CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "My Ritual Keeps Bad Things From Happening" Creepypasta

Episode Date: June 3, 2020

The Quarterman is coming...CREEPYPASTA STORY►by NewAgeSolution: 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►Marius Siergiejew: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/cr...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-

This weekend, I'm I'm a moose if I'm not on think. Oh, that dossier that morning off-moot, I'm all moot as I'm just a-mourg. Oh, van Navement, Appa-Dial Tournoe. Oh, I'm a moose if I're not on think. Have you it mollick to come? Give you self then a boost

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forcryg-mach-mach-a-Poteer. Tap, tap, pinch. One more time, that wasn't right. Tap, tap, tap, tap. No! Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Come on. Tap, tap, tap, pinch, tap.

There, perfect. Four tries to finally get it right. It's all part of my requisite ritual that I perform multiple times a day. Whenever I get that feeling, I have to tap the bottom of my forearm, precisely right behind my wrist joint, twice with my right hand, making a sort of karate chop like gesture. Next, I have to tightly pinch the skin around the same area on my forearm with my right thumb and index finger.

After that, I have to make one more hand tap, and I'm usually good. Keep in mind, this all happens within seconds. Whether I'm at work, a crowded bar, or even driving, it's something that must be done as soon as I sense the aforementioned feeling. It's hard to describe, but the feeling. is most comparable to an intensely eerie tingling and queasiness that permeates throughout my body. It's comparable to when the hairs in the back of your neck stand from sensing people standing closely behind you and is always accompanied by a sense of anticipatory dread, like you know something bad will happen if you don't act fast.

Every tap and pinch must be precise. Have the same sound, apply the same pressure, make sure the time in between each one is exactly the same or recurrent in some way. I occasionally have to repeat the ritual until it feels right, which can take anywhere from three to four to over a dozen tries. Sometimes the taps and pinches have to be so hard it's caused bruising and bleeding. I occasionally have to use other objects in lieu of my hand to complete the ritual. Once I used the TV remote and slammed it on my wrist so hard I couldn't move it properly for about a week. I have done it so many times over the years, feeling when it's right has become instinctive.

It's this sense of relief after each tap or pinch, like the momentum gained from performing a combo of moves in a fighting video game. The tension and dread steadily dissipate and are replaced with that relieving sense of having a massive weight lifted off your shoulders. I definitely have the willpower to fight off the feeling that engenders this methodical urge, but willingly succumbed to the overpowering allurement. If I try resisting, there are serious consequences. That's when he appears.

I don't know how it started or why he condemned me to endure this cyclical burden. I call him the quarterman for two reasons. Everything from the number of taps and pinches to his number of appearances is tied to being done or occurring in units of four, and the first time I ever saw him was ironically in a shipyard. He stands well over six feet and towers over my five-ten stature. He's very slim, with ghostly, whitish-brage skin, containing a sickly, mottled greyish tint. Large, ovular, empty black eye sockets are where his eyes should be on the quarterman's long, narrow face.

His thin, black lips, rounding out his distinctive blank, yet menacing expression. Whenever I look into those two large gaping voids, the feeling is magnified to the point where it rattles me to the bone, like his sinister gaze burns a hole through me that deteriorates my psyche. His appearance inflicts pure, unfettered fear, the kind that puts my stomach into knots if I so much as think about his ghastly face. His head is covered with long, scraggly, greasy black hair, and he always wears the same clothes, a tattered, dark grey, longslee. shirt, cargo pants, and worn black shoes. Since I was the only one who seemed to notice him, there are a few times I tried convincing myself he was just a vivid figment of my imagination. Whenever I tried abstaining or prolong my ritual, the quarterman gives me three chances

which I signified by each time he appears. I'll initially spot him at a great distance where I can just barely make him out, usually partly obscured by something or peeking around a corner. He'll get closer the second and third times, across the street or my backyard, and then the other end of a hallway or inside the same space like a restaurant or a store. Whether it's coincidence or not,

I also seem to get plagued by a string of unpleasantries when I try fighting the urge, from car or cell phone trouble, to accidentally injuring or utterly humiliating myself. Obviously, these incidents appear to worsen as my attempts at abstaining from performing the ritual elapsed. On occasion, I think I'd catch a glimpse of the quarterman during or after some of these instances, but was never fully certain. He always manifests behind me the fourth time, and by then, it's always too late.

I never physically see him, but always sense his towering, looming presence. I feel his hot, humid breath when he whispers to me. The message, always cryptically pertaining to something disastrous and tragic, that will happen to myself or someone around me, which I usually figure out after the matter. When I first tried overcoming this spell, the feeling struck me while I was at work. I was unusually confident that day, telling myself it was all in my head and something I could beat through sheer willpower. It only worsened as the day progressed.

I first spotted him in the meeting while peering through a window, watching me intently, peeking out from an alleyway across the street. I still stuck my guns, even when I saw him later that day while walking back from my car across the parking lot. He appeared the third time when I stepped outside for a cigarette, standing about 20, 25 feet away from me, in between two vehicles. It was while driving home, I felt a manifest behind me. He slowly leaned in until his lips were an inch or so from my ear,

after which he whispered a single word. Knee, thankfully I'll stop to the light, because I literally sprung out of my car, only to see the back was empty. The quarterman's messages always incorporate four of something, whether it's a four-lettered word, four-word sentence, or four syllables. I didn't know what it meant until the next day. Still convinced I was beating the impulses to perform the ritual,

a co-worker and I were running late from lunch and about to rush across the street separating us from our office. A protruding tree limb had gotten tangled with part of the intersection traffic signal pole and it was especially gusty that day so it shook noticeably hard when the wind picked up. My co-worker, who was ahead of me, bolted across the street without hesitation.

Just as the traffic signal pole jolted so hard, it emitted a loud, croaky groan. Joanne, I called out to my co-worker, thinking the entire pole was about to fall on her. But it didn't. Joanne stopped after I called a name and was pivoting to face me, just as a car sped down the road. The driver slammed on their brakes, but the vehicle's bumper struck Joanne directly in the knees, literally bending them backwards. A high-pitched snap rang throughout the intersection. Joanne sprawled across the car's hood

before her legs literally folded inward, causing her to collapse like a card castle. I'll never forget Joanne's agonizing shrieks and hollers. She screamed inconsolably until the paramedics arrived, eventually passing out from the pain. I didn't physically see the quarterman when this incident happened, but felt his piercing, malicious stare,

closely watching every gesture I made. It was at that moment I realised what the quarterman's message foretold. Knee. Joanne broke her knees when she got hit by that car. He was all my fault because I distracted her or got punished for not performing my ritual. After that incident,

I was torn between convincing myself what happened was an unfortunate coincidence, or the quarterman and the ritualistic urges I associated with him were now over. Of course, I was wrong, and they continued without skipping a beat. The second time I resisted happened a few months later. I was using the restroom at a friend's house when the feeling hit. I was actually halfway through performing the ritual. Tap, tap, pinch, when my phone rang.

The show my friend and I were watching was returning from its commercial break so I got distracted and scrambled back to the living room I actually didn't see the quarterman that evening and thought yet again his hold on me had lifted when I spotted in the next morning while leaving for work standing just inside the tree line of some woods down the street from my home

I shrugged it off and went on with my day despite being encompassed by the feeling Although I shook it off upon reaching work, I froze when I saw the quarterman standing directly in front of my building's front entrance, staring fixedly at me while others entered and exited. Anyone else in the vicinity paid no mind to him, despite walking within inches of where he stood.

How does anyone else not see him? I thought, while retreating into my car. I really am the only one, forced to endure this torturous process he orchestrates and suffer the dire consequences of disobeying his game's twisted rules. I called off work and spent much of that day dwelling over whether the quarterman was an actual malicious entity or visual manifestation that derived from my subconscious.

The feeling's urge was so strong that day, it made me physically ill. Nonetheless, I refused to concede. After returning from vomiting in the bathroom, I saw him a third time, standing in my living room. He never came into my house before, after which I shrieked and bolted out the front door. Blindly consumed with panic, I wanted to get as far away from him as possible.

As soon as I stepped off my front lawn, however, I tripped and face-planted on the street. Still in a daze from the impact, I felt the quarterman appear over me before he leaned in and whispered in my ear curtain

opens at first I thought whatever he said pertained to the injuries I sustained from my fall I had a busted lip bloody nose along with some scrapes and bruises

once again foolishly convincing myself I either conquer the quarterman or he would finally move on to another victim a few days passed and I was in a meeting with, a special friend of mine for lunch. Her name was Miranda, and we met on a dating app.

We both were very secretive about our friendship due to our age difference. I was pushing 40, and she was in her early 20s. I wasn't really attracted to Miranda, but appreciated her personable qualities, our mutual interests, and meaningful conversations. We were at a cafe near her college campus, finishing up our lunch. It was unusually crowded for a Saturday afternoon, which I didn't pay any mind to, until Miranda's parents burst through the front door. In front of the entire cafe, her parents revealed they discovered the apps and website she'd visited, along with the conversations that revealed Miranda's preference for older men. They ruthlessly berated Miranda, calling her a whore and embarrassment to her family, and saying she should be absolutely ashamed.

Miranda's father accused me of being their daughter's sugar daddy and threatened me with all sorts of bodily harm. At that point, however, I was so mortified and genuinely concerned her father would get physical with me that I scrambled to gather my belongings and scurried out of the cafe. That was the last time I saw Miranda, who I learned took her own life a few days after the incident. You can't imagine the smothering sense of painful awkwardness, embarrassment, shame, and trepidation I endured in the following weeks, where I eventually connected what happened at the cafe with the quarterman's message. The curtain falls, I deduced, signified the unveiling of our discreet friendship, which

came at my expense. I'm certain that whilst storming out of the cafe, I caught a brief glimpse of the quarterman's reflection in the mirror. This was a consequence of not performing my ritual, not another tragic coincidence. I was a slave to my ritual after Miranda's death, loyally adhering to performing those rhythmic taps and pinches. It made me really self-conscious after people started noticing, and even mocking me for doing something I had no control over, and was impossible to discuss with anyone. I became extremely paranoid, sometimes finding myself doing the ritual even when the feeling wasn't conjured.

I became very depressed to the point where I quit my job and started doing drugs and alcohol. to suppress my pain. There were a few times where I had enough liquid courage to thwart the feeling, until the quarterman appeared. The mere sight of him was a sobering reminder of the repercussions. I felt so inferior, so submissive, vulnerable and defeated. The taps and pinches became more brutal as time passed. The simple karate chop-like taps in my wrists weren't sufficing.

I started using handheld objects to outright strike my wrist as hard as he, humanly possible, my pinch is literally breaking the skin. There were instances where my entire left hand would temporarily lose feeling in some spots when it wasn't pulsating from the soreness or so stiff it wouldn't even budge. It didn't matter to me, as long as I averted that smothering feeling of tense, anticipatory dread and kept the quarterman at bay. My third time refusing to perform the ritual occurred while I was going through a particularly crippling bout of depression.

when my mind was consumed with thoughts of nihilism, despair, apathy and self-hate. Ironically, I forced myself to get out of the house and booked a beachside resort condo for a few days, just to get a change of scenery since I'd been mostly cooped up in my house for months. While sitting at one of the resort's bars, I met a woman named Sonia who was experiencing her own hardships. We spent the night drinking heavily, during which I opened up about my ritualistic mannerisms. after she noticed my wrists, bruises and scars. If I felt great talking about my demons. I could tell Sonia's sentiments were similar about her issues.

We formed an instant connection that made me experience feelings I haven't had for someone in ages. Of course, the feelings struck me while speaking to Sonia. I drank so much, I was able to shrug it off, despite spotting the quarterman watching me from a nearby building window. Despite just meeting her, I felt very comfortable around Sonia, like I could let my guard down and everything would somehow be all right. Sonia asked me if I wanted to come to her condo for a nightcap, and I witfully accepted.

Even when catching a glimpse of the quarterman, while we were in the elevator, as the doors closed, I shrugged off the creeping consternation. I wanted to ask if she saw him too, but refrained when I felt her hand slip into my arm. The one attached to the wrist I incessantly battered while catering to my obsessive ritual. I remember briefly spotting the quarterman while he walked to Sonia's condo. I could just see his outline and grim facial features while he stood in the darkened laundry room on Sonia's floor when we walked past. One nightcap turned into three or four more, which led to Sonia and I making out on the couch. I'm not exactly sure when, but I dozed off in my in my in in in in in in in in in in in in in in in in in in in in in in in in in in in in in in in in the corner. dozed off in my inebriated state.

Right before drifting into unconsciousness, I felt him standing closely behind the couch I was sprawled out on, long enough for him to whisper four words in that light, scratchy voice. You can't be happy. My eyes instantly shot open, and I sprang upright, my heart pounding and sweat pouring profusely from my paws. I was greeted with a barrage of excruciating head and body achesuiting. one of the most brutal hangovers I ever experienced. Despite feeling like it had happened in the blink of an eye,

I knew I fell asleep because it was now daytime. The quarterman's ominous words vitalized me with stomach-churning anxiousness, panic, dismay, and pure, unfettered fear, like I had awoken from a nightmare, but still experienced the fiery escalating terror. The sense of something horrible about to immediately happen consumes my mindset as I scanned my surroundings for the source of whatever was provoking this alarming panic. Bartami wanted the burst into the bathroom and saved Sonia from whatever morbid calamitous fate might be awaiting.

Between me, not knowing exactly what I'd be rescuing her from, along with how it would look by acting on such grave impulse, I took another course of action. There's still time, I mumbled to myself as I began frantically performing my ritual. The feeling, hitting me like a head-on collision with a tractor trailer. Tap, tap, pinch, tap. No, that's not right. There might still be time. With all my might, I made that chopping gesture on my wrist, pinching my skin so hard, I heard the slight cracking noise as previous scars and cuts effortlessly split open.

Tap, tap, pinch, tap. No, tap, tap, pinch tap. Still not right. I grew anxious, especially when I felt the quarterman's looming presence start to envelop me. Tap, tap, pinch. Tap, tap. No, wrong again. Blood streams from the top of my wrist.

I frantically and desperately tried every conceivable combination of taps and pinches, unable to abate that feeling, and sensed time was of the essence to prevent whatever was happening. Please, I pleaded it out loud and started slamming my wrist with a TV remote. Just as once, make it stop. Not here, not with her. I promise to never disobey again. From the remote, I tried using my smartphone, slamming the top of my wrist,

with pinches in between that didn't even feel anymore, since I probably killed all my skin's nerves, before grabbing a hardcover book and resuming my barrage. I felt the bone break at some point, but was so determined to disobey the feeling, I fought through the unspeakable agony. Tap, tap. Tap, tap, pinch, tap.

Why isn't anything working? I was drawn to the kitchen area, rushing over toward the counter. I held out my limp wrist and started pulling open drawers, grabbing any appliance or utensil I could hold to fulfill my ritualistic requisites. I tried a rolling pin. Tap, tap, pinch, tap.

No, that didn't work. I tried a serving spoon. Tap, tap, pinch, tap. The feeling worsened. A pair of tongs? Tap, tap, tap, tap. No. By now, my wristbone was completely fractured,

and my hand only connected to the arm by its muscle and tendons. It was when I retrieved this next and final item that I felt a slight sense of solace and realized what I must do to vanquish this exceptionally unrelenting episode of the feeling. I know, I feel your presence here, watching me. Let this be it. What I have to do, spare me, spare her, Sonia.

Please don't let anything bad happen to her. I mumbled frantically while holding the large cutting knife over my head. I looked down at my mangled, swollen, disfigured, contorted hand and took a long, slow breath. Chop, chop, pinch, chop. The damage to my hand was so extensive it couldn't be reattached. Not that it mattered, since I spent the following week. completely restrained. Sonia was absolutely hysterical when she found me, but I never

again saw or heard from her, which I guess is understandable. I'd probably do the same if someone I took back to my room had a massive breakdown and chopped off their own hand. When I explained my reasoning for what I did to the doctors, they naturally couldn't relate or understand and had me institutionalized. The courtmen stayed away for the first few weeks. Even he, probably realized I couldn't perform my ritual under restraints. I gained a false sense of closure when first arriving at the sanitarium, convinced I was finally free of this wretched ritual since I no longer had the hand I always used. Once the

restraints came off, however, the feeling returned, like it was patiently waiting all this time. It doesn't occur as often anymore, and I take great pain to concealing when I perform my ritual. But the quarterman seems content if I do my taps and pinches on or around the stump when my hand was once attached. I eventually stopped caring, seeing how this unsurmountable ritual took away anything that gave me purpose. I am presently going through the fourth time where I am resisting the urge.

That feeling is absolutely consuming, but the Mentemann somewhat help. My doctor is having me type out my account with hopes of it providing some sort of closure. I didn't pay much attention when he explained the reasoning behind this exercise, since it doesn't really matter to me at this point. I've seen the quarterman three times in the last day or so, which is how long I've gone without succumbing. As I type this, I can feel his ghastly presence behind me. I tremble while writing this, but I'm staying collected by focusing on trying to type with one hand. He just whispered something in my ear. Your tears will fall.