CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "On Certain Nights, the Cabin Breathes" Creepypasta

Episode Date: April 24, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Frequent-Cat:   / on_certain_nights_the_cabin_breathes  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...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 bought the cabin because it was cheap, quiet, and far enough from people that I could breathe properly for the first time in years. The listing called it rustic, which was a polite way of saying the porch sagged and the chimney had a habit of coughing up soot when the wind turned. But I didn't care. The locals hadn't been subtle when I signed the closing paperwork. One of the county clerks asked if I brought salt. which I thought was a joke until I looked up and realised she wasn't smiling.

Someone else called the field tired land and made a vague sign with the fingers that I couldn't place. Old superstition, I figured, rural folklore. I nodded, kept my head down and drove the dirt road alone. I wasn't there for company or to make friends. Jasper was the only thing that mattered. Thirteen years old and slowing down, but alert, still loyal in that quiet way dogs get when they've seen you at your worst and stayed anyway. He curled into the passenger seat as we pulled into the gravel clearing in front of the cabin,

nose pressed to the glass, tail giving a few tired thumps when he caught the smell of the wilderness. He stepped out of the truck with a stiff dignity of an old man and padded around the porch like he was inspecting it for me. The first few weeks were perfect. Cold in the mornings, warm by noon. Nature lullabies instead of sirens. I spent my time patching the windows, oiling the door hinges,

reading beside the wood stove with Jasper snoring at my feet. We walked the perimeter every day at my feet. dusk, his ears twitching toward the brush even when nothing moved. He liked it out there. I think we both did, then. He was gone. It happened with no warning. One evening he didn't come in for dinner. I found him on the rug, still and stretched out, as if he had only just fallen asleep. There was no struggle, no pain. at least not that I could see. His body was warm when I touched him, and cold by the time I retrieved the shovel. I buried him behind the cabin the next morning, just beyond the pine line, where the woods

grow denser and the light takes longer to reach the ground. The dirt was soft from the spring thaw, and it didn't take long to dig. I laid him down with his blanket and the aged blue collar he wore in the darker. the city, marked the spot with a smooth river stone and carved his name with the tip of my knife. I didn't say anything out loud. Couldn't. Just stood there with my hands in my pockets while the wind moved through the trees and made it sound like the whole forest was breathing in unison with me.

I convinced myself that even though he passed, at least it was natural. He was old and tired. the move was too much, maybe his body knew it was time. But something in the back of my skull itched when I thought about how quickly it happened. He had eaten that morning, he'd wagged his tail at the porch birds. That kind of sudden ending didn't feel right. Still, I didn't say the word, not out loud. Grief made everything feel louder than it really was. stayed busy. I kept repairing things that needed repairing and then moved onto repairing things that didn't. The cabin was still quiet, but it was a different kind of quiet now, one that

knows when you're down as you can be, when you've lost the thing in the world that ever waited for you to come home. And for a little while, that was all there was. Just silence and the weight of being the only heartbeat in the house, and then from nowhere. A wine. I thought it was the wind at first. The cabin settles differently at night. Rafter's Creek, the roof pops once or twice as it releases the last of the day's warmth, especially after my repair work. But this was softer, different. I had been drifting in and out of sleep when it broke through the usual texture, of the dark.

That small, drawn-out whimper that dogs make when their dream of something they don't like. When their paws twitch under their nose and they let out that sound because they need you nearby. I learned to stay alert for that sound, especially in Jasper's later years.

I sat up and listened, heart thudding, slow and tired. The fire had gone out. The coals gave no heat. The trees pressed against the windows, barely visible beyond the frost-glazed glass. I waited. It came again, clearer this time. A whining. At the door. I didn't grab a flashlight. I didn't even put on shoes.

Just padded to the front door in my socks and opened it. Empty porch. Still a hair. Nothing moving. Not even the sound of branches. I let the cold slip into my collar shirt, listening hard for any shuffle in the dirt or crunch of dry pine needles. But there was nothing. Just me and the windless dark. Back inside, I didn't sleep.

I lay there and stared at the ceiling beams until the sky lightened behind the curtains. In the morning, I told myself it was just a dream, and it wouldn't have been the first one. The next night, it came again. This time there was scratching, not frantic, not aggressive, a slow scrape, three soft drags across the wood,

then silence. I stayed in bed that time. I didn't go to the door. Whatever was out there sounded too real to be my imagination. patting footsteps, right, left, pause. Then the other set, sometimes faster, sometimes careful, but always with that soft friction of nail on floorboard. I started watching the door during the day, even slid the couch a few inches, so I could

see it from where I read in the corner. It stayed shut, no marks on the frame, no scratches I could photograph, just. the same doorknob, the same warped weather seal, the same small crack at the bottom, where Jasper used to nose when he wanted out before I was ready to get up. On the fourth day, the sound had moved. I heard it skittering about, around three in the morning. That same whimpering, louder now, more guttural, not sharp, but clearer as it rounded under my bedroom. I sat up, turned my head toward the hallway, held my breath. Four steps, a pause.

Was it looking for a way in? Then, nothing. At that point, I'd grown tired of these things that seeped from my nightmares to the waking world. So I got up at dawn and walked out to the grave. The dirt hadn't shifted. It wasn't Jasper. The marker still stood, still smooth from where I carved his name. The trees around it didn't move.

No porporints, no frost disturbed. Back at the house, the bushes around the house were disturbed, like something large had knocked into it. But it could have been the weather, making it harder determine the cause. I pour myself coffee and didn't drink it, sat at the table for an hour. hour watching the doorway. I didn't tell anyone. Who would I tell? What would I say? Grief echoes. It taps through the cracks and plays itself back through memory. I had read that once. The mind hears what the heart wants to keep. That's all it was. I told myself this

over and over. Even when I stopped looking out the front door at night, even when I caught myself, silently praying for him to return before I turned off the lights. I went into town the next morning, not because I needed anything urgent, but because I needed motion. I needed fluorescent lights and linoleum floors and the sound of strangers bumping into displays of canned soup. The same things I'd ran away from. The cabin had been too quiet. I needed to be somewhere with voices. The general store sat at the edge of Main Street.

Still, the only place in town that sold everything from dog food to windshield wipers to seasonal snow chains. I parked the truck in the usual spot, let the engine run for a few seconds longer than necessary, and stepped out into the air that smelled faintly of diesel and grime. Inside, the place was warm and humid. Mrs. Cray stood behind the register, hands wrapped around a ceramic mug that probably hadn't left a grip since the sun came up. She was one of those town fixtures you don't really know, but everyone calls by name. She probably owned the store since the 70s, or maybe she just haunted it gently. She looked up when I came in.

Well now, there's the quiet man. I gave a half-smile, tried to shake the edge off my posture. Morning. You look tired, she said, not unkindly. Long nights? Something like that, I muttered, grabbing a basket. I wasn't even sure what I needed yet. Crackers, more canned beans, maybe fire starter,

something to make the trip feel justified. She didn't press right away. just sit to drink and watched me walk the aisle. But when I passed the front again, she said, softer this time. Is everything all right out there? I hesitated, long enough for her to notice, then said, It's probably nothing, just been hearing things at night. She blinked slowly.

The way people do when they don't want to be the first to name the thing, Out there on that lot by Ridgeback Run? Yeah, the cabin up the slope, the cheap one, I admitted, smiling dry. Her mouth tightened. She set the mug down carefully and leaned forward just a little, voice hushed. That land. It thinned, I waited. She tapped one finger against the counter.

It used to be burial land or something similar before that. No one's really sure. They're stories. Some say it's where the boundary between here and somewhere else wear through. That's why it's so quiet out there. The land remembers, but doesn't talk until it's hungry. I didn't reply. Just watch the, watch their eyes move.

The way people do when they're sifting memories, they aren't sure. sure they should be sharing. She went on, slower now. People don't stay out there for long. Sometimes they disappear. Sometimes they come back different. But always, it starts with voices, sounds that don't belong to the air, and if something's trying to get through. She paused. I found myself leaning in. Don't invite. it. She finished. I let the silence settle, then cleared my throat, managed to chuckle. I, um, it's probably just the fox under the floorboards, Mrs. Cray, or a loose gutter. I'll take a look at it eventually. Her expression didn't change. I appreciate the heads up, I said, turning to

leave. I walked out with a bag of things I don't remember picking up and got a creeping weight that clung to ribs. The truck felt colder than when I got in. I didn't believe in these thin places as she called it. I didn't believe in burial land or haunted soil or lingering spirits. But that night when the wine started again and the scratching came from inside the walls, I hesitated before I whispered his name. And I didn't open the door. Again on the fifth night, same low wine, barely there at first, blew from under the doorframe like a draught, not a distant sound, but something with weight. As usual, I didn't move at first, I just listened.

I gave myself the usual rundown of excuses I always did, a wind shift or a pipe breathing out its fatigue. the sound came again and again and again, sad and urgent. I heard it the same way you hear a baby crying through a wall, impossible to ignore, even harder to explain. Then the porch creaked, something stepping on it. This never happened before, and so I focused harder, became alert, The slam came fast after that, hard and flat against the side of the cabin.

It made the picture frames jitter on the hallway wall. I stood up, heart pounding, and made it to the window just in time to catch nothing. Not even a shadow pulling away from the siding. The porch light flickered, then held, then flickered again. I tried the switch, but it was unresponsible. The bulb just twitched in its casing like something was breathing on it from above. The next night, it escalated. I had settled into bed late, book still open in one hand.

My eyes were halfway closed when I caught it. A flash in the mirror across the room. I turned fast enough to make my shoulder ache, but there was nothing there. but outside beyond the glass of the bedroom window I saw it a figure tall, narrow, still just standing on the other side of the pane facing the mirror's reflection

I whirled to face the actual window hand already reaching for the lamp but it was gone vanished clean no sound of retreat or movement which made it worse. Because the bedroom window is on the second floor, the next few nights blurred together in a sleepless fog.

The sounds became more obvious like I was being mocked for not taking action. Heavy breathing outside the walls, not the sharp inhale of a person, but long, raspy exhalations. As though something too large for the house had draped itself across the shingles and was waiting for the structure to buckle. Sometimes, from beneath the floorboards, I'd hear whispers, not words, not quite, just the suggestion

of syllables that evaporated the moment I tried to focus on them. It felt wrong to listen too closely. I stopped sleeping in the bedroom altogether, dragged a blanket and rifled to the couch downstairs, and kept the hallway light on. That seemed to keep it at bay for a while. Until the morning, I opened the door and found claw marks. They started at the base of the porch steps. Deep grooves, five parallel lines carved into the wood.

The spacing was wrong for any dark or mountain line I'd ever seen. Each mark was longer than my forearm and spaced almost two hands apart. One set of gouges tore up the side of the railing and curved toward the door. Another set stopped inches from the threshold. I followed the path with my eyes, out past the porch and across the dirt. Nothing in the soil. No prints, no draglines. Just those marks.

I tried investigating them more. But the truth was, I wasn't knowledgeable on these sorts of things. And if anything, considering what had been transpiring these past few days, having something real and physical to show for it, felt good. Having proved that this was some sort of animal gave me a sense of safety. The whining returned that night like clockwork, but this time it didn't come from the porch. It came from the other side of the house, near the back, near Jasper's grave. I didn't go out to check. I stayed on the couch, one hand on the rifle, the other clenching the fabric of the blanket like a tether. Whatever was out there, whatever animal had crossed

into this place. I'd be safe, as long as it didn't get to me. Some days passed and a storm had come in hard and sudden. No wind all afternoon, not even a breeze. But by no. By the night. But by nightfall, the clouds were heaving against each other and pushing fists of rain against the roof. Thunder cracked once every few minutes. No rhythm to it, just violent punctuation dropped into silence. The house grew cold in an instant. I had no fire going, just the space heater humming low in the corner. But even without flame, the chimney began to belch smoke. thick choking curls that spilled sideways across the ceiling and slid down the walls. I got up to check the heater, wondering if the chimney flew had somehow reversed draft,

took one step toward the kitchen and froze. The front door burst open. It exploded inward. The hinges tore free, slamming the door against the far wall with a crows. wracking rapport that echoed through the beams overhead. Splinters fanned out across the entryway. Wind surged in behind it, but I knew instantly with a gut certainty that only comes every once in a while that I was in danger. That door had been solid, bolted shut with two deadlocks. A shape, low at first, dragging itself across the threshold on hands and knees,

its limbs bent wrong, joints high and sharp, like the bones had been putting backwards. It was fat, impossibly so, each fold seemed like a rib straining under gravy, glistening skin. Draped over its shoulders was something that hung in strips, rotted canvas, or maybe cloths, soaked too long in something. It clung to the creature's back in tatters, dragging behind it in silent folds. It moved quietly for something that size. Its arms barely touched the ground, claws tapping once every few feet to orient itself. Every movement was measured, yet chaotic at the same time. It didn't seem lost or confused. It had come inside to find something. and it was already halfway across the room before I remembered to move.

I ducked behind the couch, scrambling into the narrow space between it and the fireplace. The floor was slick beneath my palms, wet from rain or something else. The smoke from the chimney was curling lower now, sinking as if pulled downward. I could hear the thing sniffing, not through nostrils, through a mouth, a soft, wet intake of breath repeated in slow intervals. It was tasting the air. The flashlight was still on the side table. My rifle was propped near the back door, too far to reach. I held my breath and waited, muscles cramping with tension.

The tapping of claws began again. closer this time, across the hardwood, then on the stone of the hearth, then right behind the couch. A hand, long and narrow, fingers tapering into sharp, splintered nails, rested gently on the couch cushion above me. It pressed down just enough to test the weight. My heart was so loud, it felt like it had a physical effect on the air around me. obscene. Surely it could hear that. And it did. Then the hand lifted, and in its place, her face appeared. Not fully, just enough. A chin, sharp and crusted with pale grime, a wide mouth, not animal, but entirely human, except it had no lips, just yellow teeth worn down

to uneven ridges, locked open in a soundless exhale. The smell hit me then, mold in death, something that had been buried and unearthed too many times. It leaned closer. The smoke in the cabin thickened, my eyes burned, my chest clenched. The thing was breathing me in, slow and steady. I snapped, through my seat. backward, knocking the couch forward with the motion. The creature screeched, a sound made not from the throat, but from the lungs themselves.

I fell, shoulders scraping across the floorboards as I scrambled for the fireplace tools. My hand closed around the iron poker. I swung blindly, caught something solid. The thing hissed and reared back. I didn't look at it. I stumbled toward the back door, nearly slipping on the wet rug, crashed into the doorframe, and stopped, because behind me, over the roar of the storm. I heard something else, a growl.

In all the confusion, I didn't even have time to be scared. I'd just close my eyes and prayed that I'd somehow be safe, considering that I had another one of those things in front of me. I didn't notice it at the time But I wasn't the only one that froze The thing behind me did too Then a snarl Teeth meeting flesh

A cry inhuman and terrified And above it all The sharp rhythm Of barks That sound So familiar But equally estranged caught my attention, and I turned around just long enough to see only a picture of movement

at first, fur and shadow, and the black shape being dragged toward the broken door. Claws raked across the rotted canvas of the creature's shoulder, teeth sank into its midsection, and for the first time it made a noise that was unmistakably fear. The weight of the impact. dragged drove it sideways, smashing it into the far wall. Floorboards cracked beneath the two figures, limbs tangled, snapped apart, reformed. I saw the thing struggle, lashing out with claws that earlier paralyzed me with dread. But now they meant nothing. The thing that had attacked it, it was winning, and I saw it, really saw it. only for a few seconds, caught in the flicker of the stormlight, but enough. A dog? No, something shaped like a dog. Broad shoulders, legs low, embraced like a wolf about to pounce.

But its edges shimmered faintly, not translucent exactly, but less than solid. Its fur moved without wind, dark patches swirled across its roots. ribs, the eyes glowed, not bright but steady, like coals after a fire had burned out. Its mouth opened wide, larger than any living dogs ever could, and closed over the creature's throat. The black figure howled, but the sound fractured halfway through, splintered into the air like it couldn't hold form anymore. The dog didn't let up. It drove the thing back through the wrecked door, each step forward, pushing it farther out.

The rain had nearly stopped, only mist remained, curling like smoke across the field. I staggered forward, heart pounding against my ribs. My legs didn't want to obey. My breath stung in my chest. I wasn't running. I had to make sure of something, in spite of my body commanding me. to escape. Jasper. That's who it was, or what it was. Twisted, sharper, larger. But the shape was his, the motion of the shoulders, the way he braced before a strike. Even the faint bend in his

front paw, with a joint never healed right after the fence incident when he was a pup. He turned, just once after the thing vanished into liquid below him. Looked at me. My mouth went dry. If I had been afraid of the thing that broke down the door, then whatever this was, this other thing that tore it apart without effort should have turned me to stone.

Every instinct screamed at me to hide, to run. It was too big, too powerful. But I was sure that it was my boy. And as if to confirm it, he didn't growl, didn't tense. He tilted his head slightly, not like an animal checking for a threat, more like someone remembering something. The posture softened, his ears dropped just a little, not submission, but recognition. He looked at me the same way he used to when I came home after a long trip.

Then he simply vanished. Just gone, the same way morning fog lifts from a field. There one moment, gone the next, and you're not sure where it went or when it left. I stood there in the ruined cabin, rain tapping softly across. the roof. The front door hung from one hinge, scratches and ash smear the floorboards. The storm was over, but I wasn't alone the way I thought I was. Somewhere out there, just beyond the trees, Jasper was still watching. The new door never sat right. I spent two weeks trying to fix it. Shimmied the frame, plain the edge, replace the hinges and the dead bolt.

No matter what I did, it always leaned a little to the left, just enough to stay cracked unless I wedged it shut, and even then, a strong breeze could push it back open. Eventually, I gave up trying. These days, I just let it hang a jar. That inch of space with a close. cold seeps in, feels more like a signal than a floor. The house has been quiet since the storm, since the door shattered and Jasper came back. Whatever had been trying to get in hasn't come back.

Or maybe it has, but it hasn't gotten far. I still hear things sometimes, when the wind's heavy and the woods go quiet. I hear slow movement on the porch, like something's pacing. waiting, but I don't panic anymore. I don't hide or fumble for a weapon. I don't need to see what's out there. Because I know what it hears. Good boy.

That's the rule now. I leave it open on purpose. Not wide, just enough. Enough for Jasper to come and go. Whatever version of him still watches this place. I never saw him again after that. that night. But sometimes in the snow, I find poor prints circling the cabin, too large for any dog that's ever been my companion, pressed deep into the ground like something heavy had passed through.

Sometimes the bowl near the fireplace has moved. Once, I swear I heard nails clicking across the floor. I was in bed, half asleep, and didn't even open my eyes. I just whispered. it again. Good boy. And the sound of something thumping on the hardwood floor could be heard. Jasper was always territorial. And now, I think whatever's left of him has decided that this place is his to protect, even from the things that don't have names.

I keep his grave clean, brushed off. No flowers. He hated the smell. just the stone and the grass and the wind coming down from the ridge line i don't know how long it'll last i don't know what happens when even ghosts get tired but i haven't locked the door in six years and i'm still alive