the schoolyard. One of us would pretend to be the knocker, three slow taps on a tree trunk. then whispered, Do you hear it? The other kids would scatter,

giggling, pretending not to answer. Our teacher at the time, Mrs. Dre, never told us the stop, but she'd always make sure the game didn't last more than a minute. Let's not tempt tradition,

she'd say, brushing chalk from a skirt. No one ever said what would happen if you broke the rule. Mrs. Delaney who taught piano out of the blue bunglo by the creek missed a week of lessons, then two. When someone finally went to check,

the house was locked and the curtains were drawn. The mayor's boy, Charlie, used to run barefoot down the middle of Maine with a red pinwheel. One Sunday, it was his voice that came knocking, his mother said. She never opened the door, but she moved to the city by, Thursday. There are more, but no one tells those stories out loud, just glances and silence.

And so, we keep the rule. Tom moved into the old cabin on Brush Hill the first week of March. He parked his truck, nose into the drive, doors open while the engine still idled, pulling boxes from the back seat like he had a checklist burned into his skull. Everything he did, had the flow of a man who used to wear a uniform. He was lean in the way that doesn't fade with age, hard shoulders, tight haircut, eyes always scanning for something, probably out of habit.

The cabin had been empty for a while. Belonged to Miss Halloran, a widow who used to come into town every Thursday for a bottle of sherry and a loaf of rye. She kept to herself, good tipper, didn't drive, saw Mankine used to take her to the doctor appointments in Fairbrook. On Sunday night, her porch light stayed on through till Monday.

By that afternoon, she wasn't answering her phone. Folks figured she took a fall, maybe wandered into the woods, but no one went to check. By Tuesday, the property was quiet. Sheriff pulled a name off the active register by the end of the month, That was six years back. Tom didn't know any of that. Not when he first arrived.

He told me later he'd found the listing online. Cheap, clean, good water pressure, he said, too good to pass up. He made the rounds quick. Introduced himself at the diner, shook hands with folks at the hardware store, asked if we got good cell service out here, if the winters were as bad as he suspected they were.

said he was retired army, logistics mostly, two deployments. He smiled easily, said he was tired of traffic and the city in general, wanted to fish, grow tomatoes, breathe air that didn't taste like break dust. People liked him, or wanted to. We're not cold here, just cautious. He waved to me from across the street on his second day, sat beside me at the bar on his third, On the fifth, he'd asked me what the church hours were, and I told him Saturdays at four.

He paused and smiled again, said that was funny, because every church he'd ever seen held service on Sunday. I told him, ours used to, and it didn't. He laughed. Well, hell, maybe I'll start my own. He said it like a joke. but I heard the weight behind it. Some people have that kind of pride, the kind that gets tangled up with a need to fix what isn't theirs to.

A few of us tried to explain, not forcefully, just as a kindness. We told him we don't open our doors on Sundays, that it wasn't about religion or danger, just something deeper, older, a groove in the bones of this place. He listened, smiled through it, nodded the way polite people do when they think you're insane. At the diner the following morning, he leaned over the counter and asked Sarah if she thought we were all in on some prank.

She just refilled his coffee and said, I'd rest on Sundays if I were you. He thanked her and stirred two sugars, already pushing it to the back of his mind. But I could see it setting in. there's a look new people get when the laughter stops, when the charm runs out, and the silence of Yarrow Crossing seeps through the windows. On the Sundays, you can look out your window and not hear a single bird. It gets under the skin, makes a person start checking the corners of their windows. Tom started walking his dogless, switched from boots to sneakers, or a sidearm on his hip.

then switched to a concealed holster. Said it was for bears, but we didn't even have those. I saw him again that Friday, down by the hardware store. He bought sandpaper and a peephole kit. Said he was doing small upgrades. I asked if he was settling in all right. Yeah, he said, then paused.

Hey, you ever hear anything on Sundays, middle of the night sounded like knocking he tried to laugh but it didn't stick I just nodded said

get your errands done by Saturday and you won't have to worry about those and left it at that Tom's porch light stayed off that Sunday night I checked twice from my window he said he'd stay inside, just to play along, made it sound like a joke, but there was a crease in his

forehead when he said it. That same subtle tension you see in people trying not to admit they're nervous. The days passed the way Sundays always do here. The town slowed to its crawl, the air pressed in thicker than usual. By late afternoon, it was that hollow stillness. No birds, no cars, no wind through the trees. Only the creek of porch steps settling, and the occasional whisper of pine needles brushing one another far out in the woods. I sat by the window most of the night. That's what I do now, out of habit. Book in hand, though I never make it past a few pages. Eyes always drifting to the trees, to the road, to the edge of the quiet. I didn't hear anything strange that night, but I never do anymore. After enough years, the Sunday silence

becomes part of the routine. You stop listening for what might be hiding in it. The next morning, Tom invited me over for coffee. I could tell by the way he stood on the porch, mug already in hand, dog at his side, eyes scanning the tree line that he hadn't slept well. Come, sit a while, he said, I want to ask you something. He poured strong black coffee into a chipped enamel cup and handed it to me. I took the seat opposite his on the small porch table, the wood still damp from last night's dew. So, he started, eyes on the mug, not me. Did you really not hear anything last night?

Real late. I waited. What kind of thing? Knocking, he said. Not loud, just spaced out. Three at a time. Always three. I looked at him for a long second before answering.

You didn't imagine it. He blinked. So that's real then. Some folks say it starts the first week you move in. Some say it starts once you know. to expect it. He led out a short breath. Not relief. More the opposite. It went on for over an hour. No pattern I could see. Always three knocks. Waited a few minutes. Then again. He scratched at his jaw. Eyes still distant. Wasn't wind? Wasn't creaking. I know what those

sound like. I nodded. Took a sip of the coffee. It was too bitter. But I didn't mention it. You didn't answer, though, I said. He shook his head. No, I thought about it. Had my hand on the knob a few times. Just to open it a crack, see if someone was messing around. But the dog.

He glanced down at the shepherd by his chair. She wouldn't go near it. Just laid under the table and whined. First time I'd ever seen her scared. I watch the dog. It look fine now. Alert, resting its head on its paws, ears flicking with every soft noise from the brush. She still won't walk past the front door, Tom said.

I had to carry her to the truck this morning. He tried to smile, but his eyes were sunken, darker than usual. That week, he brought it up three more times. Once at the diner, twice outside the post office. always framed as a story with a small laugh tucked into the end but each time it felt thinner more cracked at the edges

I probably imagined it it'd say must have been a branch or something right no one answered by the next Sunday rolled around Tom's cheerful indifference had started to erode he stopped me at the corner store

on Saturday afternoon Sun was still up, wind tugging at the old flags strung across the overhang. He looked rough, not just tired, but wary, thinned out behind the eyes, and no amount of sleep could fix that. Hey, he said, voice slower than usual. You got a minute, I want to talk to you again. We stepped off to the side near the vending machine. The wind had scattered gum wrappers across the sidewalk.

He waited until no one else was close enough to hear. I saw someone last Sunday, he said, through the peephole. I said nothing. Just kept my eyes on him, waiting. He rubbed the back of his neck. I mean, it wasn't a shadow. It wasn't a trick of the light. Someone was there.

standing right at the door, I finally asked. Did they knock? Yeah, he said, three times, same as before. But this time I looked, he hesitated, then added, I couldn't make out their face. There was something wrong with the way they were standing. I know that sounds dumb, but they weren't just standing still. They weren't moving right.

sort of held in place. I tried not to show anything, just nodded. Tom leaned in slightly, his voice hushed. You ever think this whole thing is just a small-town ritual to scare outsiders, a test or something? No, I said. His eyes searched mine for a moment, as if he expected more. When I didn't offer it,

it. He stepped back, nodding slowly. Right, of course. He didn't say much after that. We parted ways outside the store. He didn't ask me to come by that evening. I didn't see his lights go off that night. Normally, the cabins up on Brush Hill fade one by one as the town settles into Sunday night. His stayed lit. Porchlight, kitchen light. bedroom, every bulb in the place left glowing well past midnight. I imagined him walking between them, checking locks, pulling back curtains, peering out from behind blinds, had something he wasn't ready to admit he saw. The next day, he stopped by my place, early.

I didn't sleep, he said plainly. Every time I blinked, I thought I'd hear it again. I waited. He tapped the rim of his mug with his thumb. What is this? Some kind of hazing? Did someone follow me up there? No one followed you, I said.

He exhaled. Then why? Why the knocking? Why is this happening? I didn't answer that either. Not because I didn't want to. There just wasn't an answer that would have helped. Instead, I told him, it's not a prank, it's not a test, it's not hazing.

Just don't open the door. That quieted him. His shoulders shifted, jaw tightening. He nodded once sharply. Then look past me toward the trees. After a long silence, he said, I don't like being told what to do in my own home. There was no heat in what he had said.

He clearly wasn't accusing me of anything, and he sure as hell wasn't threatening me. I didn't respond. He left soon after. That week, he kept to himself. Drove into townless. His dog stopped barking entirely. Just sat by the front window, unmoving,

like it was listening for something too quiet for human ears. I knew what was coming. Everyone in town did. We'd seen it before. Some people just can't stand the idea of fear with no form. They'd rather walk straight into it than keep living beside it. And the more you think about it, the more it knocks. Tom was nearing that hedge now.

I could feel it in the way he held himself, in how often his eyes drifted to the hills, to the silence. took just past the tree line. Something in him had changed. And Sunday... It was coming again. The service that weekend was quiet. The pews were full,

but the church was quieter than it had been in a long time. Conversations were half-whispers. Nobody's smile was sincere enough to be wide. You could tell something was brewing under the surface. We all felt it. Tom sat in the back row, hands on his knees, staring straight ahead. He didn't sing, didn't pray, just sat there with a jaw so tense you could see it from across the aisle. The pastor, old Turner, didn't mention him by name, but we all heard it in his sermon. The Lord gives us rules for a reason, he said, and sometimes.

is not ours to understand. Faith without explanation is the hardest kind, the most necessary. Tom stood up before the final hymn, walked out without a word. That night, I sat at my porch with a thermos of tea. The breeze was light but steady. Dry leaves skittered across the wood planks, brushing past my boots without a sound. From where I sat, I could see Brush Hill in the world. the distance. His cabin wasn't close enough to see detail, but the glow of his living room window

cast the low amber hue into the dark. It stayed on for hours. Then, at 1103, it flicked off. I tightened my coat, pulled my collar higher, and went inside. The night stretched on. At 311, I heard it. Three knocks. Not loud, but deep, heavy in a way that wasn't physical. They seemed to roll through the trees, distant but deliberate. I held my breath. Another three spaced exactly the same, and then nothing.

The wind died. with the sound, the trees stopped rustling, the insects fell silent. The whole town seemed to pause. I sat there for a long time, unmoving. Not because I was scared. Fear fades after the first few years. It doesn't go away, but it turns into something else. A kind of resignation, maybe.

This wasn't my first time hearing it. wasn't even my tenth. I think talking to Tom about it so much has made me think about it too much, made me manifest it. But that night, the stillness was different. It felt pointed. I get my porch light on,

but didn't move from my chair, didn't glance toward my own door. After about 12 minutes, the wind returned, A few leaves rustled past the steps. The night went back to normal, but I didn't move. My eyes stayed on the hill the whole time, on that distant patch of forest that swallowed Tom's little cabin.

And as I sat there, watching the dark, I wondered what choices were being made behind his walls, wondered if he was curled up in bed, holding his breath beneath the sheets. or if he was pacing the hall, fists clenched, rehearsing some final act of defiance against the rule he never believed in. I pictured him standing at the door, one hand on the knob, waiting for the knock to come. I didn't hear a scream.

There never is one. Whatever happens, it does not need noise. The stillness was enough, and the quiet, steady. dread that Sunday might have finally claimed. Another, I gave it until mid-morning. Part of me hoped I'd see Tom in town, maybe parked outside the diner or picking up dog food at the supply store, acting tired but sheepish, like someone who'd gone through a long night of nothing and knew he'd been wrong about everything. But I didn't see him. By 10, I was heading up the ridge trail, a thin layer of leaves crunching beneath my boots.

The air was dry, but heavy in a way that made my ears ring. Brush Hill sat still as ever, the trees lining it in silent ranks, leaves barely clinging to their branches. Tom's truck was still in the drive, parked straight, engine cold. I stood at the edge of the path for a moment. just staring at the cabin. There was no movement, no smoke from the chimney. The curtains had been pulled halfway open. I knocked gently on the doorframe, making sure to avoid doing it three times.

Tom? No answer. The door wasn't latched. It hung open a few inches. I pushed it with my fingertips. It creaked wide. inside the air was stale cold enough to see my breath in the shade of the living room there was a cup on the table half full the faint smell of coffee drifted toward me cut with something sourer old sweat or fear left too long in the fibers of the room his coat was missing from the hook his shoes were gone from the mat but his wallet sat on the counter keys

beside it. The lights were off, but the breaker hadn't tripped. I checked anyway. It was as if he'd gone for a walk or a sprint and hadn't come back. I found the dog under the bed. She was trembling, nose-tucked to her stomach, silent as dust. When I knelt down to coax her out, she only blinked, too scared to bark, too scared to do anything but shake.

The final thing I noticed, because it wasn't there at first, was the mark on the doorframe. Three long smears, blackened at the edge, faint ridges of pressure where the wood had been touched hard enough to leave an impression. The residue crumbled slightly when I leaned closer, like ash clinging to the shape of fingers. I stood still for a long time. When I left, I closed the door. I took the dog with me. She did not resist.

A month passed. Tom never turned up. His name wasn't even added to a grave. Just slipped, quietly, into the absence we all knew too well. The council posted a notice. Cabbing on Brush Hill, vacant. Same phrasing every time, never said why. Folks don't ask, not directly. But that week, church was full again and nobody left early. I walked the perimeter every Monday after that,

habit I guess. I don't know what I was hoping to see. Footprints, movement, maybe the edge of something that could explain what waits out there beyond the door. One evening, just before dusk, I paused near the cabin. The front step had leaves gathered in the corner, windblown, untouched. The lock had been changed, but the door still hung crooked. The frame still bore that faint, scorched dent, three uneven points pressed in a line, almost like shy fingers leaving a mark.

The forest was quiet behind me. Even the birds held their breath. Then faintly, I heard it. Knock, knock, knock. Coming from inside, I stood there until the sun dipped behind the trees. My hands in my coat pockets, heart thudding soft against my ribs.

Didn't go in. didn't get closer. Just turned, walked back to town, and didn't tell a soul. Back at home, I opened the leather-bound journal I'd started the year I turned 20. I added Tom's name to the back. There's a list, you see.

It isn't official, it isn't public, but I keep it anyway. He was warned, kind men, but stubborn. If someone else moves in, I'll tell them too. Doesn't mean they'll listen, I wrote in. Some stories don't need chapters, just names. And some lessons in this town are only learned on Sundays.