CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "Letters From My Baby's Killxr" Creepypasta

Episode Date: March 20, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by NewAgeSolution: 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►Maxim Verehin: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/nQ...​SUGGESTED 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/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 year was 2001. I was attending a neighbourhood potluck at the local park with my wife and our newborn son we named Ashton. Our friends were elated upon learning we had our first and would be meeting Ashton for the first time that day. Everyone fussed over him and the adorable circular birthmark beneath his left eye, debating which of us he looked like more and how excited their kids were to have a new friend. There were about a dozen of us that occupied three picnic tables. We had three or four coolers, a whole spread of different platters and trays that covered the entire table, along with burgers and hot dogs cooking on two charcoal grills. My cross-street neighbour Fred grilled while everyone else talked, drank and played games. Ashton laid in his carriage, which I parked in the shade of an oak tree next to the grills.

I kept Fred company while he cooked. acting as a sort of sous chef and making sure his drink was full. The park was particularly busy and, despite everything going on, I spotted someone who appeared to be watching our group, sitting alone at a picnic table about ten yards from our spot. His clothes, stretchy black pants and a heavy-looking hoodie that obscured his face were so uncharacteristic for a midsummer day and made him very noticeable. The hooded man sat facing us with his arms folded on the table.

I pointed him out to Fred, who acknowledged something seemed off, but thought he appeared harmless. Maybe he's meeting someone, I suggested, while pouring Fred a beer. Without any discretion, Fred turned and stared directly at the man. Could be, Fred said, with disinterest while flipping a new burger. Maybe he got stood up, we'll fix him a plate to make him feel better. I rolled my eyes at Fred's remark, unable to resonate with his unapolable to resonate with his unapolable. logetic apathy. I couldn't ignore my instincts that were telling me this guy was here for another reason. Nobody else seemed to notice or mind him, and I didn't want to put a damper on the gathering,

so I kept quiet about my apprehensions. Despite being unable to see much of his face, I definitely felt the man's looming gaze briefly lock with mine a few times. After convincing myself he didn't have good intentions, I decided to confront this peculiar individual. Let's see what's up with this guy, I said softly to Fred. It's those newfound parental instincts kicking in, Fred said, jokingly. They get a little wonky at first, just an FYI. I started towards the man's table, but froze upon hearing an ear-splitting crack, booming sound of shattering glass and crunching metal.

Everyone in the park stopped and stared at the parking lot, where a large tree limb had broken and smashed two cars. "'The hell?' Fred exclaimed as he set his spatula down and raced towards the scene. The tree limb fell on Fred's car, which mine was parked next to, and partially covered by the massive branches' leafy appendages. Throwing my arms up in the air, I released her, "'What the hell of my own?' and followed behind Fred. Rachel was already assessed in our car when I arrived,

shuddering, upon spotting a few good-sized scratches, dense, and windchill cracks, I expected Rachel to be as equally upset. Instead, she gave me up a perplex stare. Where's the baby? She quickly asked. I immediately pivoted, instantly noticing the hooded man left his table and was beelining towards the grills.

I broke into an all-out sprint upon determining the hooded man would reach Ashton first, releasing a boisterous hay that I hoped would deter him and get others to notice. What happened next took a matter of seconds, but felt like it unraveled in slow motion. The hooded man, wearing thick padded gloves, removed one of the grill's metal grates and grabbed its side handles. He turned to me once more before lifting the grill, and dumped the red-hot coals into Ashton's carriage. A loud, hiss-like sizzle mixed as my baby's shrill, blood-curdling shriek rang out.

His screams only lasting two or three seconds before the cab. carriage burst into flames. Grabbing handfuls of my hair as I reached Ashton's carriage, I can only scream his name and instinctively knocked the stroller over with a firm kick. Glowing coals, charred blankets, pillows, and Ashton's small remains spilled out, most the which was still on fire. The hooded man took off across the field while being pursued by Fred and two others. I could instantly tell Ashton was dead, whose stiff, crumpling body was completely doused in flames.

and produced a burnt aroma that filled my nostrils. I heard my wife's hysterical screams behind me as I felt my legs give out and collapse in a heap. Rachel was so inconsolable she had to be sedated by the paramedics. I faded in and out with most of the time between witnessing Ashton's murder and being taken to the hospital feeling like a blur.

While waiting for an update to my wife, an officer came up to me and said they caught the hooded man who initially escaped the park. I was brought to the police station where I first laid eyes on him through a one-way mirror while he sat in an interrogation room. The man's appearance was grotesque and he had appalling physical deformities. His skin was light pinkish beige and littered with vainy, blotchy, grey and black growths. He was completely hairless and a dark yellow eyes whose right one was about twice the size as is left. I was met with repulsion and boiling fury

while gazing upon his murderous subhuman life form whose windpipe I yearned to crush them like bare hands After confirming I did not recognize him Detectives told me he was being classified as a John Doe The hooded man had no form of identification Wasn't showing up on any databases And hasn't spoken a word After getting assured he wouldn't be released any time soon

They asked me a few more questions before letting me go, promising to provide updates on any new developments. I returned to the hospital where Rachel was still being treated for a severe mental breakdown. I spent that night in the waiting room, mostly with my face buried in my cupbed hands, replaying the day's grisly, life-woldering events in my head. At some point, I dozed off, and was awoken the next morning by a nurse. She brought me to the doctor caring for Rachel, who said, my wife was in a deep state of catatonic shock.

After being updated on Rachel's condition, I returned home to start arranging Ashton services. No sooner than taking three steps out of the hospital, however, I was stopped by the same officer who brought me to the police station yesterday. The officer looked distraught, who I could tell dreaded what he was about to say. He's gone, the officer said sorrowfully. Who's gone?

I asked in bewilderment. The man who killed your baby. He somehow escaped last night. No witnesses, nothing on the camera, no signs of how. He was in his cell one minute and gone the next. The hooded man was never found. Rachel made little progress overcoming a deliberating trauma, spending the next year in and out of psychiatric care.

My life consisted of work, visiting Rachel at the hospital and going to bed. About two months passed, during which things continued to gradually implode. Rachel returned home, but was on a cocktail of meds that barely seemed to help. She became a bitter, hostile shell of her former self, barely capable of functioning independently, and, prone to sporadic fits of rage, delirium, or emotional episodes. Rachel blamed me for our baby's death and made it her mission to keep me consistently reminded. I reached my breaking point with Rachel when she used a point. broken bottle to attack me during one of her episodes, slicing my arm and neck, which required

over a dozen stitches. After this incident, Rachel was put in a mental care facility, and I decided to explore my legal options for ending on marriage. She could be looked after by a family, I thought. Most of them also hated and blamed me for Ashton's death anyway, even saying I was responsible for Rachel's mental breakdown. My boss's wife connected me with a divorce attorney to look at my case. When I met him at his office, however, he said something that took me completely off guard. I've actually been expecting you, Mr. Williard, the attorney said, while rummaging through one of his desk drawers. I have something here with instructions I give it to you on the 1st of September, which is today. He slid a yellow manila envelope in front of me, which had my name in large black letters.

inside was a light grey envelope that also had my name handwritten on it in red ink Who did it come from? I asked awkwardly I only spoke to him twice One year ago when he initially called And last night when he reminded me about today The attorney said

He just identified himself as Mr Doe Sent me a large water of cash to hold this for him And that was that Didn't ask any questions That's sometimes how it is in this business. The envelope's letter contained a vertical list of numbers with other sets of digits, words or letters beneath each one, and were written in the following order. 9. 112.001 1177- 175.953. Next paragraph. 12-262-004-758

91. Next paragraph 342 012, 700 UTC, capital. Next paragraph. 842.020 NH4 N034-132-029-1997 XF11. Skin. The manila envelope also held a white CD with Watchin Order written across its surface.

I didn't even get done what I originally came to the attorney for, becoming completely sidetracked by the Mr. mysterious package. I ran the CD on my computer, which had a handful of video files labelled 1 through 5, remembering the disc said, watch in order, I opened the first file. My heart stopped when the video began playing. Appearing on screen was the deformed face of my baby's killer. The man who murdered my baby sat in a concrete room, wearing the same heavy hoodie and blackstretched pants as he did that day. I would have pulled my computer off the desk and thrown it across the room

if the shock from seeing his hideous face didn't numb me to a state of borderline paralysis. After fiddling with the camera, the hooded man leaned back and stared intently into the lens. I'm so sorry, Jeremy, he said in a low, gruff voice, causing sharp chills to raise down my spine when he spoke my name. I really am so sorry, so sorry for everything, but you must understand why this happened. Let me start from the beginning. I took sharp breaths and struggled to maintain my composure, but felt compelled to continue watching. My name obviously isn't Mr. Doe.

It's Aerek, and I'm from the year, 267. I know it sounds absurd, but you have something that will prove what I'm telling you is true. The man who identified himself as A-rek leaned closer towards the camera. Just know, this was for a greater good, and doing this actually saved countless lives. I leaned back and stared skeptically at the computer screen. My intensifying hatred for this man clashing with a queasy uneasiness ushered in when he admitted to being the Mr. Doe, from whom I received the package. Okay, now that I've got your attention, here's where it gets complicated, Eric continued. Some years from now, I can't get into specifics.

A catastrophe is going to occur that devastates the world. Among the most adverse ramifications are a series of physical mutations, a portion of the population undergoes, as you can clearly see. Eric gestured towards his deformed face. We're known as defects and require special treatment to stay alive, like routine radiation doses and staying within certain temperature ranges, just to mention a few. cases of radiation

and new disease outbreaks originating from defects turned us into pariahs. Eric sighed. This is where your son comes in. During these times we call Ashton Williard the Damashient. He was a renowned public figure whose faction quickly rose to power

in the cataclysm's aftermath, feeding off people's maniputable emotions and fears. Seeking a scapegoat amidst their promises to rebuild the DeMax, as his minions were called, set their sights on the defects. They succeeded in generating enough widespread hatred against us, even going as far as the sage violent attacks and pinning us as the culprits.

The video had me completely engaged. The Damachian cited these attacks and our susceptibility to infect and contaminate people as grounds to start rounding us up into containment camps. We knew the risks we posed towards the unaffected portion of the population and took great pains to isolate and care for ourselves while researchers worked tirelessly to discover a cure. Eric hung his head.

They actually came close, but the programs were discontinued without explanation. The camps had inhumane conditions. Many died from disease or malnourishment before the demacs began extermination. The things they did would make history's most heinous figures cringe. You'll see what I mean when you watch the other files. I lost everyone in those camps, Jeremy.

Doing this was the only way to reverse that, and end the Damakian suppressive reign. I felt a lump form in my throat and held back tears, simultaneously empathizing with Eric, while still reluctant to believe his story. Your son was ravenous for power. The Damak's invasively occupied territory, eventually starting a multinational war. They killed millions of defects, but those numbers pale in comparison to the tens of millions who perished, just in the war alone. A few tears streamed down Eric's face. It's okay to talk about what your son would have become

since that timeline is being eliminated. As for why I killed him in such a gruesome manner, doing it on that exact moment and way was the only option to stably alter the timeline. My heart sank while I recall that fateful day, particularly when the tree limb fell in our cars. It was the perfect distraction. Did Eric know that?

that would happen? Did he change time to make that branch break, knowing how immediately it would occupy my attention? Jeremy, I know you're probably having a hard time believing this. I would too, but think about how I just vanish myself. I'd love to explain how it works, but is against the rules to directly reveal certain information. Eric held up a light grey envelope with my name written in red ink, the same one I received. That's why I sent you this. They were clues for the events that will occur in the future, which will verify this is very real. Think of it as a puzzle. It's actually quite easy once you figure it out. There's some considerable time between each instance, but don't worry. I'll send you reminders.

I know you're hurt, confused and angry right now. But please believe me when I say, a great loss or tragedy is sometimes necessary to prevent something much worse from happening. After the video ended, I stared at the computer for what felt like hours. Tearing, perspiring and trembling, I had no idea what to believe. After recollecting myself, I watched the other videos, which are compilations of newspaper clippings, excerpts from news broadcasts and raw footage depicting scenes of war and unfathomable carnage. They seemed to map out everything Eric described,

mentioning the cataclysm, defects, de max rise to power, and their imperialistic campaign. Headlines like, experts, recoveral will take a few years, over 10-K-new mutation cases confirmed, link between defects and contamination outbreak identified, and DeMack's complete southern coast occupation, caught my eye, more videos and pictures flashed on the screen

that Eric's words did little justice in describing. I saw images of war-torn horizons and crumbled city skylines, explosions, scores of marching or fighting soldiers, along with dead and dismembered bodies. The most disturbing scenes show defects performing hard labour, rooms with the bodies and severed limbs hanging from meat hooks, mass executions and graves, even some getting their deformities cut off or experimented on while still conscious.

It didn't take long for me to deduce a robust, prominent-looking man dining a black authoritative uniform and long overcoat, who I saw clips of making fiery speeches, getting paraded around while waving to crowds, speaking with officers, other official-looking figures, and transported by arm security details. What was my son? Despite having his mother's eyes, Ashton bore an overwhelming striking resemblance to me. But what indisputably verified my son's identity was the birthmark still visible beneath his left eye.

Despite the macabre prospects of his future, I was initially proud of my son, which I suppose comes natural for any parent, until I reminded myself what he would have turned into. A genocidal warlord whose totalitarian regime appeared to deepen the world's state of ruin. I stopped watching after one scene of Ashton making a passionate speech when I noticed an elderly man and woman sitting in the background.

They were huddled closely together and gazed upon Ashton, the faces containing conflicted expressions of admiration and obligatory supportiveness, along with disappointment, concerned. and dismay. My jaw dropped and I released a gasp like Yelp before abruptly closing the video. Rachel and I were that elderly couple.

Experiencing a way for smothering lightheadedness, I tried pouring myself a drink only to violently regurgitate it while standing over the sink. Those videos look so genuine and I hated how everything Eric said arguably made sense. Was my son really destined to become this monstrous tyrant?

Was there some elaborate sadistic prank a deranged individual was orchestrating to gain pleasure at the expense of my suffering? I tried thinking of every conceivable explanation to not believe, but couldn't be convinced. My attention shifted to the notes, series of numbers that meant nothing upon review. Remembering Eric said to,

think of it as a puzzle, I looked at the first set of characters. 9.12.001.1177. 175.93. What are you trying to tell me here? I asked out loud. There must be something more to this. About one week later, I received an identical light grey envelope in the mail. It contained a handwritten letter, also in red ink, and simply read 9-12-001.

Just reminding you. I spent weeks trying to crack the cryptic code, which consumed me for months to no avail. It would take me over three years to finally figure it out when the next letter arrived. After finalising my divorce with Rachel, I moved back to my home state and reconnected with an old high school sweetheart. We got engaged with starting our own company

and, in the process of purchasing a house, I was grateful to finally move on with my life. But despite getting closure on Ashton's death, still kept the indecisurable letters. Christmas was five days away. and I returned home from gift shopping when I found a light grey envelope lying on my doormat. Despite immediately knowing what it was, the envelope's mere sight flooded my head with memories of Ashton's screams, his burning carriage and Eric's unendurable face. I shakily opened the envelope to find another letter which read 12-262-004.

Do you believe me yet? On the first letter written under 12-266. 2-004 were the numbers 758-9-1. This time around however, I was more concerned Eric knew where I lived than solving this mystery. I was about to dial

911, but remembered when Eric said he'd be sending me reminders and decided to play along, feeling certain this letter was his latest. I figured everything out a few days later, ironically while writing a final check to my divorce lawyer. It was the day after

Christmas, and I had the news on while paying some bills. They were talking about a massive earthquake and tsunami that devastated coastal communities across the Indian Ocean. I was so distracted by the story, I always put the karma of the Czech's numerical amount in the wrong spot. While stopping myself, I looked at the Czech state, which read December 26, 2004. Remembering, I was anticipating something significant to happen, I grabbed the original letter and stared closely at the number.

12-262-004. Thinking about the same mistake I almost made on the check, I rewrote the figure and shifted the second comma one digit to the left, so it now read 12-26-2004. I did the same with the top number, going from 9-112-001 to 9-11-201, which was when it became clear. They were dates. It was something the news anchor said that I happened to hear.

The earthquake registered 9.1 on the Richter scale that drew my stare at the numbers beneath 12-262-004, which was 758 and 91. Then it came to me. 91 signified the earthquake's magnitude. I learned that quake happened at 7.58 a.m. local time, which I linked to the other number 758. solving the 9-112-001 figures was even more unsettling.

The date it translated to was obvious, and, after doing some research, deduced the other numbers represented the flight numbers of each aircraft involved. I started shaking when the reality of this revelation hit me, almost having a nervous breakdown when I couldn't fathom any other way that Eric, or whoever this was, could have known this information.

My perceptions of reality, space and time, were turned upside down, marking a day that forever changed my life. I still resented Eric for killing my baby, and will always keep Ashton's memory alive, because I remember him as an adorable, innocent baby who didn't hurt or wrong a single soul. Having said that, I finally understood what Eric meant. I translated the last three numbers.

3.42.012 became March 4th, 2012. 842-020 turned into August 4th 2020, and 4-132-029 was April 13th, 2029. Despite the tragic nature of the events that already happened, I understood why Aerec chose them specifically. They mostly happened by pure chance and could not have been predicted or prevented. Having said that, I spent the last 15 years making vain efforts at determining what happens on each of these dates before the events unfold. with hopes of preventing a tragedy. As expected, I received my next letter over seven years later in late winter of 2012. I know you don't need these reminders anymore, but sent this one just in case was what I read.

Under 342012 on the original letter I received over a decade ago, 700 UTC and Capital were written. and March 4th, 2012, a series of deadly explosions caused by an armstomp rocked Brazzaville, capital city of the Republic of Congo. The blast started around 8 a.m. local time, which translated to 7 coordinated universal time, otherwise known as UTC. That made sense. The most recent event happened this past summer. My next letter arrived the last week of July, which said 842.020.

See you soon. Don't do anything stupid. I'll be watching. I obsessed over what this meant, unsure how it pertained to the next event I expected to occur on August 4th, beneath 842020 and the original letter with the terms NH4N03 and Port, whose meanings I could only speculate until the actual event transpired.

I'm sure most of us remember the explosion that happened in Beirut, Lebanon. Port signified weather blasts. happened, the port of Beirut. This one took me a while, but I figured out NH4 N-O-3 was the chemical formula for ammonium nitrate which caused a deadly explosion. There's a good amount of time between now and the last event, which should be on April 13, 29, after translating it from the numerical figure of 4132029. Beneath it on the original letter, that I still have after all these years, the phrase is 1997X F11 and

skin are written. I have no idea what they're foreshadowing and probably won't until the actual day. I've kept this knowledge of the future away from my then-fiancee, who's now my wife for 14 years. We have a thriving company under us, along with a house, and two beautiful children.

The letters and their connection to Ashton's death are tied to a completely different part of my past that my family was not involved in or as much knowledge about and I intended to keep it that way until we met our new neighbours they were a very nice couple

from the north-east that relocated for the husband, Corey's job they have one child who's around the same age as our kids that have gotten along famously along with a two-month-old baby boy looking back and I think I understand now

what the most recent letter I received meant The name of my neighbor's newborn son is Eric.