CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "My New Neighbors Were Too Kind. Now They Say I’m Family" Creepypasta

Episode Date: April 20, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Saint ZanderCreepypastas 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 ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creep...  ►"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 moved to New Maple in early spring, right as the snow banks along the curbs turned to slush and the neighbourhood kids started trading sleds for bikes. The place was filled with people who weighed from their porches and jogged with dogs that didn't need leashes. Quiet, unbothered and polite. I told myself I was ready for quiet. I'd taken a job teaching art at the local high school and the rental. An aging two-bedroom with creaky stairs and yellow siding was the best I could afford without roommates. I told people I'd moved to focus on my work to get out of the city.

That part was true. The part I didn't talk about was a slow disintegration of a relationship I'd spent too many years in and how silence had started to feel safer than conversation. The Avery's lived two doors down. I noticed them on my first walk around the neighbourhood. Their house had blue shutters and a deep green lawn already trimmed to perfection. Tulips line the path to their front porch in a single even row. I saw Mrs Avery trimming them with garden shares one morning, her white sun hat covering most of her face.

She didn't look up when I passed. only nodded. It took a week before she spoke to me. You're the one who moved into 214, aren't you? She asked as I carried in groceries. The old Duncan House. She stood on the sidewalk with her hands clasped in front of her, her voice soft but precise.

Her smile stayed on her face the whole time we talked. She introduced herself as Marion, and when I gave her my name, She repeated it twice. Then she invited me over for lemonade. I said yes, because it felt easier than saying no. The inside of the home smelled faintly of lemons and wood polish. It was spotless.

The cleanliness in there felt permanent. Every surface had been dusted, every frame perfectly aligned. I noticed photographs, small ones lined. small ones lining the mantle, larger ones on the wall near the stairs. A girl with brown hair and a bright, wide smile. That's our daughter, Emily, Marion said when she caught me looking. She disappeared last year. She placed a glass of lemonade in my hand and asked if I wanted a cookie.

Mr. Avery, whose name, looking back, I realized I never learned joined us a few minutes later. He was taller than his wife, thin, with a neatly pressed collared shirt and an easy, practiced way of folding into conversation. They were charming in the way that old couples are. I stayed for over an hour. When I left, Marion pressed the Tupperware container of cookies into my hands and told me to stop by any time. I didn't plan on going back. But the next week she appeared on my porch with a pie, then came the dinner invitation, then another.

Over the next month, the visits turned into tradition. They always served too much food and insisted I'd take home the leftovers. We played cards or watched an old movie on DVD. Sometimes I'd find myself helping Mr. Avery move something into the garage or fix a loose shutter. I didn't mind. It felt good to be wanted somewhere. They had a way of making me feel needed without ever saying it outright. Then the small comments began.

You have a laugh, Marion said one night as we finished washing dishes. Emily's laugh used to carry through the whole house. Another time, Mr. Avery handed me a book from their shelf. She loved this one, used to read it out loud on the porch. I smiled, said thank you, and took the book home. I told myself it was harmless, a grieving family seeing peace as their daughter and a young woman nearby. It was a compliment, that's all. Then, after dinner one night, Marion handed me a folded sweater.

I found this while going through the linen closet, she said. It used to be Emily's. I think it would look just perfect on you. It was soft, cream-colored, with slightly stretched sleeves. The scent of lavender clung to it. I hesitated for half a second, but she was already draping it over my arm. Her hand stayed there, resting lightly on my wrist. You don't have to wear it now.

Now, just keep it. It'd make me happy. I nodded and thanked her, told myself I'd return it later. I never wore it. Just folded it into the back of my closet where it sat behind a box of winter scarves. By then, I had already stopped telling people how often I was seeing the Avery's. I'm not sure why. Maybe I was afraid of how it would sound.

Or maybe part of me already knew something wasn't quite right. I just didn't know how far it would go. It was a Sunday evening when they asked. Dinner had been roast chicken, peas and soft bread rolls that marion brushed with melted butter. I'd brought over a cheap bottle of red wine and we drank it in mismatched glasses while the sun dipped behind the trees outside their living room window. They weren't watching anything on TV. Marion had turned on an old stereo that played instrumental jazz at a volume just low enough

to barely notice. She waited until I had finished eating, then reached for my hand. Her fingers were cool and dry, but steady. Across the table, Mr. Avery cleared his throat. We wanted to ask you for a favour. Ava, she said. I looked between them, unsure of what they meant. Tomorrow is Emily's birthday, she continued.

She would have turned 17. Mr. Avery nodded. His hands folded in front of him. We started a tradition just last year. Just a quiet evening. A remembrance ritual, I suppose you could call it. Marion gave a small smile. then, the kind that didn't reach the eyes.

We thought, if you were willing, maybe you'd help us with it this year. I didn't answer at first. She kept holding my hand. It wouldn't be much. Just sit in a place at the table, read a passage from a journal, maybe wear one of her favorite dresses, that's all. Mr. Avery reached across and rested a hand on his wife's shoulder. She began to cry, not loudly, which made it even sadder.

It would mean so much to us, he said. People do strange things when they grieve. I said yes. The next day they dressed me in pale blue, the fabric thin and neatly pressed. It was already laid out in Emily's room when I arrived, draped over a bed like it had been waiting. I changed in silence. The dress fit me perfectly. Downstairs, the table was set for three.

One plate at the head, one at the left and one at the right. A single white candle burned in the centre. Marion stood by my chair, smoothing the shoulders of the dress as I sat down. On my plate was a folded piece of paper. I read the word. words out loud. It was a passage from Emily's journal, something about a favorite season, the way the air smelled before rain. I read it twice at Marion's request. After that, we held hands. Mr. Avery began to hum, a slow, droning melody. Marion joined in, barely above a whisper.

There were no words, only the sound of their voices moving in and out of tune with each other. They stopped humming and began eating. I followed their lead. The food was thick and oddly sweet. Some sort of casserole I didn't recognize. The texture was soft, but not in a pleasant way. My stomach tightened after a few bites. Still, to be polite, I clean the plate.

Afterward, they insisted I stay a little longer, just to talk. I nodded along with their stories, most of which seemed pulled from moments that no longer belonged to anyone. Mr. Avery kept referring to things we had all done together, times I knew for certain I hadn't been there. He spoke with such conviction that I stopped correcting him. Marion stood and clasped her hands together. You've been such a light for us, she said.

We've been thinking, maybe it would be easier for everyone if you stayed the night. She gestured toward the stairs. We already made up a room for you. I didn't respond. I stood forcing a smile and told them I had an early morning. I walked toward the door. Neither of them followed. They only watched, Marion still smiling, Mr. Avery with his head slightly tilted.

I reached for the doorknob. The world tilted sideways. The last thing I remember is the taste of metal in my mouth and the floor rushing up toward me. I woke to the sound of bird song. For a moment, I thought I was home. Not my new place, but the apartment I'd shared with my sister before the move, the one with the crooked blinds and the peeling wallpaper in the kitchen. The morning light had that same watery yellow hue,

stretched across the floor like someone had poured it from a glass. But the room smelled different. There was no scent of old coffee or laundry detergent. Instead, the air was stale, perfumed with something powdery and floral. I turned my head and saw the wallpaper. Soft pink with tiny green leaves, printed and even rows. A bookshelf sat beneath the window, filled with worn paperbacks and dusty trophies. There were dolls on a wooden rocking chair in the corner,

a small white desk, a full-length mirror with a lace shawl draped over the top. And on every wall photographs and a child's drawing. Dozens of them framed and arranged with obsessive precision. They were all of her, Emily. Her face stared back at me from every angle. School portraits, birthday parties, candid shots. in the yard. Her eyes always locked with the camera, always smiling. I sat up. The sheets tangled around my legs. I was still wearing the dress. My skin itched beneath the fabric. I reached

for my phone out of habit. My pocket was empty. I checked the nightstand. Nothing. No phone, no charger, no keys. My coat was draped over the desk chair, but the pockets had been turned inside out. There was no clock in the room. The silence crawled in behind the birdsong and pressed down on my shoulders. I opened the door. Mr. Avery stood on the other side, holding a tray with toast and a glass of orange juice. He didn't flinch. His face was smooth, his expression unreadable.

Good morning, sweetheart, he said. We thought you might be hungry. I stepped back into the room, heart pounding, trying to keep my breath steady. He followed, placing the tray on the desk beside the glass lamp. I wanted to ask what happened. I wanted to ask why I had woken up there, why I couldn't remember falling asleep, why I was still in Emily's clothes. But when I opened my mouth, Nothing came out. Mr. Avery folded his hands in front of him and gave a small nod. Your mother thought you might need a little extra rest after everything last night. You always get a little overwhelmed when things get emotional.

He looked at the wall at one of the pictures. We understand. I forced the words out. Where's my phone? What are you people doing? He didn't answer at first. Just looked at me with that steady, practiced gaze. You know you're grounded, Emily.

No phone until we talk about what happened. Until you're honest with us. My skin went cold. He turned and walked to the door. Before stepping out, he said, almost absently, We'll be downstairs when you're ready. Just come sit with us when you're feeling much. more like yourself. He closed the door softly behind him. I rushed to grab it, grabbed the knob,

twisted hard. It wasn't locked, but I wasn't ready to leave yet, not without a plan at least. I checked the window next. The latch had been painted over. When I tried to slide the pane open, it didn't move. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the bed and stared at the door. the door for a long time. There was no yelling, no threats, no locked chains or screaming alarms, just that suffocating sense of stillness. I could hear Marion's voice echoing through the walls. She was humming a tune. She sounded happy. I was worded out and scared, and frankly, I couldn't wait to report them to the police. I'd spent a lot of time to be. I'd spent a lot of time with the Avery's, so I knew what they did, and when they did it. And so, I waited, until the

mower started. It was an old push model, loud, uneven, and it took a minute to warm up. From the window, I watched Mr. Avery roll it across the backyard, the blades chewing up patches of tall grass he had let grow just long enough to look natural. His back was turned. Marion wasn't in sight. I moved fast. Quiet at first, then reckless. I slipped out the room and crept down the stairs barefoot.

My shoes were gone, so I wore Emily's flats from the closet. They pinched my toes, but I didn't stop. The house was still. No clocks ticked. no footsteps echoed, just the rising whir of the mower, steady and sharp. At the front door I reached for the lock. It clicked open easily. The deadbolt hadn't been set. For a second, I thought maybe this would be easy. Maybe they had let their guard down. I opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight. The grass felt cold through the thin soles of my shoes.

I didn't look back. I moved quickly past the porch, through the side yard, past the rose bushes that edged the Avery's driveway. I heard the mower stop. Then, his voice. Emily, I didn't answer. I broke into a run. I made it halfway across the lawn before he tackled me from behind. My niece slammed into the ground.

one shoe flew off. His arms wrapped around my waist and he dragged me backward, his breath hot and uneven in my ear. I screamed in hopes anyone would hear me. Enough, he snapped, enough of this. I screamed again, raw and useless. He pulled me through the doorway and up the stairs.

My hands clawed at the walls, trying to find something to grab, anything that might catch. He threw open the bedroom door and shoved me inside. I hit the floor hard, my shoulder cracking against the leg of the bed. You don't get to run away from us, he said. He stood over me, chest heaving, face flush. I could smell the sweat on him, mixed with something sour.

He raised his hand. The slap rang in my ears for a long time after. he left. When he shut the door again, the light seemed to change. The sun had begun to set, and the room filled with shadows that stretched toward the corners like stains. I stood, legs shaking, and picked up the nightstand. It was heavier than I expected, painted white with floral knobs, one drawer still filled with old birthday cards and dried out pens. I dragged it to the window, raised it above my head, and slammed it against the glass. The first it only left a mark that was nothing but cosmetic.

The second didn't even do that much. By the fourth strike, my arms burned. I let the nightstand fall to the floor and sank beside it, chest rising and falling too fast, the glass mocking me from above. I didn't hear anyone approach. A door creaked open behind me. Emily, Marion said gently. I turned to face her.

She stepped into the room in a pale blue sweater and slacks. Her hair was pinned neatly behind her ears. She held a silver brush in one hand and a smile never wavered. I thought we could spend some time together. She said. Before I could speak, I saw movement behind her. Mr. Avery stood in the hallway. He wasn't sweating anymore.

His face had gone still, calm again. In his right hand was a pistol. He held it with both hands low against his stomach, but aimed in my direction. I opened my mouth. But Marion was already crossing the room. Why don't you come sit? She asked. She sat on the bed and patted the space beside her.

Mr. Avery gestured with his pistol. And so I sat. Marion reached out and began to run the brush through my hair. The bristles snagged on knots. She hummed softly under her breath, something tuneless and repetitive. You always loved this, she said. You used to sit just like this when you were little, remember?

I felt the first tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it. I tried to hold back, but they came fast, soaking into the collar of the dress. Marion kept brushing, her voice crooned. You're going to feel better soon. all that confusion is going to melt away. We'll take care of you, like we always have. She kissed the top of my forehead and kept brushing, even as my shoulders shook. Days passed like this.

Mrs. Avery came into my room every night, accompanied by Mr. Avery. Always the same routine. She came into the room every evening with Mr. Avery right behind her, always carrying the same pistol tucked into his arm or slipped into the waistband of his jeans. He never raised it again, but he never put it away either. It was there to keep the lines drawn, to make sure I didn't forget who I was supposed to be. She would talk about memories I didn't have, cry over milestones I'd never reached. Sometimes she'd sing to me in a low, breathy voice, humming half-finite.

lullabies and whispering that I'd always be her baby. I didn't argue anymore. I played along. I smiled when I was supposed to. I held a hand when she offered it. I responded to Emily. It was the only way to stay safe. Until the night, I reached my breaking point.

I'd been staring at the wall across from the bed where they'd hung a frame I hadn't noticed. before. Must have been slipped in when I was in the bathroom. A drawing done in pencil of a small white house with a porch and two stick figures standing in the yard. At the bottom, the signature. Emmy, age seven. Something about it opened a door in my chest I hadn't closed fast enough. I stood and tore it from the wall. Then the next photo, then another. I didn't stop. I tore the bed sheets apart and kicked the rocking chair over.

I pulled open the drawers of the desk and dumped them onto the floor. I had destroyed most of the room. The mattress had been flipped, the curtains torn from the rod. I had kicked open the closet doors and thrown every hanger to the floor. My arms ached. My throat burned from yelling, though no one had come to stop me. Maybe they were letting me tire myself out Or maybe they were waiting to see what I would do next

I sank to the floor beside the bed frame Heart still pounding tears dried on my face I didn't know what I was hoping to find Some crack in the walls some hidden clue that would explain what had happened here before me I didn't expect anything real That's when I found found the notes. They'd been tugged behind the desk, wedged between the back panel and the wall.

The corner of the paper had just barely peaked out, visible only from where I'd collapsed. It wasn't hidden in the way someone might hide a secret. It was forgotten. I crawled toward it. The notes were thick and worn, the pages soft from handling. A floral cover faded around the edges, with the name Becker written across the front in blue ink. Not the loopy curated signature I had seen of her old school work. This one had been written fast, probably while crying.

The first entry was dated 14 months ago. I wanted to start this off by saying that, my name is Becker, not Emily. Marian gave me this journal, told me to write down whatever she told me to. When she left the room, I ripped a couple of pages out. I needed to get my real thoughts across somewhere. They took me. I don't know how to write that any other way. I keep waiting to wake up, to hear my alarm and crawl back into real life.

But it's not coming. I went to see my old piano teacher. That's how it started. I'd posted about it on Facebook, and Marion must have seen it. She was there when I came out, smiling, saying it had been too long. Then Mr. Avery showed up. I thought it was weird, but I didn't panic. Not until I got into the car, not until the door's locked.

My hands trembled as I turned the page. They told me my parents didn't want me anymore. that the world outside was dangerous and they were the only ones who could protect me. I screamed. I cried so much I couldn't see straight. They started keeping me in the room for days at a time, said I needed to calm down before I earned privileges. Entry after entry blurred into each other. Weeks of isolation, meal slipped through the door. The silence, the slow removal of her name.

They started calling me Emily. That's their daughter's name. She died when I was little, I think. I found a photo once, in a box in the closet. The girl in the picture wasn't me, but they said it was. I told them no, but they didn't listen. The more I argued, the more time they kept me locked away. Mr. Avery hit me for the first time three weeks ago.

He apologized after, said he didn't want to, but I provoked him. Marion gave me ice in a dish towel and told me to stop resisting. She said the sooner I accepted that I was home, the easier everything would be. Some entries were scribbled and hard to read, with a pen pressed so deep it tore the paper. Others were neat and almost detached, like she had given up on being heard and wanted to leave a record. One in particular caught in my... throat. I miss who I was. My name, my friends, my real mum. I think I'm forgetting what a voice

sounded like. I keep trying to say my own name out loud when I'm alone, but it sounds fake now. They keep telling me I'm Emily. They tell me I was never anyone else. The final entries were short. They said we're going to the lake soon to start over somewhere quiet. I think they're going to kill me. If anyone somehow finds this, please tell the truth. I was Becca Harper. I was 16. They made everything up.

I clutched the notes to my chest and sat there in the wreckage of the room they had once given her. A shell of a bedroom meant to erase someone and replace her with a better version. A more obedient version. They were doing it again. I was still staring at the notes when I heard a knock at the front door. I immediately perked up. In all my time spent here as a prisoner, I hadn't heard someone knock on the front door a single time. It was a hard knock, not Marion's gentle tap, not Mr. Avery's soft call for dinner.

A firm, practice fist against wood. My door swung open. It was Marion. Before she could even question me about the state the room was in, she ushered me to come to the front door, claiming we had visitors. Mr. Avery was already there, gun tightly bound to his waist. He was always ready now. He opened the door with a smile.

Two officers stood outside. one older, square-jored, the other younger, sharper eyes. The older one spoke first. We're following up on a missing person report. Young woman, mid-twenties, moved into 214 last month. You know anything about that. Marion beamed. Oh my, we thought we hadn't seen her in a while.

Mr. Avery turned to me. Emily, you are quite well acquainted with her. Come say hello. I walked to the doorway. Marion reached from my hand and held it in both of hers. Introduce yourself first, sweetie. My mouth opened. Nothing came out.

The order officer tilted his head slightly, studded my face. His eyes narrowed just enough to suggest he saw more than he was letting on. I tried again. I'm... She was gone for a year. She just recently came back and... Mr. Avery said quickly. It's been a hard week.

The officer didn't move. I'd like to speak with her alone, if that's all right. There was a pause. Marion blinked. Mr. Avery didn't speak, but his smile faltered. Of course, she's. said, she just needs some air. He led me down the walkway. We stood at the end of the driveway. I leaned in and whispered, barely able to push the words out. It's, it's me. They kidnapped me.

He has a gun. Please don't make a scene. I think you'll kill us if you do. The officer didn't flinch. He only nodded very slowly. Then he smiled. He smiled. Thank you, Emily, he said, loud enough for the others to hear. Everything seems fine here. He walked back to the porch. The door shut. And they left. Marion and Mr. Avery seemed to be satisfied.

They must have assumed that I had told them I was their daughter, or something equally as sick, falling for their own delusions. I went back to the room and said, sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for what would come next. That night, I didn't sleep, or rather couldn't. The raid came late into the night. There were no red and blue lights flashing through the windows, only doors being broken and voices shouting. A battering ram cracked the front door in half, footsteps thundered through the house. I huddled in the corner of Emily's room with a lamp still on, waiting for it to end. One officer rushed straight to my room,

helping me up and escorting me outside. They dragged Mr. Avery out after. He screamed and fought, wild eyes flashing under the hallway light. She's mine, he shouted. You don't understand. She's mine. Then Marion, sobbing, her sweater stained and a hand shaking. Emily, Emily, tell them, tell them the truth. Don't let them take us from you. Don't let them hurt your family. I didn't answer. I watched as they were taken from the house, kicking and wailing.

She reached for me as she passed the bedroom door. I took a step back in disgust. Later at the station, I told the officers everything. I told them about the notes and everything I'd read. read. And with that, Becker's case was reopened, and her family finally got the closure they so desperately needed, as for me. I never quite recovered. People imagine that once the danger ends, you can breathe again, that the worst part is over and done with. That's not how it works. You leave the place, but it doesn't.

leave you. I still shower with the door cracked open. I still flinch when I hear that name. I still dream in that room. The pink wallpaper, the press dress, the soft brushing of a voice behind me, telling me, I'll be better soon.