CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - ”My Aunt Collects Some Weird Keepsakes” Creepypasta

Episode Date: December 2, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by beardify: 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►Danny Ingrassia: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/Dx...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-

What-nots, knick-knacks, chocca, trifles, bric-a-brac, you know, keepsakes. My Aunt Mandel had hundreds of them in the cobwebby darkness above the bathroom door, starting down from the headboard of the bed with those unblinking eyes and wide painted smiles, marching along the hallway shelves looking like pale dusty dancers twisting in the moonlight. At ten years old, they fascinated me. Why would anyone bother having toys that they never played with? with, I just sat around gathering dust. What was the point of all these little ceramic people?

I remember the day that my curiosity turned to fear. I was alone in Art Mandel's upstairs hallway, a laughter and light conversation of the adults drifted up from the staircase. My eyes fixed on a set of mugs in front of me. Each mug was shaped like a face, a grinning English gentleman, a drunk sailor, a winking lady. Art Mandel was very strict about a privacy and her possessions. She'd probably be furious if she knew I was exploring the house by myself

and I might not ever have another chance to get a closer look at these weird old things with their soulless eyes and fixed expressions. I reached out my hand for the sailor. As I did, the pupils of the painted eyes shifted. They were looking right at me. To my shock and horror, the mug's face became. under change. The rosy cheeks stretched, becoming gaunt and starved. The bright eyes shrank and retreated into bruised hollow sockets. The door dropped from the smiling mouth, which opened into a

toothless pit. It was like it was screaming. I screamed at myself, then fell backwards my hurry to escape. I scrambled to my feet and ran straight into Aunt Mendel. What are you doing up here? She asked coldly. Talking to Art Mendel was always like an interrogation. I grunted with fright, pointing up to... A perfectly ordinary porcelain mug. I blinked. There's no way I'd just imagined all that, right? Be good for your Aunt Mendel, honey.

I heard my grandfather shout up the stairs. Of course, my parents' yearly anniversary getaway, the one where I always got left with some relative for a few days. This was the first time I was staying over with Art Mandel. They must have had no old. other options, I thought. The thought that I'd be sleeping with all these eerie figurines around made my stomach churn. Like most 10-year-olds, I hated being compared to other kids, but I had a sudden urge to grab my mother's skirt and beg not to be left alone with my creepy

old aunt in a creepy old home. I was still trying to think of a way to convince my parents when I heard their car start outside. Panicking, I ran past the rows of staring trinkets and out into the driveway. But it was already too late. They were gone. Behind me, I saw the dark shape of Art Mandel on the porch. Her hands crossed behind her back, waiting. Art Mandel had always been a mystery to me.

She was my mother's older sister, yet she looked younger than any of her siblings. Even so, with a glacial blue eyes, pale blonde bun of hair and square jaw, intense or calculating, would describe her better than youthful. When she spoke, people in my family did as they were told. Even my father, who had his own business and didn't take crap from anyone. On the rare occasions at Mandel showed up for the holidays, she sat at the head of the table, slept in the best bedroom, and scheduled our activities with the cold precision of a train timetable. When she showed up, conversations got quieter,

like even the adults were afraid to speak out of turn, but no one ever talked about it. Thanks to Art Mandel, I first experienced the unsettling realisation there were people out there who my parents were afraid of, and some of them were in my own family. Slouching my shoulders, I followed Aunt Mandel back into the house, she opened the door seemingly at random and pointed inside. This will be your room. Before me, I saw a cot that looked about as soft as a rock, a giant antique metal fan and wall-to-wall knick-knacks. Art Mandel looked me over sternly, ignoring my crestfallen expression. Dinner is at seven sharp. Do not touch anything except where you brought with you.

Without another word, she turned on a heel and marched back down the hallway. I sighed, lay down on a slap-like cot, then took out her chapter book and started to read. As hard as I tried to distract myself with the adventures of the Magic Treehouse Kids, I just couldn't relax. Art Mandel's house had the stillness and silence of a predator, readying its leap. Every time I looked up at the embroidery, statuettes and other keepsakes, I felt sure they'd shifted somehow, and the more I noticed, the more intense the changes became. The strings from a piece of needlework rewove themselves into a string of numbers. 138-576

138-577-0-2-9-0-7-0-78-15-6-2626-18 155-6-28-18-15-29 There were hundreds of them I finally tore my eyes away to focus on a series of paintings the sort of phony 19th century kind that usually showed a hunter stumbling around with his hounds a peaceful fall scene There was nothing peaceful about the image

before me. The background had become black smoke, a burning pit and searchlights lit the scene. The hunter's clothing was black too, except for a red armband with a symbol on it that I was sure I'd seen on TV before. His hounds had become German shepherds, and instead of a fox, he pointed his rifle at a wall of emaciated people in pyjamas. Ten-year-old me had no idea what to make of this, but the gruesome details were becoming more and more realistic with each passing moment. If I leaned in close, I could even smell the ashes and hear a shrieking siren. Shuddering, I fled.

Outside, I found an old soccer ball that some neighbourer kids must have lost in Aunt Mendel's overgrown garden. I kicked it around a bit, mostly just to try to forget what I'd seen. I wondered where Aunt Mandel was. I wondered how she could live in that house. She didn't seem to care about, or even notice any of the strange goings on. It made me think that maybe even ghosts were afraid of Aunt Mandel.

I managed to kill time until the sunset and a distant clock told 7pm. Art Mandel was already placing a lone plate on the kitchen table. Your dinner, she stated, clean up when you're finished. Maybe Aunt Mandel just wasn't hungry, I figured. Truth was, I wasn't exactly excited about boiled cabbage and potatoes either. But that was my only option. Aunt Mandel watched me eat for a moment, and knowing smirk on her face. She seemed to enjoy my struggle with the boiled vegetables.

Then she was gone again. Alone again, I forced down as much of my food as I could, cleaned up, and took out my drawing supplies, do my best, not even to look at anything, except the paper in front of me. There was no sound except the ticking of clocks. Bedtime, Aunt Mandel said from behind me. I flinched. Where had she come from? It was only 9pm.

But I was so bored and on edge that I followed without any complaints. This will be your last chance to use the bathroom until morning. Aunt Mandel informed me. A key ring glittered in her hand. She was going to lock me in. Your parents would be so disappointed if you got yourself hurt during the night. Aunt Mandel mused by way of explanation. Then she shut the door and twisted the key.

I lay on the hard cot with my eyes open. Armandall's words had sounded like a threat. One way or another, I was locked in here with those things. Something clattered behind me. I spun. A group of figurines had fallen to the floor beside the bed. In the moonlight, they looked like a pile of gaunt, starved corpses. I imagined them starting to move, rushing me, swarming up the blankets.

Something was moving in the painting on the wall. The hunter and his dogs had completely disappeared. In their place was a nighttime forest clearing lit by firelight, hung with banners bearing the same weird symbol from earlier. A boy my age lay on an ancient slab of stone with five hooded figures surrounding him. The pale light glittered on the armbands and the daggers. When I looked back to the figurines, they were at the edge of the bed, in a row like marching soldiers,

pointed porcelain teeth glimmered inside their tiny mouths and each face were a vicious, bloodthirsty expression. That was it then. Those things moved when I wasn't looking. I just had to keep my eyes on them, I thought. I sat up in the cot with my heart pounding, trying not to even blink.

If I fell asleep. I was still in a sitting position when I awoke with my head and my chest drooling. Morning sun, light stream through the window. My sleep had been restless and I felt more drained than rested. As I ate the rye bread and water Aunt Mandel provided for breakfast, I noticed two tiny puncture marks on my right wrist. I spent the day outside again, as far as I could get from the animated keepsakes and grotesque art. Apart from butterflies, beetles, passing cars, and Aunt Mandel's

shadow in the window watching me, I didn't see anyone all day. Boiled potatoes and cabbage were back on the table at seven sharp, and while I ate and tried to ignore the words on the live-lath-love sign, shaping themselves into words I didn't understand. As before, Aunt Mandel locked me in my room. This time, though, I didn't dare look around. Like a scared animal, I borrowed deep into my smelly wooden blankets, only leaving a tiny hole near my head to breathe and peer out of. If I pretended to sleep, I hoped sleep would come. Sleep, and nothing else. I was just dozing off when I heard, or thought I heard, a key turning in the door lock. Someone or something was trying very hard to slip silently into my room.

Through my hole in the blankets, I glimps the dark shape crawling toward me on the rug. I shut my eyes tight and pretended to sleep. Seconds later, I felt the stickiness of saliva on my forearm and a sharp puncture. It was like my life was leaching out through my arm. Although I tried to keep quiet and still, the shock of it made me yelp. The figure paused, then retreated, crawling backwards out the door on all fours with freakish speed. I didn't dare move or open my eyes. But when I did, I saw Aunt Mandel's key ring on the floor shining in the moonlight.

Dizzy from blood loss, I staggered from the cot and grabbed the keys. I looked at it curiously for only a moment before slipping them into my pyjama shirt and collapsing into a deep but troubled sleep. The next morning I awoke to the sound of Aunt Mandel storming around the house, opening drawers and slamming cabinets. Where are my keys? she demanded. If you've taken them? I shook my head vigorously.

It was true, after all. I hadn't taken them. It was more like they'd been left in my room. The metal was so cold it seemed to burn against the skin of my chest. I'm going to retrace my st. steps, Armandle warned, emphasizing each word slowly. If you've stolen from me, I'm going to find out about it, and the consequences will be terrible. I shuddered, but I kept my mouth shut.

Armandle turned on a heel and slammed the door. When I heard a car start, where else had you been last night, I knew that I was about to be left alone in the house of locked doors, but I had the keys. Soon the silence was complete I peered around the bedroom door Nothing moved in the dusty light I kept my eyes away from Art Mandel's knick-knacks Not wanting to even imagine what they might be twisting themselves into

Now that she was gone Instead I unlocked one door after another Not even sure what I was searching for There was an office-style room with a desk for paperwork antique furniture and a display of at least 50 antique postcards on the wall I watched the pool of blood begin to spread across the lovely images of old world European cities

The black shadows of planes Moved across the spreading bloodstains A crescendo of roaring engines rose From the endless squadron So loud I thought for sure Aunt Mandel would somehow hear it I quickly shut the door I passed through rooms of covered furniture

And old sports equipment Canning supplies, luggage Always with some grim scene Playing out in the background Soon I closed the door to the final a room, Aunt Mandel's bedroom, with nothing to show for my efforts. I sighed. How on earth was I supposed to make the keys reappear without getting caught? As I pondered, I heard a loud clack. All of the knick-knacks in the hallways had turned or tilted to one side, from figures

in the paintings to glass statuettes of dogs. They were all pointing to the doorless dead end of the hallway. But there was nothing to see down there. Or was there? As I examined the wood panelling, I noticed a shallow round indentation where no key would ever fit, but a key ring might. As expected, Aunt Mandel's key ring was a near perfect match once I placed it right. A square door, just large enough for an adult to squeeze through, popped out from the wall in front of me with a click. It had been so smartly hidden by the carpentry that I'd walked by it countless times without noticing anything unusual about the wall. A cool, musty breeze hissed through the gaps around it. I twisted the key ring and pulled it open.

On the other side, a stone staircase led down into the cellar that I never known existed. By the door, it was a space designed for crawling, not walking. I snatched a dim flashlight from one of the spare rooms. Guided by its flickering, grimy beam, I moved on all fours into the cobwebby darkness. The tunnel was old, but not unused. There was no dust on the stone steps I crawl down on my hands and knees. Even so, it was so dark I nearly fell from the drop-off at the end of the stairs. It was only about three feet high, but that's a lot when you're ten years old.

I lowered myself down the slippery rock into the pentagonal chamber, wondering what an earth I'd gotten myself into. And each wall hung one of those red banners with a white circle. and the funny X in the middle. In the centre of the cellar floor was a big flat rock like one from the painting with weird symbols carved all around the edges.

In a lock safe, that I now had the key to, I found black and white pictures of a much younger art mandel with a bunch of other people in uniforms, some yellow documents in that funny language the embroidery had turned itself into and a dagger like the one from the painting.

I had no idea what it all meant, but I knew I wasn't supposed to be looking at any of this stuff, especially when I dug deeper into the weird old reports and found the pictures of the skeleton thin people and the stuff that was being done to them. I was horrified and disgusted, but I thought about something one of my teachers had said, If you see something bad or dangerous, you need to tell an adult about it. But who would believe me without proof? After hesitating, I scooped up one of the folders with a sickening photos and paperwork,

then clambered out of that awful basement. I was panting by the time I crawled out of the hallway. I looked around at the knick-knacks, art pieces, embroidery, and other junk lining Art Mendel's walls. I was starting to have a different idea about what was happening in this weird old house. Maybe whatever was messing with Art Mandel's trifles weren't trying to scare me or hurt me.

Maybe. It was trying to warn me. No sooner had the thought passed through my. head when a shelf gave out beside me, causing figurines the shatter on the floor in front of me. The broken pieces formed a word. Run. If it hadn't been for that sudden shock, I wouldn't have looked up to see Art Mandel climbing, spider-like, along the ceiling. Her head twisted around to glare at me. She hissed something in that strange language. I didn't need any further motivation to follow the shattered

ceramic advice. As I barreled toward the light of the front door, I could hear shelves, display cases and clocks collapsing in Art Mandel's path behind me time. I burst out into the bright sunlight, Art Mandel's paper still clutched tight in my hand. I looked desperately

to my left and right. The streets on this stately, old world's style of town were all too quiet. I felt hot tears running down my cheeks. There was no one to help me. An engine rumbled, An antique car out for a Sunday drive was pulling up to the next intersection over. I charged toward it, waving my arms, papers flying everywhere.

It was a miracle that the middle-aged driver was going slow enough to avoid hitting me. He stopped, and although I was too out of breath to explain, the pictures and my face said it all. As I climbed into the passenger seat, I twisted around to look behind me and saw Aunt Mandel's shadow slinking back into the house. Everything that happened after that was a blur. My parents came back from their vacation. The police walked right in the swinging front door of Aunt Mandeau's empty house. They found the room that I described.

It was due their investigation that I learned for the first time about the Holocaust, the Nazis and their obsession with the occult. The investigators attributed my story to trauma and an overactive imagination, but they were at a loss to clarify anything about what happened. The best guess was that the person I'd called Aunt had been a mentally drained child of Alfrede Mandel, who immigrated illegally to the United States, despite her crimes as part of Operation Paperclip. After all, how could Alfrede, born in 1913, still be alive to creep around on ceilings and feast on children's blood? In any case, there was no evidence of any crime.

The woman I called Aunt Mandel had just vanished. at home, my mother explained to me in hushed tones about the aunt who'd helped her grandparents escape from the ruins of Germany, who would rule the family with an iron fist for as long as anyone could remember, who barely aged, just becoming more sadistic and demanding with each passing year. Now that a secret was out, she disappeared. But to where? There's been no trace of my strange aunt since I fled from a house at ten years old, twenty years ago today. And yet, I have a horrible feeling that one day, I'll turn a corner and see that familiar, stern, white-jawed face and blonde bun barely aged a day, but looking very hungry.