CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "My car broke down with my pregnant wife inside and she'll never forgive me" Creepypasta

Episode Date: November 12, 2020

Sorry...CREEPYPASTA STORY►by astrangerplaceblog: 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►Veli Nyström: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/RXBZvSUGGESTED 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-

You're not going to get it to start, Hank. Again, the car engine warbled. A useless sputter. And then, nothing. I loosened my grip on the keys. My fingers hurt from wrenching them. I guess you're right. Maybe your local can help us out.

I took the keys out of the ignition and watched the headlights dim and their beams retreat from the deserted road. My wife, Matilda, sighed from the passenger side, her pregnant belly swelling under the seatbelt. Summer twirling. The light lingered across the rural expanse in front of us. The tin roofs of silos glittered in the distance, all at least half a mile away. Croplands and pastures surrounded them on all sides.

Lightning bugs were starting to flit amongst a tall grass. Sitting on the far side of the road, behind a fallow field, was a matriarchal farmhouse whose windows shone dimly across the grass. I pointed to it. They have the lights on. Do you think you could walk over there? We might as well. the last house we passed us 15 miles ago

Matilda said She unclicked a seatbelt and opened the car door Her belly hindered in momentum as she stumbled out Wobbling like an ill-tempered duck She braced herself on the car door I took my nails into the steering wheel Damn it I muttered under my breath We were supposed to be home in Baltimore by nine

I'd never made such bad time in my life Let alone had the car battery die in me with my pregnant pregnant wife in the car. I opened the door and stepped into the grassy field. It didn't take us more than five minutes to reach the farmhouse from the car, but the time dragged as we fought through the crabgrass. It was silent except for a buzz of mosquitoes and quiet chirps of nighthawks. It was farmland in all directions, a few thickers of trees dividing properties, but we were surrounded by green and a skyline of silos. I could see a brown barn in the distance.

The kind one expects the seat behind a herd of Jersey cows, but the pasture was empty. There was no indication of life in this place, except for the drone of insects and the kitchen light on in the farmhouse ahead of us. Although it had been a dry summer, the field squished beneath me with each step. Moisture pulled into my sneakers as I walked through the field.

Matilda teetered along behind me. I stepped onto the rickety porch of the farmhouse and peered in. shadows danced around the kitchen of the house but there were no sounds that promised anyone was home I knocked on the door glancing in Batilda for any sign of validation all I saw were her eyebrows raised sceptically

her arms were crossed a squat sturdy woman opened the door mid-fifties she wore green rubber boots and a flannel shirt pulled taut across her breast and stomach a few wiry grey hairs protruded from her cropped hair Her eyes were sharp, although hidden under soft creases of skin, and there were specks of dirt in her eyebrows. It occurred to me that she looked like a blonde in a garden, except more likely to host a gun show than a cooking program. We're sorry to bother you so late, ma'am, I started, peeping in to see if we had interrupted dinner.

The woman looked unfazed, so I continued. Unfortunately, our car broke down, and we were hoping we could use her phone. The woman smart faintly. No use, she proclaimed rather loudly. It startled me. The shop's closed for the night, but I can give you a tone to town tomorrow after I finish with my crops.

The woman glanced at Matilda. In the meantime, why don't you come in? We were just in the middle of dinner. We followed the woman into the farmhouse. It was quaint, hardwood floor and low sloping ceilings, antique milk pails and a collection of wooden pears.

The pig's cluttered the bookshelf in the corner of the parlor, framed cross-stitch samplers dotted the beige peeling walls. It was a caricature, almost too indicative of rural living. The dining room was much different. A long table ran the length of the room, dressed in a stained lace table runner. Pillar candles stood lit in the centre, and all known places were set with China, although only one seat was occupied. This is my partner, Bobby, the woman said, gesturing to the hunches of the hundred figure at the table. Bobby seemed older, really significantly frailer.

Two gold bangs hung from her freckled and wrinkled wrists. Her face was narrow with a crooked nose that made her look bird-like and perpetually discouraged. Whips of dyed hair obscured her glasses. Oh my, visitors! She chirped, dully. The woman pulled out two chairs. I'll get you to some stew.

We sat silently as we were served. across from them, Bobby picked the gristle out of a meat with a thin, paper-skin fingers. It's a shame you broke down where you did, the woman said, as she sat down next to a partner. The town's only two miles up the road. Not to worry, I can hitch up the truck tomorrow and tow you to the shop. After you tend the crops, right? I said. Yep, mid-afternoon, I'd say. Maybe three or four, unless you folks got somewhere to be. Matilda and I exchange glances.

I was beginning to wonder how rude it would be to ask to use a phone to call AAA. No, Matilda chimed in sweetly. Any time is fine. We certainly appreciate it. That's it. We were stuck. I was going to have to settle in with them. I cleared my throat and pushed my dinner away from me discreetly.

So, what kind of crops do you grow here? The woman looked at me sternly, her hospitable grin diminishing. You'll see. I've got a very intricate farm. system here. I get 300 pounds of peat moss and sphagnum moss shipped in each month to maintain this crop. Really quite state of the art operation, she said with a curt nod and turned back to Matilda, smiling again. And when are you two? Beaming a Matilda's belly. Matilda smiled back. Next month, we were just up to visit my parents now that I'm finally on maternity leave. How nice, you must be so

excited. You know, before I bought this farm, I delivered a few babies myself. She was a great doctor, Bobby added. I was an obstetrician for 20 years. Definitely a burnout job, I'll tell you that. We moved out here for some peace and quiet.

People out here were so grateful to have a doctor move into town. She said, turning her attention to the last morsel of lifeless dinner in front of her. They've been trying to repay me ever since, the woman said, chewing. She scraped stew off the side of a ball with a fork.

Well, we're certainly grateful you could take us in for the night. We thought you were stranded, said Matilda. Do you have a spare room? I got in, slowly pushing out my chair. Of course, the woman replied. You two must be tired. I'll get it fixed for you. The spare room was sparse but comforting. A rusty window unit hummed in the corner. The bed was made with thick quilts and rooster replicas.

Matilda sighed and collapsed on the mattress. If we had just taken 11 to 83, we wouldn't be stuck here, she said. I thought cutting through here would be faster, I said, perched in the bed frame. Plus, you can't take the 11 all the way to 83. Yeah, whatever. I can't believe if people out here still invite strangers into the house for the night. We could be psycho murders for all they know. Maybe they trust us because I'm pregnant.

She reached out to unbutton her pants and sighed again. We should have just made. my parents come down to visit us. I should be resting. Definitely, not supposed to be traveling in the sticks, that's for sure. Matilda rolled over into her stomach and plummeted her face into one of the quilted pillows. I laid my hand on them back. I know it's stressful.

I mean, it's a stressful time regardless. Just think of how good it would be when the baby is born. I waited for Matilda to respond as a spine rose up and down with a breath. Strands of a brown hair was spayed on the pillow. You're right. She finally said, still stressful, but worth it. The window unit continued to hum. Matilda arched the back like a cat and rolled over.

I ran my palms over the convex curves of her stomach and circled the swell of a belly button with my fingers. I leaned down next to her. She better tend those crops first thing because I can't wait to take you home, I whispered. My chin grazed the edge of her neck. Matilda chuckled softly and shook her head. What crops does she even have? have? I don't know, but apparently they require artificial bog conditions, I mocked.

300 pounds of peat moss, my ass. Turn the lights off, I want to sleep. You don't want me to get the luggage from the car? No, I just want to sleep, she said. I stripped off my jeans and turned off the light. In the darkness, the thick summer air and the batting of the quilt made it feel like the countryside was closing in on me, smothering me. Springpeeper's word in the the night. The eerie calm of it was almost endearing. I woke up early the next morning. The sun was shining in pale yellow streaks when I got out of bed. Matilda was still asleep, curled up in the fetal position next to me. For courtesy's sake, I put my jeans back on and wandered downstairs into the kitchen. The lights were on and coffee dribbled out of the half-empty French press on

the stove. I could sense both Bobby and the woman were already up, although the house was still. Quintuplets, born in Austin, read a headline on the newspaper, lying half folded on the dining room table. I was fleetingly happy we were only having one baby. I picked the paper up and headed towards the screen door in the back of the kitchen. The mesh was caked with lint and the stench of mud. Through it, I could see into the back garden, which looked to be no more than an uneven layer of coppery dirt. It was no meadow. Only a few spare sponges of grass sprouted across the flat property.

The woman stood several yards away with a shovel. She dug diligently with an unyielding pace. Behind her, someone sat on the ground. At first glance, I assumed it was Bobby. But her bare, muddy legs revealed her to be much younger. Her curved back and crossed arms made her look like she was doubled over with a stomach ache. She brushed strings of dark hair out of her face to unveil a cold, distant expression. I suddenly felt hands on my shoulders.

and jumped. It was Bobby. I see you've made yourself at home, she said, steering me back into the kitchen with a bird-like hands an intrepid stare. Wake your wife up and we'll go to the diner for breakfast.

The three of us walked a half mile along the side of the road before we reached the diner. Matilda arrived me with resentment the whole walk, but her disappointment was palpable when we approached the building. Wooden and dilapidated. It looked more like an overgrown shed

than any sort of establishment. Behind it stood a rusted playground with a dull yellow slide. The door had once been painted an unlikely coral pink shade, but now it was faded salmon and peeling, revealing grey splinters of wood underneath. The windows were stained and dusty.

Ah, sorry where clothes sign hung on one of them, having been neglected to be turned over. Six or seven locals ate inside the dimly lit diner at plastic tables. All of them stayed at Matilder. and I, seeming to smell our novelty. This is a small town if I've ever seen one, I whispered to my wife.

Bobby sat us near a window, overlooking the playground. She took off her glasses and placed them on the table next to her. Is there a menu we can look at? Matilda asked. Bobby smiled, dolefully. No menu, dear. Get the egg breakfast. A young waitress greeted them. Bobby, how good it is to see you?

She was youthful, pretty, but tired-looking. Her curly, Auburn hair was pulled back loosely in a braid. Her smile was warm but unsettling, both enthusiastic and weary. I figured she was probably in her early twenties. Bobby peered up at her, and so good to see you, sweetie. How have you been? So much better since the operation, the waitress said. She looked about at us.

Can I get you all a coffee? Or maybe you're ready to order, she asked meekly. Oh yes, we're ready, Bobby said. I'll have the usual. They'll both have the egg platter. The waitress addressed Middilda first. How do you like your eggs? She swallowed.

Her throat quivered. Scramble is fine, Matilda replied. And I'll have mine sunny side up, I said. The waitress took her orders and left. It was silent, except for the scratch of forks and plates and the opening and closing of jaws. I looked around the restaurant of the patrons. They were mostly women, some young and disheveled, while others seemed old and worn like Barbie and the woman. Actually, they were all women.

I know just Matilda staring out at the playground. Filthy water dripped from the slide. It's Saturday, Matilda said with a somber laugh. where are all the children? Bobby looked at her with stern, even eyes. There are no children in this town, she said. Do you think she's ready to drive us into town yet? Would it be rude to ask?

Matilda asked. I looked at my watch. His borsing tics droned on as it approached four o'clock. We'd been politely perched on the parlor couch reading gardening magazines all afternoon. I sighed. Looks like it might rain soon. Maybe she'll call it in early. It was true

The sky was clouded and tinged An ominous green Heavy, damp breezes blew through the screen door to the kitchen I could see the woman digging in the front field Flags of dirt flew across the window The ceiling creaked as Bobby walked around upstairs Matilda dropped an issue

Of better homes and gardens on the coffee table and started massaging her temples Matilda Could you come and do me a favour Bobby croaked from upstairs Matilda rolled her eyes and looked at me. Coming, she called, feigning enthusiasm. I'll go outside and ask, I whispered.

I went out the kitchen door which was swollen with humidity. In front of me, the woman stood, waist deep in a hole. Her face and clothes was splattered with mud. Ah, excuse me, I said. We were just wondering when you thought you'd be done here? The woman planted a shovel in the ground and called. climbed out of the hole. She walked up to me.

Sure, she cooed. I'm nearly done. Why's your wife? Her stare had an uncomfortable adamancy about it. She's upstairs, with Bobby. The gross feet around her eyes deepened

and she smiled. Good, she said, and reached out to put her hands on my shoulders. She nodded towards the shovel and stuck it in the ground. Help me out and do some digging, won't you? Her turn was sinister, her words almost slurred, like she knew something I didn't, but I was onto her. I felt flushed, nauseous almost, sweat seemed to settle underneath my skin.

I felt the hollow echo of the shovel falling to the ground as the woman went inside behind me. Why did she want my help digging? I knew. The woman, the absence of children, the obstetrician, Matilda, it all fit together. It was a sweet, singing stitch in the abdomen that caused me to fall. The sharp sickness of things going wrong. I sank to my knees and felt the cool sod between my fingers. Suddenly I was grabbing fistfuls of dirt, tearing through the pile next to the hole the woman had been digging.

The pit of my stomach grew into a gnawing, instinctual ache. As the dirt accumulated under my nails and I clawed deeper, the soil turned an odious orange. God, what compelled me to keep digging? My fingers hovered on something soft and tender, like an overright pear. It was easily dislodged. I cradled it and brushed the dirt away from it. I saw a dark coil. It was like a brown periwinkle shell.

I ran the length of it with my pinky. It was a cochlear, an ear, stained brown like leather skin of a lifeless doll. But it wasn't a doll. who was a child, an infant. Attached to the ear with fetal cheeks, shriveled eyelids, preserved limbs. I recoiled, my body tingling, ears ringing. The dirt had stained my hands the same rusty shade as the dead newborn. Screams came from the upstairs bedroom.

The woman approached me from behind, putting her hand on my shoulder. The hot air of a breath billowed off my clammy scalp. Do you know why there aren't any children in this town? She whispered, Spittle flying from her teeth. Because I took them all, and they're still growing.