CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "My New Year’s Resolution was to survive" Creepypasta

Episode Date: December 31, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by withbite: 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►Zack Cy: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/W2...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/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-

Every year around this time, I used to go on holiday. I was not looking for winter sun or peace and quiet. I was looking for the end of the world. This was a particular interest of mine, which began in 1999. I was working in IT and had been caught up in a wave of speculation called Y2K. As I'm sure you know, due to the way computer programs had been written, there was a widespread fear that when we reached this, new millennium, the machines which already ran so much of our lives, would interpret the date

as being the 1st of January 1900. Chaos would ensue. Hand on heart, whether there really was a problem in the first place or not. I'm still not sure. I had my doubts back then, but kept them to myself. I was not going to bite the corporate hand that fed me. And in the end, power plants did not explode, and planes did not fall out of the sky. The world woke up on New Year's Day, as it always had, with hangovers and vows to join a gym. I started the year 2000 with a very healthy bank balance. For months, I'd been working all hours on solutions to the glitch and being paid extremely well for it. I was, though, feeling pretty disillusioned with computing.

I had seen the future as increasingly led by ever more sophisticated technology. But, as winter bit that January. I sat in my apartment and decided I wanted to walk away from the career ladder. I invested the money I had earned very carefully and lived frugally, taken on consultancy gigs now and then to top up my savings. My one extravagance was my annual jaunt in search of the apocalypse. The spark which lit this eccentric fire was reading about 1900. Safely, out of the other side of Y2K,

I had wondered what life was really like back then. Was, I wondered, the world a much better place without computers? My research, however, took me in a totally unexpected direction. I already knew that 1999 was not the first time otherwise rational people thought civilization was come to crash down around them. But I'd not known just how many times throughout history that groups or cults, or call them what you will, had figured that the world was coming to an end on a certain date.

We're talking fire, brimstone, floods, all are coming to get you. As we all know, for obvious reasons, none of the prophecies had ever come true, leaving countless disappointed followers and red-faced leaders. Maybe I'm just a sucker for seeing people fail, but I could not get enough of this saga of good old-fashioned deceit, delusion and dismay, and I devoured book after book on the subject. I found there had been many varieties of the end of times as there are days in the year, but I was increasingly drawn to incidences where the final call came at midnight

as one year turned into another. I guess this was because of the memory of waiting nervously at my workstation as the clock ticked towards 12 in the last minutes of 1999. And luckily for me, the end of the world at New Year continued to be a hot and very current topic and I was able to indulge myself repeatedly. I stood on mountaintops as acolytes huddled close by, shivering in their underwear. I waded out to sea and waded alongside whaling, grown men and women. I went squatted in a cave in total darkness.

The only sign I was not alone was the occasional cough or the sound of someone breaking wind. Every single time, the world continued to turn, undistrored, unjust. and I returned home wondering where my next adventure should be. Twelve months ago, I stepped off a train in the English countryside. The apocalypse was due near here in two days. It was also raining. I thought longingly for a moment about my hot tub at home,

then pulled up the collar of my far too thin coat and set off walking. I tried to book a taxi in advance, but when I got to the part where I gave the name of my destination, An uncomfortable silence followed. Two of the taxi outfits I tried then simply hung up. A third muttered, We don't go there, and then left me listening to the disconnected tone.

I was disappointed, but not surprised. The places I visited on my annual trips were usually shunned by everyday folk, or rather the people who lived there were. Colts were not welcome neighbours. The group my research had led me to this time was somewhat of an enigma. I first heard about them on an online forum

where it was reported that they were inviting those who wished to seek refuge from a corrupt world to join them. A little more digging revealed that they were looking ahead to the end of times at the conclusion of the year. This was enough for me to book my flights. As I trudged along the road

which narrowed into a path that soon descended into a line of mud across a field, I hoped the did. discomfort I felt would be worth it. It was 4 o'clock, and it was almost dark. The only light came from the torch of my phone, and another occupational hazard for my trips, no bars showed.

I brought my head down against the now driving rain and struggled on. An hour later, I'd finally reached my destination. I was soaked to the skin, shattered, hungry, and in a foul mood. If I had been in one of the cottages that I was approaching, I would have not entered the door to the angry-looking, wet, mud-splattered man outside. I tapped at the door of one cottage, from which dim lights show through the windows. By that stage, I did not care if whoever lived there was welcoming or hostile, crazy or sane.

I just wanted to get warm and dry. I tapped harder. Come on, I said under my breath, and was mightily relieved. when the door swung open. A woman stood in the doorway, draped in darkness. I blinked, wiped rain from my eyes. I seek refuge, I said.

She looked at me. I tried and failed to read her expression. Long moments later, she spoke. Welcome, traveller. Then she stepped aside and gestured with a hand that I should come in. Aware that I must be dripping water all over a floor, I entered and followed her into a room lit by candlelight. The candles must have been scented, and there was a very strong smell of lavender.

It was also, I was pleased to see, a small coal fire, and I moved as close to it as I could, desperate for some heat. A drop of rain falling from my hair landed on the glowing coals and sizzled. The sound was embarrassingly loud in the otherwise silent room. I glanced nervously at the woman. Now we were inside. I could see she was young, barely in her twenties, and pretty. She wore a long, plain dress and black flat heel boots.

Her mousy brown hair was gathered up in a bun. It is a foul night to be out, she said, and the smile lit up her face. There's a pot of stew in the kitchen. I will fetch some through. I stood in my puddle of rainwater and grinned. After I had eaten two portions of the stew, a mix of root vegetables and a fatty meat, she showed me to a small room at the back of the cottage. The bed was made.

I wished the woman good night, peeled off my still sudden clothes, and crawled under the covers. I was asleep the moment my head touched the pillow. I don't know how long I slept. There wasn't a clock in the room, and, using the torch, had run my mobile's battery low, Sitting up in bed, I looked around for a socket for my charger, but could see none. None of this was unexpected. Many of the groups I had encountered had rejected the trappings of the modern world, and this appeared to be the case here. I was also not perturbed for the fact that I was sleeping in a complete stranger's home, one whose name I didn't even know.

She did not know mine either, or anything else about me, and yet seemed perfectly. relaxed to have me there. I'd yet to have metacled that turned a potential new member away, and as I dressed and set off in search of somewhere to clean my teeth, I was looking forward to experiencing the end of the world in the company of this woman and her companions. I was whistling merrily as I poked my head out into the corridor. The devil's music. It was not the young woman who had said this, but a man.

He were a dark pinstripe suit. It was faded and filthy, but not as filthy as his face, which was caked in dirt. I realized I was staring rudely and decided to do what the English do when in doubt in any situation. Apologize. I'm sorry, I said. The devil's not interested, he replied. He's too busy singing along to the fetter tune you make. Whistling is a no then.

I thought, and went full English. I'm very sorry. Thankfully, at that moment, the young woman appeared. She was standing in the doorway, dressed as she had been the night before. But now in the daylight, I could see that she wore makeup, a white foundation over her face and below a chin where it met the high neckline of a dress. This seemed somewhat incongruous with the plain antiquated nature of her surroundings. I was thrown a little more when I noticed that her hands were also covered in foundation.

Encountering the unexpected was one of the joys of my trips, but these small details troubled me. Staring again, I thought, and said, Please excuse me, I did not mean to cause any offence. You mean no harm, she replied. My cousin has never travelled outside a little community and is not used to the ways of strangers. But let us not worry about such things. At the end of this day, we shall leave all such matters behind. So come, please.

We must prepare. Saying this, she reached out and put a hand on mine. Her skin, under its unnatural white layer, was cold. I tensed at a touch, wished I'd not when I saw the hurt in her eyes. Hurt I'd caused with my reaction. I'm sorry, I said, means. it this time. She looked away and moved towards the front door, opened it and stepped outside.

Feeling bad, I trailed after her. The man, her cousin, followed. I could not see him, but I could smell him. He stank. There were around two dozen cottages gathered close together. I had only seen a handful the night before in the darkness. They were built of steady-looking stone, and looked deserted, apart from one.

Smoke rose from its chimney, and the young woman went up to the door. She did not knock, and it must not have been locked because she went right in. The smell of lavender I'd noticed the night before drifted out of the open door as I waited for her. It was unpleasantly heavy,

and I was relieved to be out in the fresh air where its effects were passing. I forgot all about this, when the woman returned. She was leading an old woman by the hand. The old woman was blind. Where her eyes should have been, they were empty dark spaces.

As she was led closer, I saw that her skin was also covered in a layer of powdered white. Grandmother, the young woman said, we've been joined by a new soul seeking refuge. I tensed, anticipating that the old woman would touch my face, wondering if her fingers would be cold as well.

But she only smiled, smiled and revealed blackened gums and yellow teeth. I forced to smile in reply, then realized I was wasting my time. Pleased to meet you, I said, still acting those British manners, I thought, and watched as the cousin took the grandmother's other arm and the three of them set off walking.

For the first time in my travels, I was seriously tempted to bail. These people were creeping me out. Then I gave myself a good talking to. I had not come all this way to go home whimpering with my tail between my legs. I hurried after them as the final dusk of the year began to fall. I must, I realised, I've slept well past noon. Midnight was much closer than I thought.

Midnight and the end of the world. they had not gone far. I caught up with them in a little clearing just off the muddy path which I'd followed the day before. They were simply standing there walking at peace with their lot. Waiting, I guessed,

for the end of times they believed was imminent. I had a thousand and one questions and I could not help myself. Do you believe the dead will rise? I asked first. She turned to look at me and said quietly, There is no need.

The dead are already here. I studded her face, saw she was sincere, and saw. Dark patches under the makeup on her face, more on her hands. My mind began to raise. What did she mean, the dead already here? What was wrong with her skin? And then I caught the scent rising off her. It was nauseating, the same smell I had noticed from a cousin earlier.

Only now, I recognised it. It was the sickly, sweet smell of decay. I... I tried to speak, to ask her to explain, to bring reason back to a world, which felt like it was beginning to spin around me. Do not be afraid, she said. This is our way. Our movement was found. it a hundred years ago by a wise man who turned his back on the signs which had made his

fortune. He renounced the world and came to us with a potion that he laid in the soil. That potion made the dead dance in their graves and fight their way free. As she spoke, fear rippled through my body. Her cousin, their grandmother, stood and listened. I could see now where the skin of their faces had blackened under their masks of makeup and dirt, felt the stench coming from them in waves. I tried to focus back in her words as she went on. Now, when we die, we have no need of the bitter grave or the potion. The bite of the chosen ones is all we need. It brings us back, and we go on. We tend our homes, we say our prayers, we welcome newcomers into the fold. as she said this, they began to appear.

They emerged from the nearby cottages. Some were dressed in rags, others in finery. Some were still decaying, and even in the depths of winter, delicate clouds of flies followed their every step. Some were little more than bone, and these sightless ones were led by those still with flesh enough. All chatted ceaselessly, teeth clacking, lipless mouths muttering, the remains of vocal cords and rotting tongues straining to be heard.

I watched, transfixed. They were not like any cult I'd encountered before. They were a cult whose members were all. I could think of no other word. Zombies. There was no need to clamber out of the ground, for these corpses come the apocalypse. They could just cut to the chase, and that is what they were. were doing, gathering slowly into a circle, getting ready to ascend when midnight came, and they

wanted me to go with them. Horror engulfed me as I realized this, as a rusty blade was placed at my feet by one of the things. Another reached out and touched my throat with the dead flesh of its fingers, made a slicing motion, and then smiled, showing me its teeth. Join us, it said. Join us, the one who had given me the blade echoed. Join us. Others who began to chant, Join us.

The young woman came over to me. She placed the hands on my cheeks, the coldness of her burnt, and I began to cry. She said, come with us, be one of us. And then she kissed me. Her lips were dry, her breath ranted. I wept and tried to move away, but she held me tighter and began to press a body against mine.

My temper flared at this. I pushed her, lashed out, and hit her in the face. Her rotted flesh gave way and my hand sunk deeper inside her. Bile rose into my mouth and I yanked my hand back out. A gaping hole remained. I could see the bones inside her, the maggots curling in dismay for their feasts had been disturbed.

I could take no more. I turned and ran. At midnight I was still stumbling through the dark tangle of the countryside. In the distance I heard fireworks. Some innocent celebration by those who had no idea the terror which dwelt so close. By dawn I was on a train to the airport.

I did not sleep during my long journey home. And now. I do not know if they ascended. I do not know if they return to their homes to tend and pray once more, to welcome unsuspecting newcomers into their fold. I do not know if they think of me. If the young woman can still taste me as I can taste her. The memory of the kiss lingers. I do not think it'll ever go away.

As for the future. I'm going to be in 2022 sitting in my hot tub a bottle of bourbon in my hand. If the world does end, I want to be good and drunk.