CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "The Crawling Boy" Creepypasta

Episode Date: August 4, 2020

Imagine seeing this at 3am. CREEPYPASTA STORY►by eternallyks: 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►Frozen StateSUGGESTED 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-

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lawn much too often, trespassing on a dare. I thought that was annoying as it was, but it got complicated when I found that some of them were no longer alive. The crawling boy was one of the dead ones, the only one I'd seen so far, and the hardest to get off my property, that is, if he ever left. The living children were usually in their school uniforms when I discovered them in the daylight. they were alone. More often they came in pairs of little groups of threes and fours, milling on the grass that stretched from the estate for miles on all sides.

They always ran away screaming when I appeared on the front porch through the French windows. I'd be left standing there in my bathrobe and early morning grumpiness, blinking in confusion like a newborn kitten with a sun in its eyes, while they pointed at me, screaming in laughter and ran right back into the trees where they come from. Another few days and there would be another group of them. I never had to yell or chase them out with a hunting rifle. All I did was show up with my coffee and they dart back between the trees like fawns, gleefully terrified.

There's no mystery as to where they came from. There was a school on the other side of the forest bordering my estate, a distinguished academy that was part day school and part boarding school. I have no other neighbours for miles. As to why they came here, I knew that too. They dared each other,

as I've mentioned before. It was almost the school tradition. I've been told that my house, the Hartfield Mansion, a glorified cabin, if anything, was considered haunted because of how isolated it was. The adults told me this half-jokingly,

but the children was seriously. To be fair, it might have also been due to the fact that I and my late wife had spread some unsavory rumours about the area. We'd done it so nobody nearing retirement age would be tempted to move out here and interrupt our solitude with their golf games and outdoor tea parties. I'm an old man now, with a gimplag and I have little tolerance for all this. But the rumors drew the children in, sometimes to terrible and permanent consequences. While I did have the satisfaction of being feared, if not respected, as the ghoul of Hartfield Manor,

it nettled me that I wasn't scary enough to keep them from coming back. It wasn't just for my sake that I wanted them to stay away. The strip of woodlands they had to cross to get to my property was a dangerous place. Much too often, children had gone missing. Search parties would come out of the other side of the forest, disheartened and empty-handed. I had to do my best civic duty as well, when I could. Whenever I noticed frightened children emerged from the trees, starved and crying, lost for a day or more. I would have to care for them at the house until someone came to pick them up.

My wife was an angel to this bedraggled miscreants. I stayed out of the way and made phone calls to the school and the police. Of course, this obligatory kindness ruined my reputation for being the local monster of the haunted house. But I think those children were too traumatized by their misadventure to really be disappointed in me. If anything, their near-death experience in the forest amplify the danger, and thus the excitement of daring each other to do it again. The other students would try and learn and never return, but there would always be younger ones coming in every new school year.

learning of the legend of Hartfield Manor from their peers and getting succored into crossing the forest again. They would be fine if they kept a straight line until they got them to the other side, I always said. But the forest was a treacherous place, and it was easy to lose one's bearings and wonder for days. My wife used to tell me to practice being a grandfather to them instead of grumbling so much. But after she died, kidney failure a few years ago, I was in a little bit of. no mood to place Santa Claus to a group of children who set out with the intent to cause trouble. I had grandchildren of my own, but my only daughter, Adelaide, worked and lived in the city. She rarely visited with the kids after her mother died.

In my stately isolation, I spent my time wondering whether she would ever call or visit her old man. It didn't help feeling lonely when I had too much company of the wrong kind. a ghoul they had called me, and a ghoul I would be. The truth was, these children haunted me more than I haunted them. The school was growing tired of my phone calls, advising the staff to keep their children under control. They assured me that they were doing all they could. Still, I would wake up many a morning, hearing their stifled laughter on the field. I wanted to stay indoors despite them, but they would venture close.

closer and closer to the house until I was goaded to come out and scare them back into the woods. I'd had enough. So one day, when I saw a young boy lying on his side on the grass in the soft light of dusk, all alone, I didn't think to investigate. I went straight indoors and called the school. There's another one, I said. I was told there were fences put up on the other side. Why are they still getting through?

There are fences, Mr. Hartfield, said the principal. It was the end of the school day, and she sounded a touch worn out. They've been up for a month now. Well, there's another one on my property. A boy. The children might have started climbing the fences. I'm going to have to call the police, you know. What's his name, sir?

Have you spoken to him? We'll contact his parents as soon as we can identify him. I haven't spoken to him. He's taken a nap on my grass. She paused the moment at this. Is he hurt? Well, I don't know, but it looks like something's wrong. He's just lying there, like...

I stopped. My gaze had wandered out the windows, and I noticed that the boy had gone. I sighed. Hold on. I put the principal on hold and took a walk around. Nothing. If the boy had heard me and run away,

or if some animal had dragged him back into the woods, that was not my problem anymore. Coldness was settling into my bones, but I felt a pang in my chest recalling the look of the boy, small and frail, his white school shirt and offensive contrast to the green of the manicured lawn, just lying there, curled on his side, facing away from me into the forest. I tried not to think of it again. The next time I noticed him, two days had passed and it was getting on to be 10 o'clock at night. Later than I had ever seen any of the other children before, even when they were lost. I knew then there was something very wrong.

The boy was on his side again, lying on the neat grass that the part-time groundskeeper Martin had carefully cut that morning. His white school shirt glowed faintly in the moonlight. There was no blood that I could see, but his uniform seemed a bit tattered, old and off colour. I called out. I could see the small boy shiver briefly, but there was no other answer. Suddenly afraid for him, I limped over, going as fast as I could, despite my bad leg. By then, the boy had rolled over on his back. His head, dark hair, untidy and matted, turned away.

And then, after a slow, painstaking moment, he shifted heavily onto his stomach and began to crawl toward me. I slowed to a stop before I was halfway across the field, just staring. The boy had a hollow, gaping mouth look about him. His jaw hung loose and his eyes were glassy and blank as he dragged himself forward on his hands and elbows, clawing at the grass. His limp legs followed behind, jerks. at our angles and dragging behind him, while his head lolled on its scrawny neck this way and that, as if they were too heavy to hold up. Slowly, steadily, silently, he approached. It was such a bizarre and grotesque sight, I couldn't look away, nor could I move.

At first, that same pang of pity hit me. The boy was obviously badly hurt. But then the feelings sank into dread And though a part of my brain shouted Help him, he's hurt You could still save him Another part Though quieter

Cut through to my senses much quicker He's already dead Get out of here But I said softly to myself Torn But my instincts insisted You can't do anything

look at him. I did look. It looked like the boy was breathing through his mouth, but his jaw was hanging so strangely, a tiny bit too wide, a silent scream. I could almost imagine the sound of his breathing, shaky, wheezing, pained.

I didn't stick around for him to get close enough for me to hear it. At that point, I suspected there was no breathing at all. Now, he was close enough, I could see there were no whites in his eyes, just flat darkness. His shrivelled little fingers were pale and skeletal on the grass. I turned around and fled, slowed down by my bad leg. But though I was slower than I wanted to be, the boy was even more so. I got into the house in plenty of time and made sure to lock all the doors and windows on the ground floor

before I called the police. Then I hurried up to the top floor To be as far from the ground as possible From one of the higher windows I could survey the field Overlooking the forest And there was no boy The police however had arrived

In the near distance I saw a couple of patrol vehicles Pull into view with a siren silent And their headlights cutting across my empty lawn They were used to my phone calls about the children But even they knew I never called this late at night, this breathless. I made my way back down to receive them.

After I explained the situation, as generally as I could, they agreed to scour the area. I was made to sit down on one of the porch chairs. I had over-exerted myself for my age, they told me. Every now and then, I would catch them throwing an odd look my way. I wanted to have the best forest rangers searched the woods for the boy, preferably well-armed. But the officers told me they couldn't justify the effort without evidence

that there was any danger or that there was even a boy to find. If he really were hurt, they reasoned, he wouldn't have been able to get away so quickly, nor would he have wanted to. An officer asked, Do you want us to search your house too, sir? As if humoring me, or suspecting something. Exhausted, I leaned against the wall and nodded.

Please. They found nothing. To be kind, they told me that it might have been some kid playing a prank, but I knew they thought I had imagined everything. There had been no recent missing child cases reported in the past few days since I'd seen the boy for the first time. Meanwhile, there had been several warnings issued by the school staff during general assemblies. They'd even invited police officers and forest rangers to talk to the children and scare them with authority.

That kept them away for a while. It was true I was having a quiet a few weeks than usual. But then, what of the boy? I then thought to ask if all the missing school children on record had been accounted for, dead or alive. The officers glanced at each other, and then at the dark, waving silhouette. of the forest. Of course not, one of them said. Who knows how many of them are still in there?

They told me to keep in touch, then became scarce. They promised to contact the school for any information they might have on the boy, but I never heard back from them on that end. Either there were no missing boy cases, or there were too many. Another two days passed by uneventfully. I was more careful about taking all my medication, but I also found myself dusting off my old hunting rifle and practicing my sights on them. Then, the next day, I saw the body again, lying there on the grass, facing the forest. I merely stared from behind the window.

It was strange seeing him again in broad daylight, seeing anybody really when I knew the school was off for the holidays. and as I stared, that little head flopped over on its broken neck and looked my way again. And, just as it began to turn itself over and start the long, slow crawl to my house, I had drawn the curtains and rushed to the phone. The police came a little more hesitantly this time. I couldn't figure out why at first. They performed the same procedure all over again. No boy, dead or other.

otherwise. They asked me if I was a medication, and then I understood. They thought I was losing my mind. Angrily, I sent them away. I knew that if I kept calling them like this, they would stop responding when I needed them most. I would be the man who cried boy. They would say it was a mental condition, born out of grief for my wife, a lonely man's yearning for his daughter and grandchildren. And what if it was? I had no way to convince them otherwise. All I knew was I had nowhere to go. If I were to call Adelaide and plead with her to take me somewhere else, she would leave me in some care facility for the elderly. My pride wouldn't let me leave the house. And so I had to put up with living children and now the dead one somewhere on my lawn. Every time the specter of the boy returned, I learned something new about it.

I knew that every time I looked at the body long enough, it would somehow feel my gaze, and, as if summoned, it would turn itself and approach me. No matter where he appeared on the lawn, he was always a good distance away, almost at the edge of the forest. But when he turned over, he would always look directly at the window I was standing at, no matter what floor I was on. As soon as I looked away to call for help or find a way to defend myself, the crawling specter disappeared.

And I didn't know if it was because it had vanished into the netherworld or because it was somewhere else on the estate, perhaps somewhere closer. Sometimes I fought my reflexes and kept my eyes on him before he could blink out of sight. But it hurt to watch and I felt the life dreaded.

out of me the closer he got. I had to look away. I mentioned my old hunting rifle earlier. I kept its heavy case unlocked on the kitchen table beside the window. It was an eyesaw there, next to the cut, crystal vases, and the ceramic salt shakers shaped like a cat. My wife would never have let me leave it there if she had been alive to see it. I tried not to think of her. I only wondered if one could kill a thing that was already dead. I made sure the gun was close at hand at all times, and only threw the quickest of glances at the lawn from the corner of my eyes every morning to ascertain it was empty. This was hard to do, since I was horribly near-sighted, and the corner of my vision fell out

a range of my prescription glasses, so I had to turn my head around to look a little more than I was comfortable with. If I noticed the boys form again, at random hours of the day, my old heart would quiver and stop for a bit. At least I imagined it did, but I had to immediately look away. As if by cutting my gaze off quickly enough, I could pretend I hadn't really seen it. But did the thing want to be seen?

What could it want with me? After the police had done a half-hearted job this second time, I had martin the groundskeeper helped me scour the estate for any evidence that a schoolboy had been dragged around by a wild animal, or perhaps fallen down a ravine and broken every bone in his body. We found absolutely nothing. Martin protested at the idea of digging up the estate to look for a buried child. I began to wonder if the body was somewhere in the forest,

but that was beyond my curiosity to find out. Maybe you're a bit too lonely, said my daughter, predictably. I had her on the cordless phone, telling her of my ghostly encounter. as I stood on the porch looking out over the empty field. Do you want to adopt another dog? She said. I barked a laugh until her eloquent silence told me she was going to hang up if I didn't stop and take her seriously.

The family dog, old chief, had died long before my wife did. There was a dog flap in the kitchen door leading out into the field and I often caught myself looking at it. Sadly, but I had no energy for another dog. That's what I found myself thinking one day, when, on an overcast morning, I saw the dead child crawling across the field towards my patio doors. This was new behaviour.

I hadn't even noticed him before he was already moving, as if he had decided to sneak up on me, as if he knew he could. While he was still a good distance away, I opened the French windows and stood on the porch with my gun lifted. But my poor eyes couldn't get him on the cross-hairs. I couldn't even find him through the scope. The spectre just disappeared from sight until I lowered the gun again and could see him plain as day. I could probably get him at close range, I thought.

But I was no longer sure I wanted to, or if it would do any good. I kept feeling a stab of guilt for not being able to help him, in life or in death, for not being able to put him out of his misery. So much for this old call of the manor. I stepped back into the house and closed the doors. I drew all the curtains and packed my gun away, feeling my weak heart grow faint. It would take a long time for the child to reach my house. I could get away by then. or call somebody.

But who would be faster? The crawling spectre, or the police, or an old man hobbling away on his bad leg. The spectre had always been slow but steady, like a tortoise in that old children's story in a race against a hair. But also like the tortoise in that story, he could reach his destination sooner or later. So, there I was,

leaning against the granite counter with my pills, read before me and a glass of water trembling in my hands. The entire lower floor of the house was darkened by the heavy curtains and blinds drawn against the windows. I knew death was coming for me and that it would be slow and steady and silent. But I never thought I'd be alone when it happened. I was considering calling up Adelaide again

and finally telling her I was willing to be taken to a care facility in that city I hated so much. When, from the corner of my eye, I caught a silent movement. There was a quick wave of sunlight flashing from outside. The dog flap at the kitchen door was swinging gently back into place. I was right about the sound of his breathing.