CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "The Halloween Witch in My Yard" Creepypasta

Episode Date: October 2, 2020

Halloween this month. Are you excited? CREEPYPASTA STORY►by davenportauthor: 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...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-

The festival's season is Aangbroken and that betekent mudder. And so, ging Kim to come to comason.com. com. On the look at a waterdict tent,

a comfortable lute bed, oh, so, knus, and Lupeart print regalarze. Miao. Now,

he has Kim not for the modder, just like that's the madder man that, oh,

wait just even, has he now only modder on? Oh, yeah, only mudder. Drove blithe? Goar for.

Find what you need to Paul Ryerson's house was always the brightest on a block and would remain so for at least the first week of the new year, every year. On Easter Sunday, the entire extended Ryerson clan, which seemed to double in size every year, would appear in his backyard and spent hours searching for the brightly coloured egg and bags of candy he'd hidden for every third cousin's kid. On the 4th of July, his backyard was the spot to be in Lyons to see both the parade during the daylight hours and the fireworks come nightfall. From what I hear, and can smell every year, the man knows how to run a grill too. Hell, even on Earth Day, when the town council awards a blue ribbon for the best garden in town, Ryerson reaped the rewards of weeks of preparation, hauling bags of mulch, planting flat after flat of perennials,

and setting up the fanciest Home Depot water features. I, and I truly don't think I can stress this enough, hate Paul Ryerson. I hate the way he made it impossible to park in my own driveway, come the Yuletide, without some slack-jawed Yahoo, asking me if I'd mind them leaving their car in front of it, while they take in the sights of the miniature North Pole Mr. Ryzen set up the day after Thanksgiving. I hate the little Ryzen's spawn, climbing over my back fence every year and stomping all over the roses, despite the fact that their uncle Pauli has never once hidden anything there. I hate the sounds of his guests getting drunker and drunker or Independence Day,

having to stay up all night, soothing my rescue dog Doosy, who's already peeing herself after the fireworks. I hate a nearly annual exchange at my front door when he finishes his latest batch of homebrew IPA for the umpteenth time. And for the umpteenth time he offers me a couple of bottles. And for the umpteenth time, I have to pull my AA chip out and... You know what? Above all else, I hate is Hidley Ho, pastel sweater wearing? isn't this just the best time of year, year-round BS? But when the leaves started changing and I saw Paul coming out of his garage

with tub after plastic tub, I actually developed a twinge of excitement in my stomach. From the bins, he produced paper-machet skulls, bright plastic-Ely-D jack-cholantons with big, rearing black voids serving as their mouths. Styrofoam tombstones quickly fashioned into a city of the dead graveyard. Then three rubber rubber.

masks. Dracula, Wolfman and the Mummy were fitted over flannel shirts and all dungarees filled with newspaper and hoisted onto long bamboo poles and propped up to glare at any trick-or-treaters that might wander up past the award-winning Rhodid Endrons that lined his walkway. I was just heading to store, sliding my keys into the door of my beat-to-heel rambler when I heard his chipperer-than-thou voice calling out to me. Hey, Jean, what do you think? He swept his arms across his yard Like Van der White in a prime

All gonna be coming over there, aren't they? I said, and then slid into the driver's seat Without waiting for reply. In the rearview, I saw Ryzen Raise a confident thumbs up in my direction. Not this year, asshole, I said, And then let out a petty little chuckle. The Galleria had been a major hub around here

But had been closing down, store by store, for at least the decade. The stock was long gone, the locals all sporting half-priced prantsuits, and playing with beyond-the-means power tools. Then it was the fixtures, your clothing racks and lighting. Now, all the old retail hulk had left to offer was the weird stuff. By the time I left the mall's parking lot, I was $75 lighter, and I was making the first of many trips back to my house, the back of my SUV filled with a seat of Paul Reison's social

downfall. The plan for what I was going to do with all of this had formed in my head the minute I read the Craigslist ad. I pulled out the first mannequin, smooth and naked as a Jaybird, and faced her out toward Paul's yard. It would be another two weeks

until the trick-or-treaters were roaming the streets, but a couple of the neighbourhood kids were already taking notice as they passed by on the bicycles. I gave them a hearty wave. By night four, there were candy cane lamps lining my walkway. a dozen of so children's mannequins

formerly of a store called half-pints and the piece de resistance a female mannequin dressed in the best wicked witch outfit I could find on top of her rested a large brimmed pointy black hat that cast a shadow covering the smooth area where the eyes would have been on a human face

the children all rough at the size of your average toddler were dressed in the finest clothing that could be scrounged from the goodwill and were turned towards the witch arrayed a rounder, all held fast by the gardening stakes I'd lash them to. A dozen or so hard plastic masks completed their look. Rising above all of this were the gingerbread walls that had previously served as Santa's workshop and the mall had charged holiday shoppers 15 bucks of pop

to take their picture with an old white bearded man and a rented reindeer. I still had to arrange the spotlights for the yard and set up the smoke machines and the loudspeakers, which would be playing loops of nursery rhymes of the, the night, but I had to admit, my Hansel and Gretel-themed house already looked pretty good. I was tired. My office gig didn't require all that much physical labour, and the hauling of the material and swinging the hammer to put my plywood walls of the witch's cabin up had taken their toll. The finishing touches could wait for another day. I had the urge for a beer for the

first time in years, but felt satisfied with the coke I'd pulled out from the fridge. I took a arty slurper the shuggy stuff and looked out my front window. From there, I imagined I could see fear behind the slits of each child's mask, something already telling them that he was a bad idea to have intruded into this old lady's yard, promise of sweets or no. I finished the can and buoyed by the rush of glucose and caffeine, I decided that I had enough energy to treat myself to a long hot shower. I let doozy in from the backyard and pop some wet food into a dish,

before heading upstairs. After the water had eased out the worst of the aches and pains and I pushed down a few ibuprofins, I came back downstairs to watch some TV, and I found Doosie staring out the front window. You're looking at visitors, girl? I stroked Doos's back and her head whipped around. She let out a low growl before registering that it was me.

Something actually out there? I asked as I looked out between the blinds. I immediately saw something was wrong, but it took a moment for my brain to catch what my eyes had already taken in. The witch was bending over, just ever so slightly. The tilt gave the impression of someone allowing the shoulders to slump forward. Irritated, I opened my front door, stopping only to grab a flashlight and walked barefoot across the lawn to inspect her, the autumn chill working its way into my toes almost immediately.

There was nothing wrong, nothing obvious. Both of her feet were still planted firmly on the platform underneath the hem of a dress and the ground was level around it. I ran my fingers over a body, reasoning that there might be a crack or some structural damage I hadn't noticed before to account for this change in posture, but there was none that I could find. With a sudden realization of how I must have looked to the neighbours, I convinced myself that I must have imagined it.

The next day, in the Sunday morning light, the stoop was still there. my witch leaning forward to live at something in the distance. I ate my breakfast and got started on my project. As I ran the extension cords and hung lights, I was very aware of the witch's presence. The thing had no eyes, but I couldn't shake the feeling that it was watching me. I walked past it.

A speaker cradled in my arms, and despite my efforts not to look at it, I noticed that her limbs were longer than I thought they were, her long fingers stretching down past the waist. The sun throwing their shadows across the lower half of a dress. I chuckled to myself a dozen or so times, convinced to myself that it was just my own foolishness. Then a cold presence would make itself felt when I turned my back on her.

I would turn and try to figure out exactly what detail about her was ennerving me so. I was in the process for about the eighth or ninth time that day, when a voice from the street managed to startle me. Hey, Jean, looking good. Ryerson called out with his hearty cup of morning Joe voice. He stood there, hands on his hips, nodding slowly, like a king bestowing praise. Thank you, and set down the spool of lights. You were always pushing the boat out, thought I'd give it a try.

I see that, I see that, my neighbour said, his gaze sliding over every inch of the display. Ryerson nodded approvingly at the gingerbread house. the candy canes, the children, and the collection of plywood gravestones I added that morning. A single animatronic skeleton was popping his head up from behind the largest of them, blearing out with malevolence

in his rolling eyes. Where? He stopped on the witch, a momentary look of dismay crossing his blue sky features. He broke away from her and fixed me with his store-bought smile. Where'd you get all this stuff?

I told him about the ad, and I saw a light of recognition as he glanced at the former Winter Wonderland set, and I mentioned the number of online sites from which I grabbed the various fog machines, spotlights, and projectors that were still to be set up. I showed him where the trick-or-treaters were coming, and how it spaced out the children's mannequins to suggest a path to the giant bowl of candy I planned to set in front of my witch. He scrunched up his face disapprovingly.

No good? I asked and hated myself a bit. when I realized how much I wanted his approval, if not envy, of my plan. No, it's great, but you might want to lay them out a little different. Right now they look like they're giving her a wide berth. I looked around and saw he was right. In my end of the evening days, I thought I laid my little ones out in a snaking zigzag, but they were in fact pushed back in a rough semicircle around the witch's house,

looking like they were backing away towards the property line. I thanked him for the advice, and he once again expressed that everything looked great, and he couldn't wait to see it when it was finished. I felt myself warming towards him a bit, a buried memory resurfacing of the welcome to the neighbourhood basket that had been delivered to our door with a polite knock when we'd moved in a few years ago. He leaned in with a confident whisper and told me that the whole neighbourhood was glad to see me getting in the holiday spirit, and in a lower register yet,

we've all been kind of worried about you, you know, since Catherine moved out. And with that, five years of bitterness and resentment searched back. He strode out of my yard back towards his own house, the one that he shared with his wife and children. I threw all of my free time into the yard. More tombstones, fog juice, and tombstone paupers were ordered. Rush delivery charges were paid. I was going to make sure that my display drew every ounce of attention away from Ryerson's. even if it drove me into exhaustion and credit card debt.

My neighbour's comment burned on my chest as I drank my morning coffee. Since Catherine moved out, as the display grew and more ghouls lurked around the candy canes, more of the neighbourhood kids were tugging on their parents' arms or gesturing to their friends as they rode by in their bikes. With a giddy anticipation, I ordered several bags of full-sized candy bars to hand out on the night. I also caught Ryzen,

trying not to look in my display, as it took over every corner of the yard. Screw you and your pity, buddy, I found myself muttering with a self-righteous slurp of Joe. At first, I relished the attention the display drew as it got closer and closer to competition. For the first time since Catherine had taken the kids and gone to a mother's place, never to return.

I felt seen. I wasn't the fall-down drunk or the angry divorcee that had nothing or nobody to care for. Suddenly, I was the guy with a gingerbread house in his yard, and the kids that came by were going to get enough sugary goodness from me to wrought their teeth right out of their heads. But as the days went by, I noticed that some of the kids were tossing nervous glances over their shoulders as they passed by, their parents jumping at the wind creaking through the trees as they walked the family dog for his nightly poo. I remember thinking I needed to take doozy for a walk. I tried to take her out a couple of times the night before, but she wouldn't go to the family. out the front door, and hiding behind her my chair whenever the leash was produced.

She'd been doing a business exclusively in the backyard for the last couple of days. I suppose I should have taken that as a sign. Through all of this, the witch just observed the passerbyes with her indifferent Isle-A-Stare. I could feel her waiting for her big night. It was a week to the day when the first kid disappeared. No one else seemed to notice. No cry of alarm went up around town or friendly police officers

appeared at my door to ask me a series of awkward questions. But I knew. The little one in the denim overalls and the devil mask. The one I'd placed right in front of my witch was gone.

I tried to put it down to a miscount. I'd placed 11 when I thought there was 12. That was all. When the next one vanished, a chalk white ragamuffin with perennial stiff pig tail. poking out from underneath the bright red clown wig I'd given her. The day after, three more of them were gone.

I called the cops, but even in the town this size, they had other things besides some Halloween decorations being stolen to worry about. I wondered if it was kids, just some middle school punk enjoying some recreational vandalism. Of course, it occurred to me it could be Ryerson. I'd built the thing to spite him. Maybe it had worked. But no,

As much as I wanted to think I hurt him, Paul Ryson was a happy man with a full life. He'd let me have his crazy show on Halloween, and hell, he'd probably be happy for me. Glad to see a moment of happiness for good old Gene Driscoll. Then, I was working on the display one night after work, trying to make up for the losses. And I heard a laugh.

It was a short, sharp exclamation, a snort, the kind of involuntary thing. someone makes during a moment of silence for the dead. The kind of laugh that just slips out before you even know it's happening. I was scanning my yard, turning in slow circles, trying to whirl my eyes and taken as much as possible in the darkness

when I heard something toppled behind me. I spun my heel and spayed out on the ground was one of the remaining toddler mannequins. Grumbling, I trudged over to it, the pole that was supposed to hold it up standing and alone. There was something odd about the way it had fallen. It was on its belly, its arms pivoting in their socket, allowing the body to press flat against the cold earth.

He was facing the street, his arms outstretched, like... Like he was trying to... Hey, Jean. I spun back around. The voice had been right behind me, and I felt a pounding rising in my chest. There was no one in the yard, at least that I could see. What? I said, my surely air of impatience covering the fear that was driving my heart violently against my ribcage.

Who is it? Hey, Jean. The voice called again, as calm and conversational as someone needing just a minute of a time to discuss the weather. The voice was hard to place in location, echoing around my yard, sounding in equal parts like it could be coming from the trees behind my house or across the street. Hey, Jean. I took up my phone. for a light and walked towards the voice, calling out to whoever it was, just like I'd never seen a horror movie in my life.

Paul? I asked. Come by to see if his lonely old neighbour needed a last-minute pair of extra hands to get everything ready. It was going to be my neighbour, and I would be happy to see him than I'd been to see anyone in years. But there was no answer. The yard around me was silent. No cars passed by out on the road.

that despite being only several dozen feet away, it felt like another country that I'd never be able to reach in time. In time for what? Hey, Jean. It's coming from inside the Ginger House, I thought, and nearly laughed out loud despite myself. There was no way I was going in there. At least that's what I told myself,

until I heard a single, high-bitch yelp come from within it. It was the same one she made every time she got vaccinated, the vet. Doosy, I yelled. How had she gotten out? What was she doing back there? The plywood door felt impossibly heavy against my hands, and the light from my phone simply didn't penetrate into the corners of the facade.

I should have been able to see my house now. The back of the thing was wide open. I should have been able to see the garage, long ago converted, in case Kathy's mom ever needed to come live with us. But the darkness just stretched on forever, and I couldn't help but think of an ancient tomb. Then the door slammed shut behind me, knocked into place by some errant wind or malicious hand. It was then in the sudden lightless void that I realized I hadn't seen the witch when I'd come in. Hey, Jean, the voice came again, mere inches from my face. I ran back

towards the house, the light bouncing up and down in the blackness that went on for far too long. I had been less than a foot away and I was running like I was in the final leg of a mad dash with a final line in sight but all I encountered was cold air rushing past my limbs and face then suddenly it was there the door appearing in front of me

as if dragged into frame by some unseen hand and in my panic I didn't stop in time I bounced off of it hard and was sent sprawling onto my back my shoulder blades screamed in agony against a sudden contact with the ground and I let out a yelp

thinking I had to move before the paint setting I lurched back up to a sitting position and in the weak light that came in around the gaps of the door I could see a figure crouched down in front of me on top of its head rested a large brimmed, pointy

hat it was dark and she had no eyes I know she had no eyes but her hands had no trouble finding my face cold, hard, plastic hands rested against my cheeks, her rigid thumb stroking just under my eyes. She needs eyes, I remember thinking,

and shutting my own tightly, knowing that wouldn't stop those stiff, lifeless fingers if she thrust them into my socket. Jean, she said, and then a deafening silence descended. I held my breath and waited, and waited, and waited. When I finally dared to peek, like a toddler out from under the covers, she was gone and the door was open.

I looked across the street and I could see Ryerson's yard had been destroyed. The paper-mache skulls had been torn apart, shredded open to reveal new sprint and headlines from decades past. The plastic jackal lanterns had been flattened, trampled under many feet. The styrofoam tombstones had been reduced to puffs of non-biodegradable fluff, sticking everywhere on my neighbour's flawless manicured lawn. Dracula, Wolfman and the mummy were gone, decapitated from their flannel shirt bodies

and their paper guts ripped out and strewn about with the other gleefully produced debris. I just noticed that the bamboo poles that had held up the trio had been snapped in half and driven through Ryzen's living room windows. When the police arrived, they questioned me, of course, but my previous calls to them and my own display, having suddenly disappeared,

took all suspicion off me. I nearly laughed in the officer's face as he took my statement when it occurred to me. My witch was gone. And she had taken the kids with her. It's Halloween night, and while the gingerbread house still stands,

both Ryers and my lights are off. Neither one of us seems to be in the holiday spirit. Still, I have a bowl of candy in front of me, just in case. You see, someone keeps knocking on my daughter. door, someone willing to ignore the darkness on the path up to my front step, someone that strides with stiff, jerky movements.

They're knocking right now, ringing hollow with each wrap against my door. I think they want something from me, and I'm hoping it's just a full-size snickers.