CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "My New Neighbors Had No Facial Expressions" Creepypasta

Episode Date: May 13, 2020

:|CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Blue_Wake: 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...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/CreepsMcPastaCREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►Disse86: https://www.deviantart.com/disse86/ar...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'm just to have Amsterdam, why? I'm forgetting how a tow-priced. Doy! Toy! Tov? Toxerdom?

16 times per day from out Brussels and in 2-hour. Now, from 19 euro in place of 25. Book you tickets on NMBSInternational.com. The festival season is on-bebroken,

and that betekent Modder. And so, came Kim to Amazon.com. com. On look to a waterdict tent,

a comfortable lugbet. Oh, so, snus. And Lupertprint-regalarese. Miao. Now, now, now, now, now,

just like that dancing the modder man that, oh, wait just even, he now only modder on? Oh, yeah, only mudder. DROG blithe?

Goar for. Find what you knowdhap't on Amazon.com. After the new neighbors moved into the house next door, I was curious enough to introduce myself. Knowing what I know now, I should have minded my own business. One night they weren't there.

The next morning they were. morning they were, having arrived in a beat-up white van in the dead of night. The house had been vacant as long as I lived next door, a foreclosure sign perched in the front yard. I wrote freelance from my own home, I could see it from my office window. In all my staring out that window while battling writer's block, I hadn't noticed anyone paying it to visit. The new owners must have closed the sale quickly at auction and moved right in. The night after the van showed up in the driveway, I stayed up late working. That was when I got my first glimpses of the neighbours through a window at the side of the house.

Peering through someone's window, makes me sound like a voyeur, but I couldn't see much at all. Oddly, they hadn't turned any lights on. All I could see were the silhouettes passing through the darkened interior of the home. The only thing I could make out from the shadowy profiles was that they were a man. and woman. At one point I looked up from my computer and saw that the female silhouette had paused. It's back to the window. It remained unmoving for a long minute before I realized I was wrong about which way it was facing. It was looking back at me. Something about the anonymous silhouette's gaze sent a chill down my

spine. I closed my blinds and called it a day. When I woke up the next morning, a thick black curtain hung in the window in the house next door. I didn't see either of the neighbours again, until that night. I was returning home from a run when I noticed a man bent over from the open doors of the white van, one of the new neighbours. I paused. I felt a little self-conscious that I'd been caught peeking through his window, presumably by his wife.

More importantly, I still wanted to know about the people who bought the long empty house next door. I decided to introduce myself. Hey neighbour, I began cheerfully, walking towards him. I saw you moved in next door. I'm Colin. He stood up from the position he'd assumed halfway inside the van and what I saw left me for a moment without words. He had no facial expressions. What that looks like is hard to describe. It was something I'd never seen before, something I can almost guarantee you've never seen before. There was nothing wrong with his face, at least in the conventional sense. He wasn't deformed, nor was it that his expression was just serious.

No, this was different. In a normal person, 43 different facial muscles work in tandem at all times to let you know what they're feeling. A tiny upturn of one's mouth indicates amusement. A scowl reads as anger, and even when someone tries the hardest to mask their emotions, those muscles create subconsciously perceptible changes that let a keen observer see right through it. On the new neighbor's face, there simply was nothing to read. It was like his face was completely normal on the exterior, eyes blinking and lips moving, but below the skin there was nothing at all.

A mask made of flesh and blood. Will Davies We've been looking forward to meeting you, Colin. I snapped out of my trance when I realised he was talking to me. We? Oh, uh, your family. Where do you move from?

I stuttered. Yes, my wife Amelia and my son, Samuel. We were in Chicago before. We're happy to be in such a quiet neighbourhood with such fine neighbours, Mr Davies said. Looking him in the eye, I was unable to contend.

textualize his words. Was he being friendly or only polite? I couldn't tell. Meanwhile, he pierced me with his intense stare, discerning my own bare emotions, even those I didn't want to show. Did he know how much this was freaking me out? And you, Colin? Are you married?

Mr. Davis continued. Paying attention for the first time to anything but his face, I noticed he was cradling a bunch of cloth in his arms. In a few places, the folds and wrinkles in the fabric parted to reveal something rigid, metallic, reddish, perhaps bronze. Mr. Davis crossed his arms, hugging the object tighter, protecting it from my vision. I remembered he'd asked me a question. No, uh, it's just me here, I replied. Mr. Davis nodded, his hollow eyes glazed over.

I'm happy we were able to meet, he said. I hope I can introduce you to my family soon. Yeah, sure thing, I said. At that point, I just wanted the conversation to end. Once I got home, I texted my friend, Alex, detailing my conversation with Mr. Davies. Perhaps like you, Alex, is the type of person who enjoys stories of strange occurrences.

After a while, Alex replied, When you tell me this guy had no facial expressions, do you mean he never smiles? Sounds like he's just got to stick up his ass, lull. No, dude, I wrote. It's hard to explain if you haven't seen it. Is he still outside? Alex wrote.

Take a picture of him. I went over to my window and brought my eye up to a gap in the blinds. Scanning the driveway. There was no sign of Mr. Davies. I was a second from texting Alex back. Sorry, no picture. when Mr. Davis stepped off his home's front steps. It looked like it was getting something else from the rear of the van.

I held my phone's tiny camera lens up to the gap and snapped a picture. I sent Alex the photo, averting my eyes. I didn't want to see his face. It sphinx-like absence of expression. For some reason, it felt wrong, like I'd done something I shouldn't have. The next morning, I had several unopened text messages. messages from Alex. Is your phone messed up or something? Okay, you got me. You used one of those

photo editor apps, right? Um, you're going to explain or what? I scrolled upwards through our conversation anxiously, with no choice but the look at the picture I tried to avoid. I shuddered in anticipation as I opened the photo, preparing to see Mr. Davis's uncanny face. But it wasn't there at all. The rest of the picture appeared, exactly. exactly as it would have to the naked eye. The driveway, the white van, a man hunched over. With a part of his face visible from the camera's perspective should have been though, there was no clear image at all, only distortion, like he was behind frosted glass, not cheaply

superimposed over the image, like when the TV news blur someone out, but seemingly integrated into his face. was no quick photo editor app that could do that. I told Alex I hadn't docked to the photo. I waved it away as a glitch, but I didn't know if I believed my own excuse. I put it out of my mind until mid-afternoon, when I noticed the item still trapped in my front door's mail slot. Curious, I stooped to take it.

A plain white envelope, lacking postage or a return address. The sender must have brought it to my door themselves. inside was a small, plain card. It contained a message composed in black ink and slopping, unbroken cursive. Colin, we cordially invite you to join us for an intimate meal at nine today. We are eager to become better acquainted with you. Warmest regards, the Davies family. We didn't know what to make of the letter.

Who at dinner at nine o'clock? I had no intention of going, until a. course, I told Alex about it. As I should have expected, he insisted I attend and tell him all the details. After some guilt-tripping about special decorum and not being a terrible neighbour, I relented. Albeit reluctantly, I was going to dinner

with the new neighbours. I arrived at the Davies house with a cheap bottle of wine. It was all I had to bring them, and besides, I wasn't spending money on these strangers. standing on the front porch and knot formed in the pit of my stomach as I thought once more of Mr. Davis's strange countenance

a door opened only a few seconds after I knocked the knot tightened Colin Mr Davis said my family will be pleased that you joined us come in he spoke flatly

and my inability to interpret his tone threw me off balance again I followed Mr Davis through an entrance hallway, turning right into the dining room. I glanced around the house as we walked through, trying not to make a show of it. The tile floors needed a power wash, and there were almost no furnishings, save for the black curtains obscuring all the windows. Entering the dining room, I glanced into the adjacent kitchen for a second. It didn't look like anyone had been preparing dinner.

I didn't even see a fridge. A wooden table in the dining room was just. draped in a silky tablecloth, sporting an intricate geometric pattern. This well-crafted item was a stark contrast to what I'd seen in the rest of the house. There were no dishes on the table. Instead, in the centre,

stood a tall bronze candle holder with several arms. I immediately recognised it as the item I'd watched Mr. Davis removed from the van, engraved at its base, with some kind of run symbol. Each arm held a lit black candle, A woman sat at one end of the table Her face, framed by mid-length brown hair

Would have been pretty, were it not for that same inexplicable trait Mr. Davis had, The one that made my skin crawl, A complete dearth of expression. She was a blank slate. She stood. It's a pleasure to meet you, Colin. I'm Amelia Davis.

Please don't mind the decor. It's a... ceremonial formality before we break bread. Our faith is a foreign one. Adherents aren't common in this part of the country. I forced a smile, studying the table again. I realized that there were four seats around it. Samuel will be joining us later,

Mrs. Davis said, as if reading my mind. He's been resting. Somewhere in the house, I thought I heard a quiet rattle. I'd only been there for a short time, but everything about it was strange. I needed to get my bearings. Do you mind if I use your rest room?

I asked. Mr. Davis, who'd stepped out while I talked to his wife, re-entered the dining room. Mr. and Mrs. Davis exchanged a sidelong glance. Across the house near Samuel's bedroom, Mr. Davis said, Just make sure not to rouse him. I headed in the direction he pointed.

me. I was still holding the wine bottle I brought. I must have been so tense I forgot to put it down. I passed the hallway, which I entered the home. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something which chilled me to my core. A length of rusted chain stretched taut across the front door. Padlock secured it to bracket, a fix to both ends of the doorframe. This wasn't a dinner. It was a trap. I hurried to the bathroom, finding it across from what was presumably Samuel's bedroom. The bathroom was bare, like the kitchen. No toiletries or cosmetics in sight. I didn't know what was going on, but I needed a way out.

The back door wasn't an option. When Mr. Davis chained the front door while I was talking to his wife, he wouldn't have overlooked it. My best bet was to lock myself in the bathroom and contact the police. But I didn't want to draw attention by making it. a call. Instead, I texted Alex. Listen to me, there's something very wrong at the Davis's house. I need you to call the police and tell them to get here now. Mrs. Davis called for me from outside the bathroom. Colin, are you all right in there? We're waiting. Alex replied,

chill out, man, lull. Tell me what's going on. I began to panic. Alex was more concerned with indulging his nosiness than helping me out. "'Call in,' Mrs. Davis called impatiently. "'Come on out, dear. We'd like you to meet Samuel. "'My gut told me I did not want to meet Samuel.' "'One second,' I shouted. "'I texted Alex again. "'Not joking. Call police now!'

The doorknob began to jiggle. Mrs. Davis was trying to open it. It stopped after a while, but she hadn't given up. you'll have to come out one way or another said Mrs Davis the sound of metal connecting with metal from between the door and the frame Mrs Davis was trying to use something

to pry open the latch the door would be open any second I gripped the bottle of wine I was holding so tight my knuckles went white and faced the door I heard the pop of the latch and raised the bottle above my head the door swung open revealing Mrs. Davis, kitchen knife in hand on the other side. I brought the bottle down with as much force as I could.

It shattered over Mrs. Davis's head, sending splinters of glass careening through the air. She slumped to the floor, rivers of red wine flowing down her head and shoulders like blood. I noticed though that despite the open cuts on her skin caused by the glass, she wasn't actually bleeding. I ran out of the bathroom, stepping over Mrs. Davis. Mr. Davis stood, blocking the end of the hallway I'd come down. He carried something he hadn't before, an old but razor-sharp bronze dagger. Its hill was adorned with the same ruin I'd seen earlier. Mr. Davis began to advance down the hall.

Running towards the fire end of the house, I noticed the door I hadn't tried, narrower than the rest I'd seen. Whatever was inside, I hoped there was a little. something I could barricade the door with. I opened the door to find a steep set of wooden stairs leading to a darkened basement below. Down the hall, Mr. Davis was closer. He paused

beside Samuel's room and opened the door. A tall figure lumbered out of the bedroom. It was humanoid, but not human. Composed of thick, black lines, scribbles, not fixed, but constantly fluctuating,

threatening to escape the boundary. of the figure's person-like shape and degenerate it into something else entirely. I bolted into the basement without a second thought. The basement was dingy, filled with junk left behind by the previous owners. In one of the darkened corners opposite the stairs,

I found a hiding place beside a futon covered by dusty old sheets. As footsteps marched towards the basement door upstairs, I scooted behind the futon but glided with something. I turned around. I was face to face with a dead body.

Backing up as far as I could without exposing my position, I saw that there was not one dead body, but two. They appeared to have been mummified somehow, preventing full decomposition, carved into their foreheads. It was a symbol,

that familiar ruin. The door creaked open upstairs and, peeking out, I saw two figures begin to slowly descend the steps. Mr. Davies, still carrying the blade with which he would cut that wretched ruin into my forehead, and that shape they called Samuel. Come on out, Colin. Mr. Davis yelled,

Samuel wants to meet you. Samuel wants to be you. The footsteps got closer as they creaked down the steps. That mass of unstable darkness loomed over Mr. Davis' shoulder as he came into full view. Perched on one of the bottom steps, he surveyed the basement for me, his expressionless stare sweeping

from one side to the next and Sirens. They began faintly, becoming louder as they rapidly moved closer to the home. Alex had saved me. Sensing that the source of the sirens were closing in on the house,

Mr. Davis turned to the figure and motioned for it to turn back. Despite being thwarted, his face belied no disappointment, anger or fear. Just the same, cursed stare. The shape, however, released an ear-splitting screech before they both fled upstairs. By the time the police managed to breach the house and found me huddled in the basement, they were already gone. As far as I know, those people I call the Davies family still haven't been found.

I say it that way, because it wasn't their real name. Later, at the police station, Detective Sims, the lead and what was now a double homicide case, told me what she knew. That house was never purchased, Sims explained. It was still on the market. The people who called themselves Will and Amelia Davis gave you false names. We know where they got them from. Those bodies in the basement. Medical examiner just ID them as Will and Amelia Davis.

a couple who went missing, along with their six-year-old, Samuel, in Chicago a few months back. Emmy thinks they've been dead about that long. Sims paused, remembering something. Can you describe those folks for me again? I obliged. Stay put, Sim said. I want to show you something. She left the room, returning with a printout of a photograph.

The real Davies family. He was a family portrait of a couple and their same. small child. The couple were identical to the people I'd called Mr and Mrs Davies. Well, almost identical. There was one difference. The people in the photograph were smiling.