CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "Mr. Stixenstones" Creepypasta

Episode Date: June 27, 2020

My town had a strange nursery rhyme for generations. What does it mean?CREEPYPASTA STORY►by amkinney99: 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- Jan Drenovec:►https://www.artstation.com/artwork/3Ym9D►https://www.instagram.com/jandrenovec/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/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA 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-

From world-wide top-merken to entrepreneurs who net begin, million-verterower on Shopify, Vercoop online, in your winkel, on Instagram, TikTok, and more. Allers from out one platform. Beheer your products, bestellings and betalings

and betaling, very and easy-fouted. Shopify grew with you with you, every step of the way. Start today not your gratis-proof-periodo on Shopify. That is Shopify.

may break my bones if these words deign to haunt me. That twisted little rhyme has lurked in this town for as long as anyone can remember. Most say it's just the twisted ramblings of a previous generation of small-town folk with poor memory, warping the words of Kingfort or Redford. But the old-timers, those gnarled old geysers and hags that sit on their porch rockers waiting for death, swear on God that those are the real words. the original verse is stolen from the law of this sleepy antique town. The children on the battered playground equipment outside the dilapidated schoolhouse

gleefully shout the words as they run through their games, just as their parents did, just as their grandparents did before, just as I did, barely more than a decade ago. Averyville is an old and forgotten place, originally founded in 1826, and on the decline ever since. since, as the thick forest around it were drained of their bounties and the hills mined dry of silver and oil.

The ragged town is far past the point where such a place can be called quaint. More apt descriptors such as run-down and depressing are more often used. No one not born here stays in Averyville for long. Travelers passing through might stop by the gas station or convenience store, neither of which have seen any kind of upgrade since the 1950s, but they're soon speeding back towards the interstate. I've never seen anyone stay more than one night at the decrepit old motel,

and certainly never more than one car in the guest lot at a time. Though I was born here, delivered in the doctor's office's single medical suite, I was one of the lucky few who escaped the apathetic hold of Aviville, solid schooling and interest beyond the day-to-day monotid, that plagued my fellow classmates, earned me a college scholarship, a rare ticket out of the isolated

and sleepy town which I quickly accepted. I had broken free, pursuing a higher education and heights beyond anything my peers back home could ever hope to accomplish. I earned a degree, a career, and home in a lively city far away. But Averyville has its way to drag me back.

I had received a call, from Dr. Friedman, only a handful of weeks ago. The shaky voice of the man who had delivered me into this world, greeting me over the phone. Static hissed through our entire conversation. Averyville's ancient telephone wires apparently just as decrepit as when I'd grown up there. The kind old doctor had given those fateful words. It's your mother, Alex. She's taken a turn.

He had sighed. It won't be long now. She needs you here. And so, I took a leave of absence from the firm, dropped my cat off at the home of a most willing acquaintance, and, with my affairs in order, I had made the pilgrimage back to my hometown, the pit of missed potential and apathetic misery

that had swallowed my friends and family. I've been living with and caring for my dying mother for just under a month now. The new head of the home I had once cried, grown up in. My mother was never a particularly lively woman, but now she had grown to look positively wasted. She was dreadfully thin, the smallest movements causing her gaunt limbs to shake with the effort. Her hair was thin and patchy, the translucent and spotted skin of her scalp visible under the wisps of white. Her glassy and wet eyes always stared blankly forward

at the television I'd brought into a room. The ravages of dementia. had robbed her of nearly all understanding. The doctor was right. It was only a matter of time. We had never been particularly close, my mother and I. But this experience had strained what little care I had for her. Honestly, I began to fear that, perhaps I hated her. The next door neighbour, a kind middle-aged woman named Mrs. Peterson

would occasionally take my place in the home to allow me at least a few hours of rest. despite from the work of caring for my mother. This was one such time, a brief chance to escape the dismal life of caring for a dying parent, too far gone to even appreciate what you're doing for them. I found myself in the town's only diner, lounging in a battered booth.

Across the greasy table from me sat Chris Vettors, one of the best friends I made in high school. Unlike me, he had never been able to escape this place. when I had called him up from my mother's house he was ecstatic to hear I was back in town we had met to the diner a couple times over the month I'd been here I stared in dull amazement as he ate

finishing his burger in barely three bites Jesus you know I've been watching you eat since we were 13 and I still can't believe you haven't choked to death on a chicken bone or something Chris snorted through a mouth full of fries Hey man gonna take a lot more than a burger to take me

down. I let out a derisive chuckle. I mean, you say that, but how many heart attacks is your old man on now? Six? Chris swallowed his food before laughing, pointing a ketchup-splotched finger my way. Whoa, sticks and stones, man, sticks and stones. Memories washed back over me. It was the first time I'd been reminded of the old playground rhyme since I'd left town

all those years ago, probably. longer. The cold and distant dread I had felt as a child, hearing those words, tingled somewhere deep in my gut. Chris noticed the twitch of dark expression as it flashed across my face. Oh, damn, that's right. He never did like that old rhyme. Uh, I don't know. It's not that I don't like it. I just never quite understood it. Seemed like the old-time is superstitious crap to me. Chris leaned back in the cracked red leather. of the booth. Fair enough, but those golden oldies certainly cling to it. I don't know anyone in

town who wasn't taught the rhyme by their grandparents. He paused, mid-thought, to take a swig of flat coke from his glass. And, I mean, you can't forget about Janney and what they say happened to her. I felt my face flush with a spark of angry annoyance. Janney Moore. It was senior year, man. Why the hell do all you people still talk about Janie like that? I leaned into my words. Have you ever met her piece of crap dad? Her deadbeat mom? Janie ran and got the hell out of this town, just like me.

Chris's mood visibly darkened. Look, Alex, think what you want, but most everyone around here knows the story. And what the hell do you mean, you people? You are born here too, you know. I sighed. Hey, you're right. I'm sorry. I have no right to be an ass.

Taking care of mom has just been crushing. you know. I swear she's killing me just as much as the sickness is killing her. Chris tilted his head and gave a sympathetic half-smile. He had always been understanding. It just always rubbed to me the wrong way when people talked about Janney like that. That something came for her. She bailed, man.

Ran for a better life, you know. I hear you. The people in this town are so convinced though. Always talking about the old stories. People have always trusted too. not just the scene or not cases. I mean, damn, Sheriff Dougal, Principal Green, and Mrs Hayden all say they saw

what came for Journey that night, and I don't think the three of them have ever told a lie in their lives. I frowned again, upset that my burger was cooling into the concealed ball of grease as the conversation took this dark turn. Whatever, man, not convincing.

The whole town was in a panic after Johnny disappeared, group hysteria does crazy things the people's brains. Mrs. Hayden didn't step forward with a story until the sheriff's report was published. She probably just convinced herself she had seen something that night. And

the old times have been shoving stories down her throats since we were born. Of course her head start to manufacture stuff like this. I get where you're coming from. I really do. Chris retorted. But every old story is rooted in something. Something true.

He shrugged and finished off his coke, almost choking as the ice, jammed to the bottom of his glass, slid free. I laughed, shaking my head. You really believe that? You really think that words can choose to be haunted? That Janie chewed out a dirtbag parents, and something heard her, came for her? B-S, man.

That's fairy tale crap. Stories to keep kids from back-talking their parents. Hey, I just know what people say. Chris quietly responded, eyeing, my untouched burger. Without a word I pushed a plate across to him God you're the best

he said with a grin sticks and stones will find your home not trees or seas will hide you it had been six scrawling days since the meal at the diner six days of brutal work alone in my childhood home the last six days

of my mother's life when the big drop came it came fast She couldn't eat, couldn't drink I had to spoon what little thin soup I could into a drooling, slack-jawed mouth The smell was awful Though I bathed her every single day

Hoisting her tiny and decrepit form Into the shallow tub Where there was a constant stench of sickness and bodily waste It was as if the pall of death was oozing from a pause The reek of her sickness clung to everything No matter how much I cleaned Her mind had left her as well. The woman I cared for in the house those final days was no longer my mother.

As dementia and fever boiled in her head, she grew cruel, like a cornered animal, too weak to strike out. She spent what little energy she had, slowing vicious insults in my direction. Her bloodshot eyes tinged with cold malice. Don't you touch me, you cretan. Get your father, he has a belt. Why were you born, useless child? Who are you? Tell me who you are, you stupid face of...

God damn you to hell! For six days, I endured such abuse. My mother and I had never been particularly close. Her cold and distant demeanour ensured I hadn't become particularly attached, but her words cut deep anyway. More than once, I had to lurch from her bedside to slump in the hallway,

unable to hold back the tears any longer. On the sixth and final day, my mother truly unleashed her animal hate. You're killing me, you little, God, you always were an evil little ass. The tears came too fast to leave the room today. She continued to spit her ranted words as the air around us grew thick with the smell of death. I should have smothered you in the crib, never wanted you anyway. I couldn't stand it any longer. I jolted to my feet, bringing an accusatory finger mere inches from my dying mother's face.

Don't say another goddamn word, Mom! The title tasted like acid on my tongue, as my hate for her swelled. I'm tired of this. Just die already! Her face went slack then, the malice and colour draining away in an instant. She turned her glassy eyes to stare directly into my gaze as my hand started to quiver, She spoke in a gentle, quiet way, almost reflective. I said what I said, you said what you said, sticks and stones may break my bones

if these words deign to haunt me. And then she fell silent, eyes blank and unseeing. She slumped down into the bed, her tiny and disease ravaged frame like a broken dull or puppet with its strings cut. Her throat rattled one final, weak exhalation. She was gone. Dr. Friedman and Sheriff Dougal arrived about half an hour after I called them.

Two men who I had considered old even as a child. They stood on the porch as I entered the door. Hats clasped and gnarled hands out of respect for the dead. The rickety old van they used as an ambulance waited in the drive, engine thrumming in the darkness that had fallen. We exchanged quiet words of grief and sympathy, and they took my mother away. I sat in the living room late into the night. The world around me choked by silence.

What did she mean? Why would she say that damn rhyme? Questions pounded inside my skull as I stared out the window into the wind-warked pines beyond the yard, the dark shapes dancing in the night. was always different after nightfall, the outskirts of town hemmed in by black walls of forest and the buzzing chatter of the nocturnal world. The streets themselves were shade labyrinths lit by dim yellow street lights, dolly glowing glass-topped antiquities that flickered in the wind. Narrow homes loomed pale in the night. Decrepid architecture of generations past like hazy

ghosts on the edge of the light, sighing with growing exhaustion and, I rose to my feet and walked to the front door. With a twist I locked the deadbolt and moved to the large landscape window across the room that looked out from the living room and into the yard and street beyond. I reached up and began to yank at the drapes, preparing to close out the night. My heart stopped in my chest and my blood ran cold as ice. The hairs on the back of my neck rose, an incessant itch of mortal danger. thing was walking down the street towards downtown.

I only caught the briefest glimpse, movement in the dim light of a solitary street lamp. Surely I hadn't actually seen anything. A pale limb, a leg perhaps, swinging out of the light. It had been so long and thin, like a stroke of a white pen. But I had seen it, bending and stepping out along the street. No, no way. I stepped back from the window, shaking the sleep from my head. Get a grip, Alex.

You just had a hell of a day. Your mother passed away. You're exhausted. Take it easy, all right? Yeah, exhausted and seeing things. That's what it had to be. Shakily, I finished closing the drapes and collapsed onto the couch. Sleep overtook me, plagued with dreams of thin limbs, chalky skin,

and the impassive stare of an apex predator. Sticks and stones will take a prize. No hurried flight can save you. I awoke with a sudden jolt, sunlight breaching the thin gap between the drapes. The hurried wrapping upon the door sounded again, stealing the last of the drowsiness from my mind. I opened the door to the time-weathered face of Sheriff Dougal.

A grimace of concern under his bushy white mind. mustache. He took his cap in his hand as he started to speak. Alex, may I step inside? It's about your mother. We set across the dining room table from one another, separated by a vase of wilted flowers and some ragged old doilies. Finally, I broke the silence. What do you mean she's gone? Like you guys moved her to the Morgan Braxton? The sheriff shook her head. What I mean is she's gone. She's gone. Alex, I don't know what to say. We took her to the morgue in the basement

of the doctor's office last night and when he and the mortician opened up the door this morning, she wasn't there anymore. Just furnished. All do respect, Dougal. But what the hell do you mean? Someone stole my dead mother? That she got up and walked away?

Huh, Sheriff? I couldn't contain my frustration. Sheriff Dougal drolled in his slow manner of speech. I don't know, Alex. You'd know I wouldn't be lying to you. You've known me too long for that. He sighed defeatedly.

No signs of a breaking, nothing else stolen or broken. Just your mother gone missing. Doors were still locked when Doc Freeman got back this morning. I dropped my head into my hands, nearly shaking with anger and confusion. It didn't make any sense. How was she acting before she passed? was she angry? The sheriff's sudden question

made my stomach twist in knots. Excuse me? Your mother, was she acting like herself before she passed away? What does this have to do with anything? Sometimes people change at the end. Say things. Did she say things, Alex?

My face flushed red as I instinctively bared my teeth. Jesus, you too, her? You're talking about the wrong. Like what happened with... Janney Moore. Yeah. Dougal sighed as he leaned back into his chair. A lot like that case, Alex.

No way. Janie bailed out of this hellhole. One of the few people around here smart enough to get out what they still could. If I hear one more damn story about her... Did you say things back to your mother? What? When she changed in the end, did you say things back to her? What does that have to do with anything? So you did.

What kind of question is that? I see it across the table. The sheriff's face, impassive, under-thinking eyes. So you did, all right. He said, standing from his chair, and collecting his cap from the table beside him. I'll let you know if any more information comes out about your mother. Yeah, sure.

Get out of here into your job, Dougal. I spat as I followed him to. to the door. As he stepped out onto the porch, he turned back to me. I don't mean to be insensitive, but I just hope that this is some weirdo with a key to the morgue,

for your sake. As he turned and walked towards his squad car, I rolled my eyes, a petulant and juvenile act of impotent defiance. I shoved the door closed, catching the sheriff muttering a short burst under his breath.

I couldn't hear the way, words, but I didn't need to. I slumped back onto the couch, mind contorting to contend with all that had transpired. Sticks and stones, a spiteful foe. He takes more if you flee him. Chris came by my house later in the day, having snatched a bag of takeout from the diner on his way over after work. I had called him not too long after the sheriff had left, and he was more than willing to come keep me company after a shift at the run-down old mill. We hadn't talked much, sitting in tent

silence as evening came and passed. As the sun began to dip behind the pines, I turned to my friend. I don't get it, man. Why is this happening? Who would do something like that? Steal a corpse. Chris sniffed, pausing for a moment before

responding. There are a lot of freaks out in the world. Bad people. It's just he trailed off again. It's just what? It's Avaryville. People talk, you know. Talk about the old stories.

Talk about what happened to Janney. What happened to your mom? He saw the tired, exasperated look fall across my face. Not that they mean anything by it. It's just talk. Just the old time is talking. I let slip a frustrated sigh. Too tired to be angry anymore.

Damn, man. Should have known. we had always moved quick in this town. Chris raised his eyebrow in a wry agreement. So, what are they saying? I finally asked, already knowing what he was going to say. He stooped forward on the couch, fidgeting his half-empty beer bottle, obviously uncomfortable. Just, you know, it came and took her.

Uh, stigs and stones, like the rhyme. I snorted in Derison. Yeah, what a load of crap. Mr. Daring down at the diners swears he saw something last night. Mrs. Bormann swear she saw it walking down the street towards town. Weird stuff, man. My chest gripped tight as he said that. The memory of a thin white limb, just out of view, brought screaming back to the front of my mind.

What? What did she say about it? Ah, you know, just something walking down the door. the street. I mean, she's old, probably just half remembering what Principal Green described back when Johnny went missing, you know. I could tell he was holding back how he really felt, being tender around my beliefs about Averyville's old law. I could tell, he was scared. And truth to be told, so was I. I didn't know what I had seen, what I really believed. We sat in content. contemplative silence for a few long minutes, both of us struggling against what we held as truth and the strangeness that it seeped into our lives.

Night had fallen in earnest at this point, the windows only lit by the dim lamppost across the street, its bending L-curve standing alone on the sidewalk. The rest of the world was swallowed by the blackness of a starless night and the bows of the pines. Chris quietly nursed down the rest of his beer as I stared to port. the big front window, lost deep in thought. The wind washed through the trees, whistling down the street and causing the street light to gently rock back and forth, almost hypnotically. A narrow, pale face peaked out from behind the street lamp at the end of the L curve.

My scream caught to my throat, strangled by shock and disbelief as to what I was seeing. behind the post stood up, knowing it had been spotted. It straightened up from its previous position, matching the silhouette of the streetlight, rising to a standing height taller than the utility post it hit behind. Unnaturally thin, impossibly so, a thing two stories tall, thin enough to hide behind a light pole. It stepped out from its hiding place on stick-thin legs. A human form stretched beyond the creative vision of every. any sane god.

With a jointless, awkward gate, it stepped from where it stood, pale flesh disappearing into the blackness beyond the dim lamp. Shocked, I slowly turned back to Chris. He was frozen next to me

on the couch, his eyes locked on the window. He muttered a name under his breath. A dull, groaning creek, pressed in from somewhere in the old house,

a testing pressure on an external wall. Chris and I jolted upward, catching each other's terrified glances. The slow creaking sounded again, from somewhere else outside the building. Then the house fell silent. Chris and I stood, stock still, holding our breath as the quiet coiled in around us. From upstairs, we heard it. A faint, rusted rattle as one of the antique window clasps ground open.

We got to go, man, Chris hissed, barely moving as he listened to the quiet clamoring above us. No, no, this isn't real, it's not, it's not. I snatched up an empty beer bottle from the table in front of me. Screw this, screw this. I took off towards the staircase, brandishing my chosen weapon, dashing up the stairs three at a time. I heard Chris's shouted protest, but I had a little. already made up my mind. I skidded to a halt at the top of the stairs, eyes straining against the darkness of the hallway

that stretched beyond me. Ahead to my right was the door to my childhood bedroom, shut tight. To my left, the narrow alcove that held the home's tiny washroom dryer, and straight ahead the open door to my parents' room, the room in which my mother had died. the door to that room sat open. Beyond the frame I could see the window, open and with the white curtains on either side of it billowing in the wind like manic spectres.

Beyond the whistle of wind, the hall was silent as death. I held the bottle above my head, preparing to smash it over the head of anything I encountered. I crept slowly forward, eyes locked on the open doorway before me. My bare feet caused the eyes,

old houses floorboards to creak with an odd protest as I made my way silently cursing the groaning noise. After an agonizingly slow advance, I reached the doorway, steadying myself on the frame with my free hand. Every step I took felt as if it would be my last, as if whatever I'd seen outside would lash out from the darkness to strike me down. God, was it even real? It had been so quick, so ethereal. Group hysteria, right? Chris and I were just seeing things. I couldn't tell anymore.

The wing gusted, sending the curtains billowing towards me in waves of undulating fabric and shocking me from my thoughts. Heart racing and eyes wide, I slowly realized there was nothing in the room. No ghosts, no ghouls, no nothing from an old schoolyard rhyme. Sighing with release.

I turned back to face the hall in time to see Chris cresting the stairs, joining me on the second floor. He spoke as he made his way towards me. Damn man, is there anything back there? His voice was shaky, with barely concealed terror. No, nothing, and replied as he continued down the hall. Nothing at all. Damn, man, damn, can we just get out of here? It doesn't feel right.

Feels like the night Janney disappeared. It feels like he never got to finish his sentence. With jerking movements, fast and silent, a spasming flesh, something emerged from the partially ajar hatch on the dryer. It unfurled narrow, lashing limbs and its pale, gaunt body from within the tiny space, looping outward jointly like a filling hose or spilled innards. A leg emerged, then a shoulder. an arm, a hand, its white worm-like meat spilling out into the hall.

It was so, so very thin, absurdly so. It's so tall that as it emerged from its hiding place, its wiry form filled the hall like scrolling lines. So tall, my mind arched with the task of comprehending how it had contorted itself into such a tiny opening. Only the limbs of the thing gave any indication that this twisted mass of unfolding something was in any way humanoid.

Arms and legs alike ended in hands, bearing fingers, as long as my legs that spasmed and twitched like the limbs of a fly-trap in web. Its head emerged, turning to face me with a blank, predatory stare.

Its mouth was a wide, lipless slit, held tightly shut. Its eyes were black, glassy orbs, white set in its wormy visage, wet with mucous, and rolling in its skull.

It opened his mouth as it saw me, revealing a yawning black moor, surrounded by blackened gums, from which jutted jagged, nub-like teeth. The thing lurched out into the hallway, faster than either of us could have imagined such a thing could ever move, unfurling and unfolding into a mess

of bent limbs and white flesh between Chris and I. I let out a shocked scream, terror and adrenaline, overtaking all rational thought, Chris stood stock-still and gagging on his breath, shocked into an action. Instinct overtook me and I turned towards the room behind me, dashing for the open window. I heard the thing slithering one of its bizarre limbs snaking towards me, pale meat creaking and stretching out to take me into its clutches.

I burst through the open window, tender-like fingers caressing the back of my neck as I narrowly dodged, would have been certain death. As I rolled and bounced along the roof of the porch, I caught a glimpse back through the window. As the thing turned away from me as I escaped it, and it fixed its stare back down the hall towards Chris. One last hard bounce and I was plummeting over the edge, my weight crashing into the rusted gutter and tearing it free. I hit the ground heavily, landing hard on my back and ripping the air from my lungs.

Just as blackness overtook me, I heard Chris start to scream. I was only out for a few minutes at most, drifting from traumatic unconsciousness to dizzy awareness as my body urged itself back into action. As I came to, I found myself where I had fallen, lying in my back among the grass of the front yard. I watched through hazy eyes, blurred by tears and pain, as the thing walked. passed me towards the street. It towered above me, lurching forward on thin limbs. As it passed, it looked down at me with its passive, staring face in little more than a disinterested glance. Then I saw its stomach, no longer narrow and pale like the rest of its body, but instead distended and deep red like an overfed tick. From within came an awful,

slow grinding noise like the shifting of wet gravel in a slow-motion blender, the sound of what could have only been shredding flesh and splintering bone. Occasionally a shape would press weakly out against the translucent crimson skin, the desperate, broken limbs and contorted face of my dying friend as the thing's innards took him apart. The thing stepped beyond me, long legs like pale cable, carrying its stride far out into the dimly lit street. Sticks and stones looked away from me as it went,

disappearing into the darkness beyond the streetlight. As the dead weight of silence pressed in all around me, oppressive on my aching and fallen body, I succumbed once again to the blackness.