CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "The History of the Gunnerson Family Holiday Tradition" Creepypasta

Episode Date: December 19, 2020

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by _thelonewolfe_: 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►Nikulina-Helena: https://www.deviantart.com/nikulina-h...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-

Sweetbreads, derived from the 16th century, the thymus or pancreas, usually taken from a calf or lamb, but sometimes procured from the ovaries or testicles. First, soaked in cold water to remove all traces of blood, then poached in milk until tender. As a kid, my father told me it had been a holiday tradition that dated back generations in his family. I would later find out just how far back that was when I turned 16, when I learned the history of the Gunnison family holiday tradition. Our families have continually been amongst the upper echelon of society for over some centuries, as leaders, politicians, tycoons, icons, you name it. Every member of every family knew nothing but success and happiness from birth up until their last dying breaths. And the sweetbreads, my parents told me, were the key to their success. Centuries ago, our ancestors were on the brink

of destruction. They had no food, no resources, no home. They had nothing, and they prayed to anything that would grant them release. Something answered, and they made a deal. They were given a choice, an annual tradition that must be kept, and for as long as it was, the family and all their descendants would never know a day of sorrow again. My father told me that he had learned the same age I did, and so had my brothers, and eventually my baby sister would too. My father had told me that it had been his own grandfather

that had established the tradition on a holiday In his own words, as the ultimate sign of mockery towards God and the Holy Spirit That year, on Christmas Eve, after dinner, my parents dismissed my brothers from the table, telling them to, prepare. Prepare for what? I didn't know. After they left, my parents told me the complete history of the Gunnison holiday tradition. and after they finished

my father said it was time for me to join my brothers, my mother and himself in the tradition I would only have to watch this year he said but next year I would have to do everything alone my brothers by then had returned to the kitchen and my parents rose beckoning me to follow them I did as I was told following my family through the back doors and outside into the cold December night

and down the path to our garage Our enormous compound was located some ways outside the town my father was the mayor of, within an isolated patch of dense forest. I'd always complained as a kid that my friends could never visit, that we were never allowed to give out our address. Now, I know why. I entered the garage behind the family and saw that half the space had been blocked off by some white sheets.

The overhead lights were off, with only the glow of a dozen candles providing any illumination, My mother, who had been a highly respected specialist within the medical field, wheeled out a metal cart. On top lay a collection of surgical knives, masks and gloves. She passed out gloves and masks for everyone, and once we all had them on, my father finally pulled back the curtain. There was a woman, someone I'd never seen before, strapped to a table. She looked to be sleeping, and I could see her bare chest moving slowly up and down. My father, wordlessly, picked up the longest of knives off the table and handed it to my eldest brother.

My brother just took it and stepped up to the woman. I looked her back and studied her. She looked to be around my mother's age, with long, flowing, strawberry blonde hair that was placed directly on top of her breast, maybe in some vain attempt to retain a dignity. An IV ran from her arm to a pole next to the table, which I assumed was some sort of drug to keep her unconscious. She was slender, a body pure of any deformities or blemishes. I looked at the woman, and then at the knife my brother was holding, and then back at my father. This entire time, nobody had uttered a word.

The air was stifled with an uncomfortable silence. My father then finally spoke up, he said only one word. Begin, then. I remember the sweetbreads. I almost threw my entire dinner up right then and there. I'd never seen a knife cut through human flesh before. My head began to swirl and I wanted to look away, but I knew I couldn't. It was like watching the flaming wreckage of a car accident on the side of the road.

I didn't want to see, but I couldn't look away. So, I stood in silence as my brother collected our sweetbreads. After it was done, my family began flying out of the garage one at a time. I stood, frozen in place, looking at the white curtain that father had thankfully pulled back. Mother was the last to leave. She did her best to console me,

telling me it had been hard for her to adjust in the beginning, but that this one sacrifice was well worth the treasures it brought. I just looked at her, dumbfounded, unsure of what to say. But then what? I asked, numbly. What do you mean? She inquired back.

What happens to us afterwards? After all this, I asked, dreading the answer. My mother, taken her back, thought for a moment, then smiled. We joined the rest of the family, rolling together, forever. She said with an icy chill that clung to her words. Together, forever. But where? I already knew before I had even asked.

Somewhere, deep inside, knew from the start. The never-ending flow of cash, the isolated mansion, our status within the town. I had gotten every single thing I had ever wanted my whole life. And this was the cost. Only one day a year. Just one. I followed my mother back inside, masking my shame and a cloud of indifference. Everything had changed

The way I viewed the world My family, our name, my life Even my very soul I didn't sleep a wink that night I tried but every time I would close my eyes I saw the woman still strapped to the table And then I saw the blood pour from her throat And then the sweetbreads

My father warned me Once the tradition has started If it is not kept The punishment will be swift and severe He reminded me of my cousins, who had passed away very suddenly of leukemia a few years back, right after he'd turned 16. Leukemia.

He suffered every day until he died, according to my father, and the same would go for me if I didn't continue the tradition. The next morning, my family woke as usual and gathered downstairs. We exchanged presents, jokes, laughter. Everyone acted as if everything was normal. I put on a convincing show. I laughed back, opened my gifts, smiled for photos. I pulled it all off, masterfully, so I should say.

They never saw what was boiling right under the surface, not even when it came for the time for sweetbreads. I choked back my tears and urged to vomit, though it was hard and I almost gave in, but I kept my smile wide and my eyes open. After our plates were cleared, my father stood up and toasted to his family and our success, and hoped for many more generations to come, and for the day when his first daughter would join the rest of the family.

My dad then looked at me, proudly, not a worry in his eyes. As far as he knew, I had been another successful convert. I can say confidently, without any hint of exaggeration, that I dreaded each and every single day of the next 364 days. I finally started sleeping again after three, only for my sleep to be continually interrupted by the woman on the table, who would wake up suddenly and began screaming every time I cut into a neck. I would go days, one time even a week, without sleep. I would lay awake in bed, pondering over how I was going to do it.

Could I do it? Was there any way out? There had to be a way out. My father and mother told me in private a few days after, Christmas that I would pick who I would use to carry on the tradition. It could be anyone, even a complete stranger. All I had to do was give them a name, and they would take care of the rest. But they warned me, if I didn't pick someone myself, they would do it for me, and they promised me it would be someone I would miss dearly. My skin ran cold at the thought of someone, a friend, a teacher, some random stranger, tied up to that table, the knife in my house.

their internal organs on our dining room table. I knew then there was no way out. I kept up my facade, pretending the long sleepless nights away as caffeine-fueled study sessions and formulated my plan. I would have to pick someone who trusted me, someone I could get alone,

someone who could disappear. There was a friend, a dear friend. Once upon a time she had been a neighbour, but even after my family had moved, she remained my closest friend and one true confidant. She would trust me. She would do anything for me. I loved her.

And now she would disappear. For me, Christmas Eve. It finally came. Like any other important day that you wait for and dread, then suddenly one day, it's tomorrow. My parents had kept their end of the bargain. They expressed no surprise, no remorse. They simply nodded their heads and told me he'll be taken care of.

The rest was up to me. That evening, as I was walking down the hall to join my family in the dining room, I passed by my baby sister's room. She had been only two months old last Christmas, far too young to partake in the family tradition, but not anymore. I pushed the thought from my head and continued on downstairs. The family was busy chatting around the table as I sat in my hands.

seat. Mother had prepared a lovely dinner of homemade mashed potatoes, turkey with gravy, roasted peanuts and an orange cream cake, my absolute favorite. The sweetbreads wouldn't be until tomorrow. Mother placed a fully loaded plate in front of me. On any other Christmas Eve, my mouth would already be filled with potatoes. This Christmas Eve, I was resisting a powerful urge to vomit all over the table. But I kept my call. I had done for the past 364 days. Only one more left. I grabbed my fork as my father concluded his annual prayer of thanks

and reluctantly began forcing food into my mouth. Just eating in front of them had become a chore, an act I was eager to finally drop. Everything tasted like paper, wet and moist without any real flavour. I must have lost £15 since last Christmas, but nobody seemed to notice. They were already too far.

gone. Once dinner was over, my brother went to play video games while my mother began clearing the table. Nobody said anything at first. Then I did. Is she ready? I asked plainly. My parents both looked at me, slightly puzzled. Probably not what they were expecting. I then looked directly at my mother. She had stopped clearing the table. I was now hovering behind my father. She caught my gaze and for a moment almost looked scared. But then smirked. Yes, she is, baby. And it serves a right for breaking my little boy's heart.

Don't you worry about a thing, sweetie. Nobody will even know she's gone. We'll make sure of that. She bragged, turning attention back to the table. My father looked at me, still puzzled. Not sure what to make of my newfound bravado. I hoped it was working. He smirked.

the same way my mother had, and I knew then that I had him, hook, line, and sinker. Don't be too tough on meat, son. We like it nice and plump, remember. My father spoke, sending waves of nausea down into my stomach. I held back, thankfully, and got up from the table. I won't take too long,

Santa's coming early this year, I said, and left without saying a word. My father chuckled briefly, but I caught my mother's shocked reflection on the glass doors on the way out. Too much, perhaps, not that it didn't matter now. The walk to the garage was probably the longest walk in my life. My entire life swirled around me, all array of emotions, everything that had led to this moment, the moment I would carry on the Gunnison holiday tradition.

I counted each step I took as I slowly made my way to the garage. The lights were off and there was no noise. She must be heavily sedated by now. The single side door was already open, and the familiar glow of candlelight cast long shadows all around me. I turned a set of lights on, unimpressed and annoyed with my parents' theatrics at this point. Then I saw the same white curtain as before, with the same set of knives on the same table. My heart skipped a beat. I needed to leave. I bought the mission. Find another way.

No, there was no other way. It was now or never. I took one last breath and remembered what my father had told me. The pact our family had made, a deal forged in blood all those years ago. Without hesitation, I walked towards the curtain and with one swift motion drew them back. There she lay, fully clothed as I had requested. I would not allow this to be the first time I saw her naked. I wouldn't allow it. Sure enough, though, a lone needle pierced the skin and ran up an identical IV pole.

The bag looked to be practically empty. I looked at the clock on the wall. I had precious few minutes left. I turned to the instruments of death next to me, the low light from the candles accending the chilly sting in the air. I picked up a knife randomly, swung back around to take one last look at the girl. But then I froze. My gaze had met a pair of open eyes.

She was awake. She was struggling to regain consciousness, but she was definitely awake. As her eyes widened, they focused on me. She didn't look scared or confused. She just looked at me, face blank and mouth a cape. The knife in my hand felt like solid gold. Everything had finally come together. My turn.

For the first night, in over a year, I slept like a stone. No nightly terrors, no ghostly visions of the woman on the table, no macabre family celebrations, just a deep, soundly. asleep. I was almost sad when I woke up. It felt so good. Hopefully the first of many nights to come. Today was a very special day. It was Christmas after all. More importantly, the day of our blessed family tradition. The sweetbreads had been prepared by myself. It was tradition, and I could smile them from even upstairs. Just moments later, father came in, wishing me a

Merry Christmas and inviting me to join the family downstairs. It was time. I slipped on my housecoat, slippers, and walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, back arched and head held with the confidence I hadn't known in some time. My mother, ever watchful hawk, took notice immediately. Well, don't you look as bright as the morning sunrise? Merry Christmas, baby. She nearly squealed and she put the finishing touches on her immaculate table.

I smoked as I sat down next to my brother. Then I noticed my baby sister was missing. Where's sissy? I was a little concerned for a well-being at this point, knowing full well what this family was capable of. Oh, she's got a fever right now. We all have to save us some for later. My mother responded.

Oh, how perfect. I remained quiet as my mother finished the sweetbreads and brought them over to the table. One by one, she placed a fine scoop on the small, delicate plates in front of each of us. The plates had been in the family for decades and were used for only one purpose. After mother joined us at the table,

my father rose. I don't know why my father insisted on making the same speech every year. He was cringe on so many levels, even more so now than before, though I held my tongue as he spoke. When I look at this table, I see the pillar of success,

our family, our blood, and our sacrifice, our family's tradition, has kept our family strong and alive. And we continue that legacy now and forever. And I am so proud to welcome my third son into the tradition. Son, you have made me, our family and our ancestors incredibly proud. His words made my stomach churn. My father sat back in his seat and almost on instinct the family joined hands. My mother and brother on either side of me.

closing our eyes My family led us in a prayer Lord bless these sweetbreads As you have blessed our family Rain riches, treasures and power on us As you have done so for generations before Ascend us above all others As we carry on this most sacred of tradition

Today, tomorrow And forever My brothers Always too eager for their own good Drop their hands first and immediately began eating I watched as my parents smiled in admiration, then turn their attention to their own plates.

My father was the first of them to take a bite. He smiled at first, but I watched as his expression changed quickly. He was puzzled. He stopped chewing for a moment before swallowing. He hesitated, then

took another bite. I looked at my mother, who had also started eating, but as she went in for a second bite, I was wrinkled and she stopped. She began looking around her, now confused like my father. What's the matter, father? Don't they taste good?

I asked bluntly. My father looked at me, even more confused now. Of course, there's just something off, he said shewishly, though I could hear fear growing inside him. I had felt that same fear for the past 365 days. Do you guys smell that? My mother asked, worry, now thicken a voice. I looked back at my brothers who had already finished their entire plates,

my eldest even licking his clean with his tongue. My other brother had noticed the exchange between our parents and I, and spoke up. Smell what? I don't smell anything. Yeah, I don't smell anything either, I said dishonestly. My father, though, had also denied smelling anything out of the ordinary. So, it was just my mother and my mother.

and I. How can you guys not smell that? It smells almost like something's burning. Or... She trailed off. Or what mother? Perhaps something bitter? I said as I stared directly into her eyes.

In that moment, I saw a flash of clarity across her face. Then I watched all the colour completely drain away from every part of the body. What have you done? My mother sputtered out. What the hell is going on? My father screamed, but before anyone could answer, he was interrupted by an agonizing scream. My eldest brother had been the first. He fell to the floor, howling like a wounded lion.

I looked down to see his eyes turning blood red, his central nervous system was starting to shut down, and bloody vomit and saliva were now pouring out of his mouth. My other brother sat frozen, staring as our sibling died in front of us, mother screaming incoherently in the background. father had stood up to get a better look but was knocked back into his chair almost immediately bringing one of his hands to his head i thought my father would be next but only a second later my other brother bent over in agony and began throwing up as well what did you do to us my mother shrieked as a second child died violently in front of her still too shocked to move from a seat my father was fading fast his face was covered in sweat his gaze now locked onto mine I stared into his eyes, trying with all my might to bore the hatred and fear I had felt this entire year into his soul. You make me sick, every single one of you, I spat out, now free to finally unleash the wrath that had been building up for so long. Did you really think I was going to carry on this tradition?

Do you know how sick to my stomach I've been every day this past year? Our family, our tradition, it's an abomination. And when I thought of spending every Christmas side by side with you, sealed in this deal for all eternity, and wanted to strap myself on that table. It felt like pure bliss. The best part was that they would know, in the last moments, that it had been me that killed them. So, I made a deal of my own. They had made it too easy for me, really.

I already had almost everything I needed, thanks to mother. The only thing missing was a decoy. And being a gunnison meant I could get my hands on practically anything in this day. town. My father collapsed out of his chair and onto the floor. I could feel the convulsions through the table and floor as he breathed his last painful breaths. My mother was the last to succumb. She grasped the chest, heaving in pain. I could hear the blood clotting with each gasp of air she took. She got up to reach for me, but fell onto the floor as I stood up and hovered beside her. Kneeling down, my face now inches from hers. I searched for any trace of the

mother I used to know. But there was nothing, because the mother I knew had been a lie. Everything had been a lie. Was it worth it, mother? I whispered to her. Tears filled her bloodshot eyes and she let out one final death rattle. And then, all was silent. I paused, unsure of what to do next. I stood up straight to survey the carnage around me. Then I looked back at the table, and saw my mother's untouched glass of wine. Without hesitation, I grabbed it and held it up high. Toast to the Gunnison family tradition. I boasted, drinking the entire glass in a single gulp.

Sitting the glass down, I spoke aloud. You can come in now. My voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. Seconds later, I caught movement to my right, but didn't take my gaze off the floor. She had played her part perfectly. She didn't believe me at first, not even when I offered to pay her $10,000 to play the victim. She thought it was a joke.

I'm sure she got quite the scare, though, when my mother had ducked her. But it would be worth it, I told her, that this small amount would be but a fraction of what she and I would have once the tradition was over. So she agreed, and thankfully she had awoken last night when she did. She had proven to be invaluable. Whoa, that was fast, she said. in awe, studying the scene in front of her. Yeah, well, we put enough in there to kill a whole football team, and retorted, still locked into a death stare with my mother.

Her eyes were pointed upwards, an expression of horror and pain, now permanently etched into her face. Is everything ready? I questioned as I turned to face her for the first time. Yes, it's all out in the garage, she replied as she walked up to me. My hands ran across her face and then threw her open hair. Go bring it in. We don't have a lot of time and there's a lot to do.

I told her, leaning in for a kiss. Her mouth was wet and her lips were plumb. Finally, he was beginning to feel like Christmas. She left without another word, leaving me alone in the dining room once again. We would sanitise the kitchen, then bury the bodies in the woods, in a six-foot grave,

alongside the cadaver I had procured from the university. It would take all night, but after it was done, they would never be found. The only business left would be my little sister. I turned on my heel and began walking into the living room. As I started to go up the stairs to tend to my sister, something caught my attention,

something on our Christmas tree. My parents would never want to go overboard with Christmas decorations, seeing them as a waste of money and time. Our Christmas trees, therefore, had consisted of a golden garland and classic silver glass ball ornaments. Nothing more, nothing less. Except now, there was something else. Nestled almost completely within the tree was a dark red envelope.

It had not been there last night, nor this morning. My curiosity peaked, I walked over and grabbed the card out of the tree. It wasn't sealed, and when I opened it, an identically coloured card slid out. I ran my fingers over the card and envelope looking for an inscription. barcode, something to identify where the card came from. Nothing. Cautiously, I opened the card. There was no signature, no seasonal greeting.

Nothing but a single phrase. Sweet to the sweet. Almost instantly, my back ran cold. I could feel the little hairs of my legs begins to stand up one by one. From some dark corner of the house, I could feel something stirring. Then, I felt it. Just a single, cold breath down my neck. I could feel my heart flutter.

I counted to three in my head, then jerked my head around. But there was nothing. In an instant, the house settled and everything was as it had been before. I looked back to the card, but it had vanished. I searched around me but could find no evidence that it had ever been there. A cry from upstairs brought me back. to reality. My baby sister.

Mother had said she was running a fever. Fearing the worst, I darted up the stairs and down the hall to my sister's nursery. My mother fancied herself a designer and insisted on the gaudiest Victorian-era nursery for my sister. My sister's crib was adorned with sheets of silk and sheer fabric. I poured them aside and looked down at my beautiful baby sister. I smiled at her, and she seemed to smile back. She would never know the horror of the family tradition. I would miss her dearly, but I knew she would be better off with another family, somewhere out of state,

far away from our family's legacy of death and decay. Her rosy cheeks felt warm under my finger. As they moved across her face, a weird sensation came over me. It was something I'd never felt around my sister before. I couldn't quite figure it out at first. I looked at her, puzzled. Then my eyes ran over her throat. Soon my mouth began to water.

Pools of saliva now collecting inside. Then I knew. I felt... Hungry.