CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "The Haunting of Baker Place" Creepypasta

Episode Date: May 28, 2020

You may never know the full history of a mysterious place you move into.CREEPYPASTA STORY►by ktMcSqueezy: 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►https://www.instagram.com/p/B-iS8WGnhhv/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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. Sometimes places bring out the worst in people, my dad always used to say. Now then I'm older, I realized he had it backwards. Sometimes it's people that bring out the worst in places. The old Baker House was one such place It was the spring of 69 when we moved there And from the minute we passed through the gated entrance I knew there was something I didn't like about the property

My brother Stanley just ate at the time Put it best This place gives me the creeps He said And creepy it was A great marble statue Perhaps a couple centuries old watched us as we pulled up to the front of the manor.

The sculpture was of a man, perhaps an old caretaker. Whoever it was, he was dressed in a dashing suit with a rakish hat rested on his head. He had the look of an old military colonel, and I realized that once upon a time this mansion must have been a sight to behold. The hands of time had not been kind to this place, though. Here and there, boards covered up the windows,

evidently broken by vandals throughout the years. Bines twisted their way into every crevice and weaved over the surface like spider's webs. Dank air, heavy and wet, covered everything, rotting away wood and peeling back the last remaining wisps of paint. Only a few stray beams of light could penetrate the army of oak trees which hung over every square inch of the sprawling grounds. It needs some work, my father remarked, but this is home now. To be sure, it was an unsettling place at times. but there couldn't be a more perfect place for my brother and I to explore.

The grounds were enormous, with groves and ponds peppering the acres of land in a never-ending maze. The house itself had countless rooms to examine, and I wondered how on earth somebody could ever need so much living space. Still, it was good to have so many places to play, because my brother and I had a hard time making friends in school. It's always tough being the new kid, and I missed my friends. and I missed my friends back in Missouri. People in California had funny accents, I thought, and I didn't understand the other kid's sense of humor. A lot of them made fun of me.

They said that the Baker House was haunted and that the ghosts inside were going to kill me. I didn't believe them, at least not at first. But I had to admit that some strange things started happening around the house. Nothing too crazy. It's not like a monster jumped out from under my bed and tried to eat me or anything. It was more subtle than that.

Little things around the house would rearrange themselves in places they weren't supposed to be. Trinkets would disappear for a time and then, days later, pop up without explanation. Back in Missouri, my mom would often bring us over to visit my grandmother.

And while the kids would go out to play, my mom and grandmother would sit inside and chat over their cups of tea. They'd sit next to my grandmother's wooden coffee table so that they could keep an eye on us out the window and then they'd talk about life and bring up old memories from the past. When my grandmother passed away,

she left the coffee table to my mom and it became my mom's most prized possession. The first thing she did when we moved into the baker house was move the coffee table squarely into the centre of the family room. There, she said, it's beginning to feel like a home already.

A week later, I came down somewhere. to find my parents in a fuss. My mom looked upset, and my dad was trying to smooth things over. Ryan, my mom said to me, did you move the coffee table? Sure enough, the coffee table, which had previously been situated in the centre of the living room,

was now cruelly flipped upside down and shoved into the corner wall. No, I told her. I didn't do anything. I was playing upstairs with Stanley. It wasn't just a coffee. table though. All the other furniture in the living room had been rearranged. We had situated the couch facing the windows so that we could look outside when we sat down. Somehow it had been flipped around so that it was facing the wall. The television, where my brother would sit and

watched the Flintstones on Saturday mornings, was unplugged and flipped on its side. My mom turned white as a sheet. Go to your room, she said angrily, and don't come out until you're ready to admit what you've done. I guess I'd been grounded. Other strange things started happening in the coming days, and my parents went from blaming me for being naughty to being worried that maybe something more insidious was at play. I could tell by the way they whispered to each other that they thought something was wrong, and when I tried to fall asleep at night, I could hear them arguing in the next room over.

One night, after we had gone out grocery shopping, we came home to find that all of the All the picture frames in the entire house were flipped upside down. Not just the ones hung on the walls either, but every single portrait in the entire house. The one of my grandfather, the picture of my dad from when he joined the Navy, my brother's school picture, all of them rearranged without reason. It was pretty unsettling, but had to pinpoint exactly what the cause was. I could see that my mother was pretty stressed, but my father was just trying to come calm everyone down.

We'd come too far to go back now. Look, he said one day, this is a big adjustment for us all, but this is going to be good for our family. We're going to have a better life out here. You'll see. As if to sweeten the deal a little more, one day he burst through the front door

with a special surprise for my brother and I. It was a puppy, a little golden retriever, and who we named Max. He was a fluffy ball of joy, still fuzzy with his baby fur, and always on the lookout for an opportunity to play. For a while, my brother and I forgot all about the furniture and the house and the bullies at school. We just laughed and played and chased Max around the yard without a care in the world. Still, the happiness didn't last for long.

After school one day, I came home to find my mom crying hysterically, on the couch. What's the matter, Mom? I asked. She just pointed wordlessly at the kitchen, and I saw that all the cabinets had been torn open. Their contents, various

pots and pans, wooden bowls and silverware were streamed carelessly across the floor. It looked as if somebody had robbed the place. My mom, as she explained, had been cleaning the bathroom upstairs, when all of a sudden she heard a loud bang come from the

kitchen. She assumed it was just a creek, like most old houses are known to make, and didn't think anything of it. When she heard it again, she rushed downstairs to see the mess in the kitchen. Dad came home early from work, and my mother explained the situation. Dad was certain that somebody had broken in, but my mother had other ideas. The house, she was now convinced. It was haunted. Never the superstitious type. My father did. dismissed the idea and called the police to investigate. The officers surveyed the ground, looking for some kind of evidence of a break-in, but found nothing. It was unlikely that somebody had broken in, they said. Most likely, it was just a strong gust of wind that had

blown everything off the shelves. Never mind the fact that the window had been closed. Later that night I was asleep in my bed when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was my brother. Stan, I snapped up. Go to bed. It's the middle of the night. Ryan, I'm scared, he whimpered. There's a ghost outside. Alarmed, I shot out of bed and ran out to the windowsill.

It was dark, so it took a minute for my eyes to adjust. There wasn't much moonlight, but I could still make out some of the objects familiar to me in the backyard. There was the patio table with chairs and wispy flowers, blowing in my mother's garden. I don't see anything, I said. But I spoke too soon. Next to the shed past a rusty old wheelbarrow. I could see that something was moving in the darkness.

It was a woman twirling around like a ballerina, a white dress, trimmed with lace, flickering back and forth as she glided across the lawn. I screamed and bowels. into my parents' room. Mom, Dad! I panicked, shaking them awake. There's a ghost outside.

My father opened his eyes, half confused, half horrified, and quickly grabbed his 12-gauge from the cabinet. I ran back from the windowsill and watched as my father sprinted outdoors, shotgun in hand, still wearing his striped blue pyjamas. By now, though,

the woman in white was already gone. I think you've been reading too many of those scary stories, My father said with an exasperated sigh, There's nobody out there. Go back to bed. I could tell that my mother was not so convinced. She shot my father a concerned look that seemed to say, We'll talk about this in the morning. April turned into May, and then May turned into June,

until finally the last day of school arrived. My brother and I always walked home from school together, and after the bell rang, After the bell rang, I sprinted outside while thoughts of summer adventures filled my head. And normally met my brother next to a stop sign at the school entrance. Usually, Stan was there before me since the elementary school was closer to the main road than the middle school. Today, though, I arrived before him. I waited anxiously as the other kids passed by.

Minutes stick on. And finally, I started to get annoyed. Where the heck is he? I thought. Finally, I realised that Stan wasn't coming and decided to leave without him. He must have gone home without me,

I told myself. After all, he was probably excited for summer vacation and forgot that he was supposed to meet me. When I walked in the front door though, my mother threw me a dirty look. Why are you late? She asked, looking me up and down.

And where is your brother? I shrugged, telling her defensively. I waited for him, but he never came. I thought he went home without me. My mother's face contorted into worry. No, he isn't home. I thought he would be with you like he always is, she said, Tursley.

My mother went into a panic now, realizing that Stanley was late and nowhere to be found. I admit that even I was starting to feel nervous too. Mom wanted to call the police right away, certain that Stan had gotten lost. or was hurt or even worse. My father, on the other hand, while definitely concerned, jumped to less deadly conclusions.

He is probably causing trouble with his friends. He soothed her. When I was a boy his age, I was always looking for the next commotion to get into. Mom looked at him incredulously, so my father added, but if he's not back in a couple hours, we'll call the cops.

Just as my father was about to reach for the phone, I saw somebody walking up the driveway. It was dark by now, but I could tell by their short stature and lumpy knapsack that the person was none other than my kid brother. I couldn't tell if my mother was going to burst into tears of happiness or if she was going to lay into stand and ground him for a month. It seemed that she couldn't decide either.

What were you thinking? She asked, white as a sheet, followed with, thank God your home, I was so worried. With that, she wrapped my brother in a tight embrace. After a period of time where I thought she might never let my brother go, Stan finally pushed himself away. Sorry, Mom, Stanley said. I was out playing with my new friend. We met on the way home from school.

My mother sees Stanley by the shoulders. Well, don't scare me like that, she said, but softened it with, What's your friend's name? Charlie, my brother shrugged. And with that, my mother seemed ready to calm down. At long last, she was satisfied that Stanley was safe. I bet she never slept as well as she did that night. A day later, my brother and I were home alone, playing downstairs with our set of tinker toys.

All of a sudden, we heard a violent bang from upstairs. What was that? I asked my brother. Stan shrugged, afraid to say what we both knew. It was the woman in white, back again. I grabbed a poker from the fireplace, and brandishing the pole menacingly, crept upstairs to the hallway above. Sh, I motioned to my brother, a few steps behind me, and quietly pushed open each of the doors on the second floor. I tapped each one open with my foot, and then raised a poker in hand, ready to strike the ghostly woman that I was certain stood inside. one by one, each door opened

and each one turned out to be empty. Nobody was there, but Stan and I looked at each other seriously. We both knew what we heard. After we walked back downstairs, we realised that something was different. Our tinker toys were still strewn across the floor just as we had left them,

but we realised that something was off. Where's Max? My brother asked. It was a good question. I looked around and realised that our little puppy was nowhere to be found. We searched downstairs, peering into the living room, the dining room and the kitchen. He was gone, it seemed, left without a trace. My brother and I ran outside and called to him, thinking that he had seen a squirrel and somehow escaped outside.

I even brought Max's favourite toy, the one shaped like a bone with a squeaker inside, but not even that would bring him back. Of course, my brother and I were both sobbing when my parents came home. My dad reassured us that Max would come back. He had just run away for a little while, he explained. We made some signs with the picture of Max and our phone number so that people could try bring him home to us if anybody found him, and Dad drove us around town, stabling them to all the other.

utility poles. I didn't sleep well that night, and I tossed and turned for hours, trying to put my mind at rest. All I could think about was Max. Where was he? Was he okay? Was he scared? Did he miss us? Just as I was about to slip away into the darkness of sleep, I heard something that made me sit up straight.

It was a creaking floorboard from the hallway. Quietly, I pulled the cover. off and crept out of bed, slowly opening the door. I peered out into the hallway. There was that creaking noise again, but this time I saw where it was coming from. There was the white woman standing in the hallway, head bent down with a hair flowing towards the floor. She was standing in front of my brother's bedroom door.

One of her hands, pale and ghostly, stretched up lifelessly towards the wooden doorframe. her arm's sleeve loosely slumped down to her elbow. With a curled finger, she took one of her long fingernails and gently scratched at the entrance. I couldn't help but gasp, and even though I tried to stifle the sound with my hand, the woman's head snapped up. She twisted her head to the side to face me, revealing wavy black hair with a pale complexion. Her dress was white like before, but this time I noticed a smattering of blood, smeared. across her stomach. The woman in white curled her mouth into a sadistic smile and put a finger to her lips.

I started to cry now, the streams of tears rolled down my face. Something resembling a kind of sob came out to my mouth as heart panic bowled up inside my chest. Mom, Dad! I shouted, turning to my parents' room. Judging by the rustling of sheets and the stump of feet hitting the floor, my parents are rushing out of bed. said. The faint click of my father's shotgun resonating behind the door. And sure enough, my father burst from inside the bedroom with a look of vengeance on his face.

What? he asked. What's going on? The ghost is back, I said, pointing back to my brother's room. But she was gone. My father frantically rushed past me and poked into my brother's room. After ascertaining that Stan was safe, he quickly moved through the rest of the rooms in the house wherever the ghost had come from she was now gone after surveying the grounds

dad came back in shaking his head there's nobody here he said I was not convinced though I knew what I saw for the longest time I could tell my dad was sceptical about the ghosts that my brother and I had been seeing

I don't think he thought my brother and I were lying exactly but he must have thought the stress from the move was taking its toll on us. My mother was still adamant that the house was haunted. Maybe we should call a priest, she suggested. But my father would have none of that. I don't want to get any of those religious quacks coming down here, he dismissed. The next day though, everything changed. We were sitting around the kitchen table, eating breakfast, still groggy from the night before.

when my father asked me to go outside and fetch the mail. I did as he asked and ran down to the mailbox to grab the newspaper. Something looked different about the mailbox compared to normal, but the morning sun was shining so brightly in my eyes that I couldn't see clearly. Something appeared to be hanging from the mailpost. As I moved closer, I realised with horror what it was, and felt sick to my stomach. hung from the mailbox by a strand of wire around his neck

was the stiff body of a baby golden retriever It was Max I realised And I could see several blooded openings in his hardened fur That looked like stab wounds I threw up all over the driveway And ran up to the house crying hysterically What's the matter? My mother asked dismayed I couldn't even put into words what I wanted to say

And just pointed outside my father accustomed to a state of panic by now put his coffee down and walked outside while my mom held me in her arms when he came back inside he was white as a sheet I had never seen him so caught off guard before he was always the type of person who knew exactly what to do

but now he was simply looking off into the distance totally stunned by what he had seen what is it my mother asked with a worried look. My father bent down and whispered something in her ear that made my mother gasp. Her eyes widened with a panic. The police arrived later that morning

and I was relieved that they took Max away so I wouldn't have to see him again. I've had a little guilty thinking that way because he was my dog and I loved him but I just couldn't bear the sight of seeing his body. My parents flaked on the television set while they talked to the police Being allowed to watch cartoons all morning

Should have made me giddy with joy But I couldn't get over the feeling of sadness and panic No matter what I did I just could not get the images of Max's body Hung of the mailbox out of my head After the police left Mom and Dad sat us down and explained We were going to be leaving for a while

Pack your things Dad said Bring all your clothes, some books Whatever you'll need We won't be coming back for a while. By that night, we were gone. Days went by, followed by weeks, and I finally realised that we weren't ever going back to the old Baker place again. We were gone for good. In the meantime, we settled into a hotel about an hour north of Los Angeles so that my father could

still keep his job, and for a while, things seemed to return to normal. Still, the thought of the ghostly woman always haunted me. I wondered who she was and whether she was the one who had killed my dog. One August morning, my father was reading the newspaper when he set his coffee down with a sharp thud. Clearly, whatever he was reading was of great interest. What is it? My mother asked. My father raised his eyebrow and handed the newspaper over. It read, ritualistic slayings Sharon Tate Four others murdered

Apparently a famous movie actress had been brutally murdered in a home not far from us Certainly it was scary and the horrific nature of the crime unsettled me But I didn't think much of it Murders in the newspaper

Were the sort of thing that happened to other people Things like that never happened to people like us Or so I believed Until I sat down in front of the television with my mom and dad one night. The evening news was on, and a group of mugshots were displayed across the screen. These people, the headlines explained, had been arrested in connection with the murder of Sharon Tate. They're calling them the Manson family, her mother explained with disgust.

I was surprised to see how many of the mugshots were of women. One of them in particular had a face that seemed familiar. Her name, the newscaster explained, was Susan Atkins. But I always knew her as the woman in white.