CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "My son has no mouth and yet he must eat" Creepypasta

Episode Date: July 27, 2020

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His mother died giving birth to him, and I couldn't forgive him for that. If that makes me something rotten, then so be it. I wept dryly by a dying side, stunned, and as the doctors and nurses chiding me out of my seat, so as to attend to the paperwork for the mutant, responsible for the death of the bloated woman lying in the plastic hospital bed in front of me. The doctors ushered her body away, and brought me to the boy with ropy tumorous skin covering his mouth.

They assured me that the procedure to remove the fleshy patch, keeping his mouth shut, could be exercised, and they would need me to sign off on it. I did, and handed the cold, whimpering child with no mouth off to them, excusing myself to the bathroom. The primary physician seemed to regard me, with some understanding pity. But how could he? I stood in the bathroom,

stomping my rubber soles against the solid tiles beneath the, my feet. The man looking back in me from the mirror seemed to be much smaller than I remembered. I'd been so red and boisterous and ready for the family life. Now, the man there slumped his shoulders and his hair seemed to be greasy and grey. His eyes, that of a stabbed bull in the arena, looking up and accepting death, terrified and darting. I briefly wondered what it would be like to just die. I could buy a gun, go home, paint the walls. This conclusion was wholly unreasonable, I know.

This would leave the boy alone in the world. Though, more importantly, everyone would regard me as a poor parent. So, I was stuck. Adoption? Perhaps. Call it a grief-induced confusion if you want, but I prefer to call it being taken away on a wave of extremes. High-tied, low-tied, moving quickly between the proposition of acting as a good, newly single father and being that guy that ducks out when needed the most.

I was deeply sad. That is my only defence, and that sucks. After washing my face in the deep bowl of the hospital bathroom, I wandered back down the line-green hallway to press my face against the window of the nursery where my son lay. He rolled back and forth, twisting his small and inconsequential limbs in all directions, and his eyes wide open in terror, nostrils flaring. He wished to belt out a scream like any other baby might, and yet was refused even that. The muffles came from him small.

They cut him a new mouth, and, as he healed, it was almost easy to ignore the jagged look of his lips. The doctors assured me they would heal nicely with time And that I would barely be able to even notice They'd ever been sealed shut I took my son home And within the week I buried my wife The funeral was brief and small

The baby did manage to cry out With its newfound mouth on that day So did I I'd cried into my pillow As a small boy lay on the bed next to me He would look up at me with curious, blue milky eyes, and the world would fall away for a little while. Time went by.

Weeks. One morning, I awoke to my alarm and was stunned to find that my baby wasn't crying from his crib. I could hear him struggling in his haphazard blankets, and I could tell he was attempting to muffle out a high-pitch babe scream. I darted to the crib, terrified that he was choking on something. As I looked down into the crib, I saw him staring up at me with those pleading blue eyes. He had no mouth. It had sealed itself over again.

His nostrils flared hysterically and his soft feet kicked out below his twisting torso. I panicked. I took my child up in my arms and rushed him to the kitchen, phone in hand, ready to dial 911. I could feel the boy thrashing in my arms and I almost dropped him but abandoned the phone instead. The cell phone shot from my hand and slid across the kitchen tiles. He was gagging and snot and vomit shot from his nose. The image of me holding the limp form of my dead baby in my outstress hands shot through my mind

and I decided that was not going to happen. It was quick enough work. I grabbed a long butcher's knife from the block on the counter. counter and held him over the sink as I carved him a smile. Was I doing the right thing? The dam in his throat broke and the sink drain pulled with blood and vomit. I screamed. He screamed. I was terrified and sick to my stomach. I was immediately struck with how small I felt. Was this what being a parent was like?

Surely no one else in the history of the world had ever had to perform such a macabre act on their infant. tears streamed down my face as I patted him on the spine and he choked up in the sink. Years passed. He would come up to me in the morning. I would brush his hair neatly, straight in his shirt, cut him a new mouth for the day and send him on his merry way.

I would be lying if I said that the thought of sending him off to school with runny red lips didn't eat me up most nights. Beyond his poor eating habits and his strange mouth problem. He is a lovely child. I swear, I can't get that kid to eat anything. Sometimes after dinner, I find the content of his plate in the trash.

Although, he must be getting enough nutrition. He doesn't seem to be wasting away. The first startling clue was when the dogs in the neighbourhood started going missing. It wasn't the craziest thing in the world to be sure, but, seeing as we live in a rather upscale gated community, it was definitely odd to have a dog burglar on the prowl. Then, the dog's mutilated corpses would be found in undeveloped portions of the community or in sewer drains.

Each of them had massive hunks of flesh taken from their bodies, as though they'd been dined on. Speculation of wild coyotes or mountain lions ran rife through the neighbourhood, and I was sure to keep a closer eye on my boy, so that he wouldn't be munched up by some wily beast. I purchased him a puppy for his fifth birthday and he said something to me that chilled me to the bone. Thank you, Daddy.

I've been so hungry. I thought this as a strange quip and nothing more initially. But I sleep with the dog in my bed these days as sometimes I can see my son giving the poor thing a sideways glance with a twinkle in his eye. I'm beginning to wonder whether or not he was born without a mouth for a reason.

I don't know if I plan on giving him his smile this morning. So I posted on here a while back about my son's strange condition, and I'm starting to think I might have come across as a little melodramatic. I hope I was. Maybe. I don't know. Every day I have to give my son what I've come to call his smile. Every night, his mouth seals itself shut, and every morning I have to use a razor to cut it open.

Other than that, he's almost an entirely normal, sweet, wonderful, great, adorable kid. Almost. It is obvious to me that most kids love candy or ice cream and have a difficult time eating their vegetables. My son loves small animals. Not in the way that most children love small animals, mind you. He eats them. I've come to accept that now. I'm sure that I have, I think.

Since my previous post, I found him kneeling over the body of a possum. Do not ask me how, but my son somehow figured out a way to withdraw the poor thing's solid tiny heart from the jagged spot in the possum's chest. I looked over the dead animal and then back at my son. He's dead in my shoes, sniffling. Are you sad that it's dead? I asked him. Maintaining eye contact with the ground, he shook his head. Hey.

Still, he looked down, rubbing the tip of his shoes onto the grass. I reached out and grabbed his chin with my forefinger and thumb, pulling his watery face up to meet mine. It'll be all right, buddy, I said. hoping that saying it aloud would somehow make me feel better about it. I'm honestly terrified of the boy, but I cannot let him see that. I don't want him to think that his father thinks he's a monster. I also don't want him to think about taking a nibble off me. I dug a less than perfect grave in the backyard after wiping the red crime from my son's mouth

and chuck the possum in, pinching it by its fur, so that I wouldn't have to touch any of the bloody mess. I made my son brush his teeth and floss. Then I put him to bed and settled on the couch with Captain Tripps lounging in my lap. Oh sorry, Captain Trips is the puppy. Yes, I remember. Lots of you were worried he would die. He is fine. He's a good boy. I scroll through Google on my tablet while rubbing Captain's soft ear absent-mindedly. Grusome images past my eyes as I looked over picture after picture of disfigured children with medical issues. I've been looking up similar conditions in children, wondering whether or not there was a possible solution to his issue.

There are plenty of children born with disabilities and sealed orifices. Did you know that some people are born without anises? Doctors are left with no other options in these cases, but to cut the skin covering the sphincter. That's horrifying, no matter how you slice it. I didn't mean that to come out like that. You know what I mean. It's terrible. I apologize to anyone that may have been born that way.

Anyway, yes, plenty of children are born that way. I've yet to find any child whose orifices sealed up overnight, every night. I've yet to see any cases of children like that who have an insatiable hunger for life's more game. So, here's what I'm thinking. And don't laugh at me. I think there must be a paranormal reason behind all of this. There must be something going on here beyond human understanding.

I was pulled from my thought as I felt a pair of eyes on me. It was my son. He was rubbing the corners of his eyes. His mouth had partially sealed shut so that his mouth was little more than a pinhole. After some motioning, I realized he was thirsty. and so we went to the kitchen and I poured him a small glass of water, pushing a straw into his mouth. He slurped it down and I kissed him on the head, ushering him off to bed with a pat on the shoulder.

At least that was something I never had to worry about. He'd never been a bedwetter. Captain was asleep on the couch when I returned, sighing heavy as I sat next to him. I resolved to think on it some more in the morning and lifted captain off the couch, taking him to my bed and tucking him under the blanket so that his snout was well above the cover.

Even with my mind racing, I was able to sleep easily enough. I was startled awake by a high-pitched yelp. In seconds, I was wide awake, flicking the lamp on my bedside table on. My stomach churned, and I felt sick and cold all of the sudden. I have never been so scared in my life.

There was my son at the edge of the bed, eyes wide as though he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It took a moment for me to realise it, but Captain's tail fell from my son's open mouth, and the pup quickly shot over to my side of the bed, tucking his injured tail beneath him. My son had one of the large kitchen knives I usually kept in the wooden block near the sink in his hand. His mouth was open. He'd given himself a smile. His hand was not as trained as mine, and so his teeth were exposed in a snarled and wriggly fashion. The knife clunged to the floor.

Hey, I whispered to him. Hey, he whispered back. What are you doing there? Nothing. He held back a quivering, bloody bottom lip. I scooted across the bed, throwing the cover off and grabbing him on his small shoulders. Don't do that, all right. I was still whispering.

He cocked his head to the side. What do you mean? You scared me. Don't do that. I nervously chuckled while sweating bullets. He stayed quiet for a moment, looking absently around the room. Then his eyes shot up. to mine. You're scared of me? Even thinking of the way he said that now, it makes me uneasy.

I've started hiding all the blades in the house and I make sure my bedroom door is locked tight every single night now. It was difficult to tell with his wonky lips, but I swear to you that when he asked if I was scared of him, he was smiling. I took up hunting, given some of your advice on these posts before. I was hoping that perhaps raw, fresh flesh could say shape my son's grown hunger. The small traps I started

setting up around the property was simple enough, but trudging through the woods and looking for larger game is way more difficult than I could have ever imagined. I can safely say this. Hunting is not my forte.

Don't worry, I brought captain with me. I don't think I could leave him at the house with a boy. He is just a pup, so it's not like I could expect him to keep up with me on his own. Instead, I deposited him in my backpack so that he could poke his snout out and enjoy the ride as I moved through the forest.

I never did shoot anything, though. I had the opportunity to once, but, just as I was about to fire, captain let out a whine and scared the young buck off. It darted off into the brush and vanished completely. but I was left with nothing but a little puppy. Maybe I'll just give you to him then,

I playfully said to the pooch. Of course I wouldn't. After giving up on that endeavour, I sat on a leaf embankment on the woods, drank from my canteen greedily, and poured a bit into a plastic bowl for captain. He is a good boy. I knew I couldn't bring my son with me on this trip,

so I'd gotten him a babysitter. Telling the young girl of his special condition was Strange, I'll say that much I didn't tell her everything I simply told her that he had a difficult time eating So if he fussed she shouldn't reprimand him I also told her of his disfigurement To this she simply nodded and told me her price

I paid so that I could be left alone to go to the forest to hunt But this had been a bust The traps too had proved to catch nothing. This is something I'd expected. We do have the occasional varmint, but, given my son's previous discrepancies, I'm fairly certain that Small Game tries to give our home a wide birth. Maybe that's just me attempting to rationalise it, though.

Who knows? I never would have guessed. The babysitter would die. I'm so sorry. She was a young, fit girl, and I was certain that if my son had given her any problems, she could call me or she could overpower him. This was apparently not the case. Upon returning home sometime in the afternoon,

I was jamming out to some pearl jam with captain, lazily stretching in the passenger seat. I clicked the garage door open and pulled it, sighing and preparing to relieve the young girl of her duties. I reached out for the door, leading to the kitchen with Kempel. Captain underfoot, and as soon as I pushed the door in, I was slapped in the face with a stench of something not quite right. I had smelled it before. Metal like pennies in my nose. It was strong and permeated through the house.

I rushed through the kitchen, grabbing the frame leading into the den to support my weight. There it was. There he was. He was crouched over the poor girl. girl. She was possibly 15 or 16. Too young for this. It took a long time for my eyes to comprehend what I was looking at. Long, looping entrails tortued as shreds. She looked up at the ceiling with a pale expression of fear plastered across her still face. Someone had finally died due to my incompetence. My son, upon realising I was looking in at the mess he'd made, dropped her heart,

and it plopped to the floor, all soft and wet. His expression was one that probably matched my own. Wiping his hands and mouth down quickly, he looked at me while placing his hands behind his back. I was horrified. I was broken. I knew he couldn't stop. It takes a really long time to get blood up,

especially when you're cleaning it off wood, especially when the blood has been sitting on the wooden floor, long enough to settle in and stain. I tried using a straight mixture of bleach and water, but after the initial wipe-down, there was little more than I could do. The world was a haze as I looked the young girl's body into the bathtub

and took a hacksaw to her limbs. When you attempt to cut into flesh with little experience, it sometimes pulls away in thick strings. That's something I never thought I would know. I had no idea what I was doing, but the legs and arms came off well enough after snapping the bones. The head was a different matter altogether. I couldn't look at those eyes, and so I shut them as I placed the saw against the throat. I removed the teeth and ground them into a fine powder with a meat tenderizer.

I still hadn't figured out what I'm going to do with the body. Burn it? I'm unsure. I am now a criminal My whole life is spiraling Still, I knew what came next I bagged the pieces and put them in my shed Maybe I'll just call the police of myself

After this was done and I washed the tub down I fetched my son and bathed him Washing the red residue off his body We were quiet I think he knew I was upset with him which, I mean, I was. This isn't a part of the road for normal parents, though. This wasn't something I should have to do.

This isn't the sort of situation I was supposed to be in. I'm sorry, he mumbled. It's okay, buddy, I told him. I forced a bright disposition over my whole face and body. Wanna watch a movie? He perked up. Yeah, I put on finding Nemo in the living room and we watched it together, laughing at the fun antics of the animated fish on screen. When the DVD flipped back over to the main menu, he smacked me in the head with a pillow.

I lifting him up by the ankles and swirled him over the couch, swinging him and dropping him onto the cushions in a fit of giggles. He put on his little plastic Batman mask and I sneaked through the dim house playing the part of the newest escrow. escapee from the asylum. He would catch me, and we would be locked in mock mortal combat with one another. We would fall to the floor together in a barrage of laughter. I got you, Daddy! He shrieked as I would lay in the floor with my tongue stuck out. We played the board game Life until it was pitch blackout.

I'd long since turned my phone off as the phone calls from the girls' parents had made it impossible to use it anyway. I let him win, and he laughed in self-satisfaction. Then it was bedtime. I read him a chapter from Harry Potter and clicked his bedside table off, planting a firm kiss on his forehead. He rolled himself into a burrito, and I could tell he was tuckered out. I passed Captain, snoozing on the couch, and I moved to the garage, popping the trunk of my vehicle.

There it was. I took the rifle I'd specifically purchased for hunting Before I could even think my way out of it I marched down the hall Checking the rifle and making sure the safety was off I pushed in his cracked door Keeping the light off It takes a really long time to get blood up

Especially when you're cleaning it off sheets and bedding I don't know if I'm an evil man I hope not. Please forgive me.