CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "The Horsefly King" Creepypasta

Episode Date: October 20, 2020

Bzzzz. Bzzzzzz......CREEPYPASTA STORY►by wahbegan: 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►Limkuk: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/2YbJvSUGGESTED 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-

I'm just to Amsterdam, for the maids'er. Doy! Toadam? With Eurocity direct, though? 16 times per day from out Brussels and in 2-hour. Now, from 19 euro in place of 25. Book you tickets on NMBS International.com. The festival season is aang broken, and that betetects,

and so, came Kim to Amazon.com.com. On the look to a water-dict tent, a comfortable luget, oh, so, knus. And Lupeartprint regalearze. Now, Kim has kind of the modder. Just like that's just for the modder man. Oh, wait just even. Only mudder?

Oh yeah, only mudder. Drogoblev? Goar for. Find what you need have on amazon.com. com. I don't know how long the pool has been there. It seems to have always existed, to always have been laying in wait,

waiting for something, or maybe for someone. It doesn't matter how long it's been since the rain, It never seems to disappear, or even to get shallower. It's such a little thing, no more than about ten feet round, with patchy tufts of tall grass piercing the surface. It must only come up to your ankles, but something about its stillness, it's almost blackluster, it's persistent. In my youth, I never truly believed the thing to be cursed. I was told it was, and I was afraid for a time, but it passed as easily as a dream, like many

childhood fears do. Now, as an adult, as someone battered and wearied by the world, you would think the place held even less meaning. I flatter myself that it does, usually. I do not believe in the horsefly king. Not in the light of day, but sometimes when the sun sets over the park and the sanguine glow of it hits the still water in just the right way, or when the moon is cold and high over it, the place still captures the terror I have not known since childhood. The memorial park stands on the remains of a World War I battlefield. The barbed wire has been torn up, the craters from shelling filled in, grass planted in the mud,

and all that remains of the butchery is a plaque in a picturesque little gazebo commemorating the battle. Sometimes children still find them buried in the earth. I was a child myself when I first visited the place. When I first heard the story of the horse fly king, It was a pale, sickly boy who first drew my attention to it wearing a cheeky grin

that only little boys and psychopaths can wear. I once saw him rub a caterpillar open with a nail to see what colour its inside were. He was that kind of boy, the kind you're afraid of as a child without fully understanding why. You see that puddle over there? I'd simply shrugged my shoulders.

It's a puddle. His grin grew wide. That's where the horseflies lay their eggs. My skin crawled a bit, and I must have made a face. Like most people, I think, I have anversion to the repulsive, biting creatures. The idea of their eggs and larvae crawling around in the filthy water was disgusting enough, but Nicholas didn't finish. Did you know only the females drink blood? He didn't wait for a reply. It's true. They need blood to lay their eggs. I heard they take all the blood they suck up, and they take it to this puddle.

and drop it never goes away. It's a special puddle. At the age of ten, such things didn't sound quite as ridiculous as they do now. I didn't necessarily believe him, but I had a morbid fascination all the same. Special how?

Well, he dropped his voice low, like he might be overheard. That's where he lives. Who? They're king. The horse-fell. I mean. My mind immediately went to the more reasonable assumption that he was talking about some kind of colony,

which was disgusting enough. A massive swollen horsefly at the bottom of the pool with a distended stomach and atrophied wings drinking up blood. What, like a queen bee? That's disgusting. No, something else. Something worse. The puddle remained still and black in the light. One of the wretched things was buzzing in lazy circles above it.

Hecoursy circles above it, the heat, the heat, I suppose. I felt, some change in the water's demeanour. I know how it sounds, but before it was sluggish, sleepy. Now it seemed to have... Perked up somehow. To my mind, it seemed that some great, invisible head had turned to face us and listen. The feeling passed, and even at that age, I was abashed for feeling that a bit of a feeling a puddle in the grass was looking at us. What are you talking about? It's what? Six inches deep?

Yeah, it's six inches deep. But five years ago, a girl named Emma wandered away from her parents and started screaming and screaming and screaming. She cried out for help and her parents were just over that hill there. It took them no more than 20 seconds to get here, but by the time they did, she had drowned in it. Only six inches deep and she drowned in it. I looked at Nicholas, warily. trying to pass her out if he was messing with me. Did they get the guy? He seemed exasperated, like I was an idiot for not immediately following his insane kid's story. It wasn't a guy! That's what I'm telling you. Nobody was around. She wasn't hurt at all. There's nowhere for anyone to hide. They would have seen him. Nobody else is here. It was...

He gestured with his eyes towards the puddle again. Him. The horsefly king You don't believe me I had laughed at him a bit More to make myself feel better Than anything else You can't be afraid of something

You laugh off as ridiculous after all He had grown angry with me Alright if it's so stupid Put your hand in it What? You heard me The childish grin returned There's no such thing as a horsefly king right So put your hand in the water

Watch what happens, just what? gross, I'm not sticking my hand in some dirty puddle, because you're scared he'll get you. I'm not. This continued in the way children's arguments do, before I settled on a compromise. I would take a stick lying nearby and put it in.

Stir the water a bit, smack the service, and if no monster ate me, he had to admit he was full of crap. And I did. I hesitated a moment, staring at the murky water, And in that moment, it didn't look like a puddle. It looked like a diseased hole in the world, a window to a different place,

an infinite world of blood and dirt and biting things. A moment in which I was almost convinced something was going to jump out and eat me. But it didn't. I put the stick in until I felt the earth below. It was only depression of a few inches after all. I laughed and stirred and splashed the water. I called in a sing-song voice for the horsefighting to come and play, to come and bite Nicholas. He had pouted the whole walk home, like he had actually wanted something to drag me under.

But it had been nothing after all. A scary story about a pool of water in the park, told by a maladjusted boy trying to get a rise out of his mate. I didn't think about it for years afterwards. Sometimes I would return to the park and see the pool, just as stagnant, just as deep. as it always was, shining in the sun, so contaminated, so contaminated, I'd smile a bit to myself, and remember Nicholas and his killing caterpillars and his story of horsefly kings, and wonder where he was. I hadn't spoken to him in the years, when I heard of his passing. It was hardly a surprise. Everyone knew he'd been a troubled boy, grown

into a neurotic young man. There were no gasps of shock, only where he sawes and shaking heads. Tongues clicking and saying, I suppose we should have seen it coming and it was only a matter of time. But there were whispers, gossip really, that's all it was. I was raised and not speak he love the dead, and I never found out for sure, so I hesitate to slander his memory or bring undue grief to those closer to him than I. But The way he had done it, It wasn't natural Nobody seemed

Only that it was horrible I heard conflicting accounts I heard he had choked himself to death Trying to cram flypaper down his throat I heard he had taken a pin And stabbed himself through to the bone In hundreds of places all over his body Like how they used to test for witches in the old days

The man who told me that had said I heard one that gave me pause more than any other. I heard that he was found in his bed, staring at the ceiling, bone dry, but his face was frozen in a scream of horror, and that his lungs were full of filthy water. Feltly water and eggs. A voice in my head wanted to correct the woman who told me that version. Not my own voice, surely.

Where did that thought come from? I still lay awake nights and wonder. I was in my twenties, too old for fairy tales. I did not believe in the horsefighting. I do not believe in the horsefighting, but the nightmare started soon after. My mind was full of anxiety, full of depression,

and that half-form mix of guilt and grief when you lose someone you used to be close to or didn't know as well as you should. That's why I see the pool in my dreams. Why I've been seeing it for almost a decade. It was scary. A boy who scared me as a child killed me. himself. Nightmares are perfectly normal. In mine, everyone is nightmares. In mine, I'm standing in front of the

pool, and there are flies buzzing around it, much larger than any real flies. Their wings are grey and ragged and papery, and you can see the veins, almost like bats, torn, buzzing, biting bats, with kiteness black skin and red eyes and a dagger from mouth. I look closer and see their eyes are buzzing. They're screaming. They're screaming and flying in ritual circles has begun to ripple and change shape. Something is inside it and it's coming to the surface and if I see what it is I'll go insane and die of fright. And I awake in bed, screaming and soaked with a sweat of terror, the kind that penetrates through your skin down to the bone and makes you feel so cold you forget how warmth feels. I don't sleep much

so I lay awake and wonder whose voice was telling me it wasn't just filthy water. It was eggs too. I do not believe in the horse fliking. But I've gained something of a morbid interest recently. I wondered where the story came from, you see. Perfectly natural. I thought maybe it was the depression left over from a shelling crater. The thought had a certain

romance to it. A spot by a man, more probably his bones, and a boy. His bones, tendons and flesh, blasted apart and filled with shrapnel and mud. All for a senseless war. That would make a black eye from... Forgive me. It's anxious work writing this all down. I don't want to give the I come apart to the seams of such fantastical and childish things.

Yes, the battle. A journal from one Lieutenant Ronan spoke of the damn thing. It seems impossible it should have survived a century and all the landscaping, but somehow it did. A persistent blemish, if nothing else. It seems our boys had dug their trenches just a few yards behind the thing and that, even then, It was a source of vague repulsion and horror.

Ronan never uses the term horse-fliking. I still don't know when Nicholas came up with that. If, perhaps a voice, not quite his own, just said it in his head one day. The same voice that assured me yes, eggs in his lungs. And, once is in the ground. I get distracted easily. It's hard to gather my thoughts. At any rate, the police mentioned as the probable cause for one private McBride getting trenched foot.

Ronan said, he had walked through the water, and that he thought something bit him. He was a healthy boy, 19 years old. But that night, when they stripped his boot off, they cut through the sock that was stuck to her skin, like flypaper. His foot had already begun to rot. There were maggots in it, Ronan said,

and he had started screaming. They had to take his foot off. He didn't survive the procedure. A few nights later, One of the barbed wire. He caught himself in it somehow in the night and ripped himself open in maybe a dozen places struggling to free himself. Ronan stops to describe the smell of his organs hanging out of his stomach, his intestines drooping in the dirt. The sentry's blood ran in a rivulet straight into the pool.

It was strange, he remarked in his next entry, that no one should hear him screaming. He must have been in that wire for upwards of an hour before he died. But nobody heard him. To a man, not one of the soldiers had heard him scream. It seems, the men avoided the thing like the plague for their few remaining days on earth. The battle was a catastrophic failure. The boys butchered and shelled and gassed. Sometimes, I wondered what became of the Germans who killed them. There's a cold certainty in my heart that they didn't fare much better. I do not believe in the horse-fiking.

I've just done some digging, a friend. A friend. A friend. A friend, I have done a death, and I have grown anxious, and that is all. But, after the war, when the park was first planted, one of the men who had landscaped it was found laying next to the pool. Every inch of him was covered with horseflies, a black crawling mass covering his skin. They'd bitten him to death. They'd bitten him on his tongue and his throat. in 1954, a woman who frequented the part went raving mad.

She nearly killed herself trying to destroy her ears, trying to, quote, make the buzzing stop. She died in the hospital, her hands clamped over her ears. In 1978, a man murdered his own wife, his own pregnant wife. I will spare you the details, but you should know the police found him next to slit his own throat,

after dropping something small and bloody into it like a sacrifice. In 1993, the girl named Emma disappeared. Nicholas hadn't known the whole story. She didn't drown in the pool, not immediately. She vanished without a trace. They searched for her for three months before they found a body, face down in the pool, right where she had vanished. And then, there was Nicholas.

I know what these things are. A meaningless correlation. My own confirmation bias. Every minute of every day, someone walks right past the dirty puddle and nothing happens to them at all. But sometimes, just sometimes, when the sun hits it just right,

my nightmares have grown worse of late. Nicholas' voice is hard to hear. He gurgled. and water keeps pouring out of his mouth as he stands over me. I think I see something wriggling in his voice box. He tells me the horse-fight king bit him good. Just like I asked. Bit him so he burned and burned and drowned but didn't die.

He can never really die. He says the eggs need blood and the blood needs pain and all the stagnant water in the world is his domain. The pools of his eyes and he sees everything I do. And to me, it's been decades. But to him, I'm an amusing little distraction for a moment. Nicholas smiles, and I can see his teeth are black, as he says, Like a boy, pulling the wings of a fly that bit him.

That's what you are to him. You bit him, and he will do things to your body you didn't think were possible. He will make you scream and scream and scream. I do not believe in the horse viking. It's tinnitus ringing in my ears, that just sounds a bit like a buzz sometimes, and that red circle in the sky is the setting sun and it reflects off the water. It is not the eye of a great fly, or a drop of blood drawn from God's flesh, with the unholy dagger mouth of an abomination that tortures men and women for decades because it feels a moment of boredom. I fear some horrible fate will before me. I think I may be sick.

Whose dark dreams are these? Whose deranged thoughts? Not my own. They can't be my own. It is as if a fever has come over me, slow-looking my skull. I say it is only sometimes. I try to force myself to assure you it's just my writing about it that has made me come undone. That I am a sane man, that nothing is in that water. There are no ghosts or goblins or beasts in this world. I tell myself that all the time. But when Nicholas floats over me at night, and there's still water dripping from my ceiling onto my

face. He tells me, the horsefighting likes the taste of lies the best. I purchased a revolver. I don't know what I intend to do with it. I dare not tell anyone. They look at me strangely enough since I fell into the bottle. They fear I may do harm to myself. I fear someone, something else might. That's why I'm going tonight. I'm polishing off this bottle of bourbon and leaving this letter for friends and love ones to grimace and sob over and doctors to dissect and fools to laugh at. I'm taking my gun and going down to that water. I'm going to walk in and wait a little while and see what happens. I'm sure I have nothing to fear after all.

I do not believe in the horse fly king.