CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "My Brother Died at Birth. My Parents Still Made Me Share a Room With Him." Creepypasta

Episode Date: June 25, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Frequent-Cat:   / my_brother_died_at_birth_my_parents_still_...  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...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep web" ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher, and...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creepypasta  ►"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 came back because someone had to. The house was still in the family's name, but no one else wanted to touch it. My mother had passed away a few weeks prior, quietly and asleep. My father was still alive, technically, but no longer capable. The stroke had taken most of his speech and all of his warmth. He now lived in a small care home three hours south. We hadn't spoken in years. I told the solicitor I would handle the clearing out,

thought it would take a weekend, thought it would feel mechanical. But standing in the entryway now, I could already tell. The house hadn't changed. Not really. It was clean, even dusted in places. Someone had been tending it. probably my mother until the very end. I hadn't stayed overnight in years, but instead of sleeping in the guest room,

I chose my old bedroom, the nursery, the one we shared. James Cribb was still there, up against the far wall. The other one sat beside it, untouched. The blankets tucked in tight. A small stuffed lamb perfectly aligned at the center. of the mattress. The mobile above the crib still spun when I opened the door, catching the air just enough to turn. I stood there, watching it rotate in a slow, silent circle. I found a sealed box in the closet, buried behind old blankets and a yellowed wedding dress. The tape was brittle

with age, one side had peeled slightly. Written in black marker across the lid was five words. Jamie Dash Do not discard. I don't remember the moment I found out I was supposed to be a twin. I think it was always there

just beneath the surface. A truth worn smooth over years of soft retellings. His name was Jamie. He died the day we were born. That's what the doctor said. A cord around the neck. no heartbeat, nothing they could do, but my parents never accepted it.

They came home with two of everything, two bassinets, two name plaques for the nursery wall, hand-painted in soft cursive, one for me, one for Jamie. They told everyone had been a mistake that both babies were fine, a miracle, and no one questioned it too deeply. not at first. There are pictures in the old photo albums that still unsettle me. In some is just me, red-faced and swaddled. In others, there's clearly been some editing.

A second infant clumsily duplicated or drawn in, smudged at the edges. My father wasn't much for computers. Most of the early ones were done by hand, collage work, tape and scissors. One even had a second blanket with nothing in it next to me, a shape outlined but empty. James Cribb was always kept pristine. Even after I moved into a proper bed, it was dusted, retucked. The mobile was wound every night until its mechanism grew stiff. The stuffed lamb was moved from head to foot, depending on the week, as if someone had been tending him.

My parents said things in passing, casual and habitual. Tom, say goodnight to your brother. Don't wake him, he's finally asleep. Your brother's already eaten. When I was young, I'd play along. I'd glance at the empty crib and whisper, just in case. But I always knew something was wrong with it. Something about the way the air settled over that side of the room.

And, when I stopped responding to their remarks and stopped pretending, I remember the look on my mother's face. She didn't look confused. She looked hurt, disappointed, as if I had insulted someone who was standing right behind me. I was raised to share everything. My room, my clothes, my name, even though Jamie never spoke, never moved, never grew. We had matching shoes by the front door. Mine usually scuffed.

His always clean. We had two tooth brushes in the cup by the sink. I wasn't allowed to touch the blue one. I was punished after I tried. I didn't try again. There were rules. I wasn't across the centre seam of the rug in our bedroom. Jameside was to remain undisturbed.

I wasn't to move his toys. If one of them ended up in my bed or under my desk, it had to be placed back exactly where it had been. And when things went wrong, the blame was mine. Tom, don't be cruel to your brother. My mother would say if the stuffed bear turned up face down. He doesn't like it when he move his things. At first, I thought she was joking. I thought it was a way to soften the loss, a story.

But that stopped when things started happening on their own. I go to bed with the closet shut, squeeze my eyes closed, listen to the creek of the house settle into its bones. But around 3 a.m., almost every night, the closet door would slide open, slow, dragging against the carpet, just enough to show the dark. Sometimes the mobile above the crib will be spinning when I woke up, not fast but turning. The air always felt colder on that side of the room, stale, even in summer. More than once, I woke up to find my blanket halfway across the floor, not kicked or bunched up at the foot of the bed, pulled, neatly, as if someone had taken it while I slept. Once I left Jamie stuffed lamb on the dresser before bed

I found it tucked under his blanket in the morning When I mentioned any of it My father grew distant My mother got stern Told me not to mock things I didn't understand Told me Jamie had every right to be here too I stopped talking about it But I started watching

And the more I watched the more I was sure I was not alone in that room I wanted to believe I was normal that this was typical of a family but school ruined that illusion other kids asked questions I didn't know

how to answer when they came over the faces shifted in that quiet way children do when something doesn't sit right not fear not yet just discomfort, a feeling that the air wasn't moving right in the hallway, that the second crib didn't belong.

One girl, I think her name was Rachel, asked who the other bed was for. I told her the truth, at least my mother's version. It's for Jamie, he's my brother. But he's not here. He is, I said. he's just quiet. She looked at the crib, then back at me, and something in her eyes went cold.

I never saw her again after that. Her mum called to say she didn't want Rachel coming over anymore. No reason was given. Another time I tried to have a sleepover, Matthew from down the road. We played video games until late, then got into our sleeping bags on the floor. He kept glancing at the crib, said it was weird that it was still up.

In the middle of the night, I woke up to him shaking me. He looked pale and sweaty. I heard someone whispering, he said, right in my ear. I told him it was probably a bad dream. The usual reason my parents told me when I had the same thing happened to me.

but he was already stuffing his things into his backpack. He left before sunrise. His parents never let him visit again. I tried to ask my mom if Jamie could be quieter or if we could put some of his things away. She just smiled and said, Don't be rude to your brother. He doesn't have much.

When I said very carefully that Jamie wasn't real. Her hand tightened to my arm. Don't ever say that, she said. Do you understand? Never. That kind of talk hurts him. She looked over at my shoulder and then towards the nursery, not at me. Her face changed, softened, as if she was waiting for a sound or listening for one.

I never said it again. At school, I stopped inviting people. I ate lunch alone. I didn't tell stories about home. At home, I spoke carefully, stepped lightly. I never crossed the seam in the rug. I didn't understand the rules, only that they mattered. I'm breaking them.

Made the house worse. I wasn't supposed to go in the hallway closet. It was one of the first. few rules that stuck. That door always stayed shut. The key hung from a small brass hook above the frame, just out of reach for most of my childhood. When I finally got tall enough, I waited for the right day. It was summer. My parents were downstairs, arguing quietly in the kitchen. I stood on a chair, slid the key from the hook, and opened the door. It wasn't any. Anything exciting, just coats and cardboard boxes, musty wool and an old vacuum.

I remember being disappointed until I reached into the sleeve of a raincoat stuffed to the back. My hand brushed plastic, something zipped and crinkly. A freezer bag. Inside, a pale blue notebook with a frayed corner and fading silver stars on the cover. There was no name on the front, but I knew it was my mother's the moment I opened it. Her handwriting was neat at first, curved letters, tidy margins. It looked like any baby book, milestones and feeding charts, first steps, favorite lullabies. But the dates didn't match my memories.

The entries continued well past my first birthday, past my second, past the point Jamie had ever existed, if he'd existed at all. And they weren't just about me. At first it was framed sweetly. Jamie slept curled up next to his brother. He's calm when Tom sings. They're so bonded already. Then the tone changed.

He won't eat unless they're in the room. He cries when Tom leaves. He only sleeps when they're together. I caught Tom staring at the mirror again. He said he saw her hand. I told him not to lie. One page was half torn out. The bottom edge looked scorched as if it had been pressed too close to a heater.

The entries after that were shorter, slanted, letters leaning into each other as if she'd written them quickly. The night terrors are back. I hear him at the door. I think Jamie blames me. That was the last thing she ever wrote. No signature, no date. I sat on the closet floor, reading it over and over until the hallway went dark. The argument downstairs had stopped.

I hadn't realised how long I'd been sitting there. I put the journal back in the bag, tucked it into the coat sleeve again, and shut the door, hung the key back on the hook. I didn't tell anyone what I'd found, but from that night on, I started facing away from Jamie's crib when I slept. Just in case Jamie wanted to talk. I was eleven the night I climbed into Jamie's crib. It wasn't a dare. No one told me to do it.

It was just me in the dark, stewing in the quiet rules I wasn't allowed to question. Two toothbrushes, two chairs at the little table, one name whispered with mine every bedtime. Good night, Jamie. That night I sat on my bed, staring across the room at his crib. The bars had been repainted twice, but still splintered slightly at the base. The mattress was thin and yellowing under the fitted sheet. A stuffed elephant sat in the corner, perfectly upright. I told myself, it was just furniture. Then I got up and stepped over.

The mobile turned slowly when I brushed past it. The little animals cast long, thin shadows across the ceiling. I climbed in, lay flat, cross my arms like I thought a dead kid might. For a moment, nothing happened. Then I blinked. The light was gone, the air was tight, something hard pressed into my spine. I was in the closet, cramped between winter coats and a broken vacuum hose, curled at the bottom like I'd been stuffed there.

The door was latched from the outside. I sat up fast and slammed my shoulder against it, once, twice. My throat burned. It opened on the third hit. My mother came in, not surprised, not angry, just... Tired. Her eyes moved from mine to my lap, then back again. I looked down.

A baby one'sie lay folded across my knees. Not one of mine. Pale yellow, with a little embroidered bear over the heart. It smelled faintly of fabric softener and something else, something older. damp wood, closed rooms. I hadn't taken anything into the crib. I knew that. But there it was.

My mother said nothing for a long time. Then finally, she spoke. Her voice quiet and even. You disrespected his space. Then she turned and walked away. I didn't answer. I didn't follow. I sat there for a long time staring at the folds in the onesie, and the scratch marks carved into the inside of the closet door.

Some shallow, some deep, some trailing all the way down. I found the tape while clearing out the attic, which behind an old box of Moth-eaten photo albums and Christmas ornaments that hadn't been touched in years. It was tucked inside a shoebox with a cassette player, half of the same. covered in lint and crumbling insulation. The tape was labelled in my mother's handwriting. Just one word. Bedtime. I took it downstairs, sat cross-legged on the nursery carpet,

and set the player between the cribs. The machine groaned a little when I pressed play. Then, her voice came through, softer than I remembered. Karma She was reading the Velveteen rabbit That part I recognised Her tone was warm

Almost musical Like she was reading to a child Then her second voice joined Higher pitched Not a baby's voice But definitely a child I know how I used to sound

The child Interrupted the story whispered phrases that didn't match the text. Is it real if it hurts? I want to know what it tastes like. Tell the rabbit to leave. Her reading never paused.

She just kept going, steady and unbroken, as if she didn't hear him. Near the end of the tape, she stopped reading. The room on the recording fell quiet, except for the faint creek of bedsprings and the rustle of fabric. Then she whispered. Say good night to your brother.

There was a pause. Then the child's voice replied. Good night, Tom. The tape clicked to a stop. I didn't breathe for a few seconds. I rewound it, handshaking, and listened again. Every syllable landed colder than the last. The voice wasn't scared.

it wasn't sleepy. It sounded amused. I left the tape in the player and backed out of the room one step at a time until I was out in the hall. The mobile above Jamie's crib was spinning again. I hadn't touched it. I left the house at 18. No dramatic goodbye, no big scene. Just a quiet drive to university with a backseat for.

full of boxes and a silence between me and my father that neither of us had the vocabulary to fill. I chose a school six hours away. No one questioned the distance. No one offered to help me unpack. At first night in the dorm, I slept straight through. No blankets pulled off, no creaking doors, no footsteps around my bed. I remember waking up in the morning, light leaking through the blind, and realizing how long it had been since I felt rested. No Jamie, no closet dreams, no nursery whispers. Just quiet. I started telling myself the story a different way,

that my childhood had been shaped by grief, not ghosts, that what I remembered was trauma echoing in strange places, ritual turned into obsession, an obsession into fear. And it almost worked. Until the phone call started, not often, once every few months, always from my mother.

He's quieter since you left, she'd say as if we were talking about a real boy. He only plays in your room now. Then, a few years later, she called me distress. He won't stop crying, it's every day, please play with him. I didn't answer when she called after that. Whatever lived in that house, whether it was grief or something else, I'd left it behind.

Or maybe it just stayed with her. I didn't go back after I left. Not for holidays, not for birthdays, not even when Dad called, asking if I did. stopped by when I was in town, though I never was. I almost went back when my father had his stroke, it left him in need of care, which my mother took on herself. But each time I was ready to go. I didn't. I just stopped to the front door, held the handle, then quietly unpacked, telling myself it was a bad time. I told myself I needed to be. the distance that it was healthier not to look back.

For a while, it was true. I slept better, I worked hard. I let the past become something vague and far away. Then, the call came. It happened fast. A blood clot, they said. She was gone before they reached the hospital. Not much was said on the phone.

Just that someone needed to handle the house. My father was being moved into assisted living, permanent this time. I hadn't seen it in years, not since I left for university. The drive back felt longer than I remembered. When I unlocked the door, the air inside was stale, but still held that faint antiseptic scent I couldn't place. Everything was as I left it. Furniture frozen in place, family photos untouched. No signs of a life winding down.

Only a life paused. I made my way to the nursery. It was too clean. The crib stood exactly where it always had. The same folded blanket, the same mobile above, faintly trembling when I opened the door. No dust, no neglect, not a thread out of place. She'd been maintaining it.

Even after all this time, a small envelope waited on the desk, yellowed slightly at the edges, but sealed neatly. My name on the front, written in her hand. Beneath it, five words in faded ink. For when you come home. I opened the envelope with a strange sense of calm. Maybe I already knew what was inside. Maybe I didn't want to admit it,

until I held the paper in my hands. It was a torn page from the old baby journal, the same handwriting I remembered from years ago. But it had changed. The neat script had grown unsteady, heavier toward the end, like the pen had been pressed too hard into the paper. I tried to separate you.

I tried to tell myself it was never real. But I heard you both, even when you weren't speaking. He cries when you leave. He never cries for me. He only settles when you're near. He needs a brother, and I can't give him another one. Only you.

A second page was tucked behind it. A glossy photograph curled slightly at the corners. I didn't recognize it at first. A hospital room, a bassinet. Two newborns. One red-faced and howling. The other was lying still. Too still.

Eyes closed. Lips parted just enough to show the faintest shadow of gums. At the bottom was a timestamp, five hours after Jamie's official time of death. I didn't remember this photo. I shouldn't. I was in it, but I wasn't alone.

As soon as I put the letter down, A sound burst from the far room. Crying, loud and shrill. I didn't jump to any theories. I knew exactly who it was. Jamie. I crept over, easing towards the bedroom I'd avoided for well over a decade. And as I approached, the sound softened.

Hicks between the loud sobs, as if listening to my approaching footstakes, As soon as my hand braced the doorknob, the sobbing all but vanished. And when I opened the door and looked inside, I was greeted by pure silence. Some of the toys had moved from when I first looked in the room. The blanket that was previously neatly placed was thrown aside, like from a child throwing a tantrum. But my mother was right. When I was around, he stopped crying.

I made the bed in the nursery before it got dark. I sat in the chair by the window, wrapped in one of the old blankets from the closet, the kind that still smelled faintly of powder and time. Around midnight, the mobile above the second crib began to spin. No music. Just a slow, creaking turn. The temperature in the room dropped.

Not a breeze, just a still, sinking cold, the kind that settles behind your eyes. I walked to the crib. It was empty, but the sheets were warm. The closet door, the same one I once woke up inside all those years ago, eased open with a soft groan. No rush, just the quiet insistence of a door used to being open from the inside. A small hand, pale and steady, reached out around the frame. I didn't flinch, didn't scream.

I just looked down at the hand and said, Okay, I sat down carefully, and just held his little hand for a while. His skin was ice cold. That was all he needed. The next morning, the nursery was still. No footprints, no open doors. Just a maid bed and dust dancing in the light.

The house was silent. I think she was right. He does just need. Her brother.