CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "My Grandmother Returned Home From Her Own Funeral" Creepypasta

Episode Date: February 16, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by NorthSelection9: 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...​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 day begins Snell. And I also. Between lessons and work, work and training, there is no time to redraging. There is nox. The suprime energy drink

that may be veged on the rhythm of my life. Because I knowed on a balanced energy, without crash. From kilometers in the morning to evening to make men 10.

The creer, we bow, we're living in a way. Live, fit, go. Celsius. Energy, zonder suitor. Sondre complomissus.

Cels befut a mix of vitamins that bitgues, that mightrae to bring to normal energy levering toft, Vitamin B2, B5, B-Cs, B7, B-12, and vitamin C. My parents always used to say that I had my grandmother's stubbornness. Despite being a sparrow-like woman barely above five feet tall,

her presence eclipsed everyone else in whatever room she walked into. Hardened by the transient memories of a Dust Bowl-era childhood, she worked to put each of her five children through college, my father included. There seemed to be no force that she couldn't overcome. Death included. But age finally caught up to her. It started with some minor incidents, such as forgetting the day or names, which we choked up to exhausting herself.

It was only when we found her, crouched, sobbing in the garden, and three in the morning, snapped twigs, entangled her hair, and clutching at nothing in her arms. Save him! she screamed. Her unraveling quickened with each passing day, and her once razor-sharp brain was blunted by neurodegeneration. She started to lose any semblance of her current reality, fogged over by childhood memories from a world long past. Her own children became strangers to her, whose hand she would slap away when they tried to help her. She would stumble about, searching for a long-departed family,

her cries growing more frantic before she would crumble into a sobbing heap with her knees drawn up to her chin, like a lost child. My parents became her carers, changing her urine-soaked sheets and assuring her confused babbling in strained, low voices. Even in the haze, there was still a flicker of her former self. Whenever my mother would give her a glass of water, she would snatch it in her own trembling hands and drink it,

droplets soaking through the vericose vein greying folds of her neck. Being only a child back then, and lacking the adult foresight I have now, I became increasingly terrified of her. Even when my parents had sat me down and tried to phrase the situation, I struggled to understand what was happening to her. When a spindly arms strained out to hold me, I cringed away from them. The warm woman, who had once baked me cookies and rocked me on a lap,

had been snatched away, leaving a screaming, emaciated imposter in her place. She would ride about on the bed, her hands gripping the sheets. Death came as a welcome release for both of us. It had been a closed casket service, though as close to her, couldn't bear to see what she had become. I stood, squeezing my father's hand, outfitted in black funeral attire, as I watched my grandmother being swallowed up by heaps of earth. Her agony still haunted me, along with my own cowardice, that even at the very end, I had been unable to hold her. Everyone there assumed her suffering was at an end. Little did we know

How wrong we were The night after we buried her Was rocked by the worst thunderstorm That our country had seen in over 20 years Where the grey skies was aglow With ethereal white electricity I struggled to sleep Under the rumbling thunder that rattled the tiles on our roof

I was close to hurling off the covers and frustration When my ears picked up on a series of crashes Once that seemed to be coming from inside our house Having more courage than sense at that age, I crept down the stairs with a baseball bat gripped in my trembling hands. The gaping darkness that awaited me in the bottom of the stairs did little to ease my grown fear. Instead, my fevered mind conjured up a plethora of horrors that were hidden in it, just waiting to seize my ankles with their sharpened claws to drag me to my certain demise. A flash of lightning illuminated a stumbling set of mud-caped bare footprints that trawere.

veiled into the living room. I froze at the angered creek of the rocking chair that escaped through the half-open door. Trembling forward, I braced my clammy hand against the door in a futile attempt to steady my gelatinous legs.

Every smothered breath that escaped my mouth burned my overworked lungs as I contemplated rushing back to my room and cocooning myself in bedsheets and pretending it had been nothing more than a particularly vivid nightmare. But a morbid curiosity compelled me to grab the faded brass handle and twist open the door.

As my eyes scanned the darkened room, my rapid heartbeat eased as I made out the familiar shapes of the furniture that crowded the room. But then my heart halted in my chest. There, hunched in the darkened corner in a beloved rocking chair, sat my grandmother. The salmon pink funeral gown we had laid as a resting was flecked with soil and stray dark green.

blade of grass, her bony legs and bare feet blackened with grime. The immaculate bun that had once pinned back her hair was long and done. Her snowy white strands of hair disarrayed into an unkempt bird's nest. Her arthritis stiffened hands that gripped the arms of the chair were blooded and worn to the point that white bone glistened through split seams of skin from countless hours of scratching at the inside of her own coffin. As a vacant stare fell on me, the faint line of her mouth elasticated into a trembling, toothless grin.

Christopher, she weised. I've waited so long. The pressure of the scream that had been building in my throat was too much to contain. The sound sent my parents barreling down the stairs. We're unseeing her. Their cries soon joined my own in a horrific symphony.

No one had any real idea to deal with the insane circumstances we found ourselves plunged into. My father had fiercely refuted my grandmother's ginger suggestions of calling the hospital. He was afraid that he would sentence his mother to an eternity of being prodded with needles and electrodes on a sterile lab table in some covert government facility. He wasn't going to lose her again. So we drew the curtains on the room, sequestering her away from the curious eyes of neighbours,

the very same who had attended a funeral and left her to sit there. No matter how many bottles of air freshener we sprayed or scrubbed out with bleach, the stench of putrefocation pervaded the house. Blue bottles soon climbed up the walls, swarming around that forbidden room. Her throaty humming of a forgotten lullaby would drift out through the walls. She became our shameful secret, one no one wanted to acknowledge, but whose strain weighed more heavily on our lives with each passing day. She would just sit.

endlessly undulating, oblivious to the conflict her return had caused, humming over the faint blare of the television set. The brilliant twinkle in her eyes had been snuffed out, staring at the walls with a dead in divinity. She wasn't even human anymore, just a slowly rotting hunk of meat who transformed her house into a tomb. My parents' debate grew more fevered, eventually escalating to raised voices and slamming doors.

I took every opportunity to stay out to stay out. the house, either playing video games at a friend's house or at the local park. Just the thought of stumbling around through the putrid darkness and seeing her undead eyes glint out at me was enough to twist my stomach into knots. As much as I tried to banish her from my mind, one question continued to fester inside of me, along with her. One day, I just couldn't take it anymore. Who's Christopher?

I asked. my mother's hand tensed over the shirt she'd been in the middle of folding crumpling the material I shifted around the temporary release overtaken by anxiety as I wondered if I ever should have voiced it she turned to me

the corners of her eyes glistening with a distant grief that only accentuated the sleepless bags that hung under them you've heard her too she murmured I swallowed She called me that on the night she came back. Her gaze dipped back to the bundle cloth on the ironing board, unfolding it in a futile attempt to refocus herself on the task.

But whatever thoughts transpired through her head, sapped her of the ability to focus on anything else. She shoved it aside, leaning over the ironing board. Her eyes started surreptitiously from side to side, all too aware of my father's shuffling presence down the hallway as he went to tend to her. I know I shouldn't be telling you this, but back when your granny was a little girl, she had a brother, Christopher. He was the second youngest out of all her siblings. She was like a second mother to him.

She even sang to him at night. The faint smile slipped from her face. One day, her mother told her to watch him while she was milking the cows. They decided to play hide-and-seek in the hay-bells together, but their father went out to shift them. He had no idea either of them were inside. Dread prickled through me.

The kind you get at the pinnacle of a roller coaster right before you plunge down at high velocity. I nodded my head, a masochistic side pushing to hear the rest of the story, as terrible as I knew it would be. Your grandmother was only grazed, but that poor little boy was completely run through. She concluded with a grimace.

Five years old, played out before they could even fetch a doctor. She shook her head. It was an accident. That's what everyone said But not your grandmother She always blamed herself for it I called solemnity hung over us both I stared agape at my mother

Her face creased into a stoic frown The images seared into my mind Before I could erase them I could practically hear her desperate wails echoing in my head She had been suffering long before her descent A cherry smile and razor wit Had hidden a pain that permeated her very soul

It was then I knew what I had to do. That night, instead of my usual hasty ascent upstairs to the haven of my bedroom, I made a detour to the forbidden room, one I swore I would never again enter. The muscles in my hands seized up as I reached out towards the door, but I forced myself to open it. She sat in the corner of her room, her rocking chair turned to face me, as she had been awaiting my arrival. Her eyes glowed in the faint light from the brightly lit hallway that trickled through the half-open door.

Christopher, she beamed. Pushing down the revulsion that burned in the back of my esophagus, I clambered up onto a lap the way I had always done when I had been little. A rigamortist stiffened arms encasing me. I wriggled in a lap at her icy fingertips, seeming intent on crushing whatever breath was in my lungs. My body eased into it, overcome. by the familiar warmth.

She wasn't a monster. She was the person who would stay up nights with me to make sure there weren't any monsters hiding in my closet. She had devoted the last years of her life to me. I rested my head

against the bony ridge of her clavicle. The sickly, sweet smell of death filtered into my nostrils making my eyelids droop down. She pulled me close, her scratchy whisper, invading my ears.

Christopher. I'm so sorry, a voice trembled in the verge of a sob. It was all my fault. We shouldn't have gone into the barn. I should have just done like Mama told me to. She took a messy lock of hair behind my ear with a mutilated finger. The oversized collar slid down her bony wrist, revealing a pink scar that stretched from her wrist to mid-forearm. It's okay, I murmured into a vein-line neck.

I forgive you. Hot tears splashed down into my scalp, and she cradled my head in her wrinkled hands. She slumped back with a sigh of contentment, which, coming from her aged lungs, sounded like air, escaping a half-deflated balloon. Safe in her arms. I finally succumbed to sleep. It was the pattering of sunlight against my cheek through the narrow cracks in the boarded-up windows that roused me from the darkness. I blinked awake, a heavy, groggy mist of confusion having settled on me, obscuring the events of the previous night, but, with each passing second, they acquired further clarity.

I turned around to face her, but instead a holode-eyed skeleton stared back at me. The only thing that kept me from tumbling to the floor were the skeletal hands that squeezed my body like a vice. The rotting skin had slid off her bones, along with a degenerating muscle, pulling onto the floor in a putrid slick. Viscuous traces of vitreous humour trickled from the corners of her empty eye sockets. There was no more regret, no more grief, no more confusion

that had plagued of for so long. Only peace. The frantic jolt of my heartbeat eased as relief overcame me. I enclassed myself in my deathly grasp, folding her arms over a chest. I reached up and pressed my lips to her exposed frontal bone.

rest now i thought