CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "The man who painted the end of the world" Creepypasta

Episode Date: December 30, 2024

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Deep_Reindeer5927:   / the_man_who_painted_the_end_of_the_world  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"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creep...  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  CREEPYPASTA 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

It was at a flea market, of all places. The kind you go to wonder aimlessly, pretending you're looking for something very specific, knowing that chances are you will probably leave with nothing. Rows of mismatched tables stretched over the cracked pavement under the afternoon sun, piled high with old tools, scratched up yellowing furniture, and junk people had dug out of their garages.

The air smelled like kettle corn and cheap sunscreen, with a faint tang of rust from some vendors' collection of scrap metal. My apartment was still mostly empty. I just moved in, and the empty walls and bare corners were starting to really bother me. I wasn't on the search for anything specific, just something to make the place feel less like an abandoned storage unit and more like a home. A lamp, maybe, or an interesting piece of furniture.

Cheap, preferably. it didn't take long to find something. At one of the stalls, tucked behind a pile of well-worn tools and broken frames, I saw a bunch of mismatch furniture. A side table painted with white with chipped corners, a small stool and an old couch that needed a wash or two. It was a random assortment tied together with fraying twine, but it was solid enough for what I needed.

"'Hundred bucks for the lot,' the vendor said, "'catch me looking. "'He was older and looked like he'd been sitting "'in a folding chair for his entire life.' "'Before I got a chance to respond, he added, "'Take it, and I'll even throw in that painting over there.' "'I followed his nod and saw it propped against the back of the chair leg. "'The painting.

"'It was half hidden behind a stack of dented cans, Its edges were frayed and its frame was stretched. A woman stood alone in a vast field of wheat, her figure poised in a strange way, almost reverent. The wheat behind her stretched endlessly, but it wasn't as golden and vibrant as you might expect. It was grey, lifeless and brittle, burnt to a crisp. Each stalk bowed under a phantom wind.

The texture of the wheat was so vivid. vivid, that I almost felt the dry rustle of it brushing against my fingertips. The sky roiled with movement, as still as it was. A violent storm of colors crashed into each other, waves of pigment and brushstrokes. Deep purples melted into streaks of orange and crimson, shot through with veins of sickly yellow. The horizon was blotted with heavy bruised-like clouds, threatening to open and bleed. yet despite the chaos of it all there was a balance to it

each hue blended seamlessly into the next like the canvas had been alive once and was now frozen mid-motion like pausing a video and then there was the woman her pale dress rippled faintly as though caught in the dying breath of the wind that had long since left the wheat around her motionless The fabric clung to a frame in a way that should have made her seem fragile, yet she didn't look it. She was still, a statue carved from soft light.

She stood with her back facing me. Her face was turned just enough to reveal some of her profile, the curve of a cheekbone and the point of her chin. But her eyes held me. It wasn't fearful or defiant. It wasn't pleading either. Her gaze was resigned, mellow and accepting. It's part of the bundle, I asked. Sure is, the vendor said, tipping back a can of soda.

Take it all for a hundred. The painting stayed tied up in the bundle until I got home. I carried it all into my living room and untied the twine, letting it all tumble onto the floor. The painting was the last. thing I pulled free. It was lighter than I expected. I set it against the wall and stepped back, letting myself take it in fully again. The details came into sharper focus. I hadn't really wanted the painting to begin with, so I placed it against the corner of the wall and left it there.

Truth be told, I didn't like it too much. It was eerie to look at. but couldn't bring myself to throw art made with such care away. It wasn't to my taste, but maybe I could find a home for it to someone who could appreciate it. For three days, the painting sat in the corner. I couldn't bring myself to hang it, but I didn't want to hide it either. Every time I passed by, I caught myself glancing at it.

Then, on the fourth day, I finally decided to hang it above the couch. The news came a couple of days later. I was scrolling through my phone over breakfast, my TV murmuring something in the background. When I saw the headline, Wildfire ravages Kansas farmland, one fatality.

I tapped the article, and the image of the blaze filled my screen. The fire had consumed acres upon acres of farmland, leaving nothing but ash and blackened stalks of wheat in its path. The sky above was hazy, streaked with deep purples and reds, as smoke billowed and faded, leaving behind traces of yellow. I stared at the photo. It looked eerily familiar, but it wasn't exact.

There was no woman, no dress, just an empty field, and the fire ravaging it. I shook my head and put the phone down. It had to be a coincidence. Fields burned all the time. The painting wasn't unique. It was probably just an artistic take on a generic disaster. All the stress that had been building up over my move and my all-new long commute to work was just making me overthink things and making the painting more special in my head than

it actually was. Still, I didn't like it. I put the painting back in the corner, thinking of disposing of it as soon as possible. The second painting arrived, about a week after the wildfire. This time, I didn't find it at a flea market. I didn't look for it at all. It was delivered straight to my mailbox. The container, a tube, was unmarked.

There was no return address, posted stamp, or anything to the same. suggest where it had come from. But there it was, in my mailbox, sitting among the pile of junk mail, like it belonged there. I almost didn't even open it. I considered throwing it away. I got the first painting by pure coincidence, but now I was getting it in the mail. I thought about going back to the vendor I had initially gotten the first one from, but the flea market It was seasonal, so I had no way to find him, even if I wanted to. So I unrolled it. It showed a train.

The perspective was striking, painted from the inside of some sort of vehicle looking toward a train, but the location was not discernible, and train tracks were laid out in the distance, with a silhouette of a train sat derailed. frame twisted and broken like a crushed can. Cars careened off the rails, some split, others piled on top of each other in jagged heaps of metal. Flames spat from the wreckage, consuming wood and broken glass, thick and black smoke curled into the sky, blocking out the pale blue above.

Yet the focal point wasn't the wreckage, but the figures. A woman in a red scarf was on her knees at the edge of the tracks. She was close to one of the train cars. Her arms stretched out toward a child dangling from a broken window above. The child's miniature body teetered on the edge, tiny fingers reaching desperately towards her. But she was stuck. The fire illuminated their faces with painful clarity.

The woman's face was painted with desperation. her mouth half open in a cry I could almost hear if I strained hard enough. Her scar fluttered in the heat. The child's expression was frozen in wide-eyed terror. She was so close to the woman, yet so far. And the scariest of all, the train car seemed as if it would tip over at any moment. The details were so vivid and precise that it did not feel like a painting.

but a picture of a moment. It happened the next day. I was driving home from work, dragging myself through traffic on a suburban road when I heard it. At first, it was just a distant sound, a strange screech that didn't belong in the hum of rush hour at all. Then it became the screech of metal against metal,

a sound that would make your teeth ache. The sound was distant still, but it grew louder with every passing second, raw and visceral, cutting through the air. The railroad ahead was already crowded with cars, and brake lights glowed in the evening haze, beyond the train barrel toward the intersection. I watched as the train swerved violently, sparks flying as the wheels left the tracks. The first car tipped sideways, dragging the rest of the train with it in a cascade of catastrophe. I stopped the car instinctively, gripping the steering wheel as the chaos unfolded in front of me. The derailment was horrific. Passenger cars crumpled and people flew out to the train cars as they collided with one another.

The force of the crash sent debris flying into the air, with a loud bang. the engine smashed into the support beam near the crossing, igniting an explosion that lit up the sky with orange and red flames. It was chaos. And then, there they were. The woman in the red scarf and the child. She was kneeling by the edge of the wreckage. Her arms stretched out in a feeble attempt to rescue the dangling child.

It was exactly. what I had seen from the painting. The firelight danced across their faces, their expressions frozen in the same raw clarity. I sat frozen in my car, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly I could hear it groan in protest. I wanted to move, get out and help somehow. But I couldn't. And then it happened. The train car, which was balancing on its side.

tipped over in slow motion, and I watched as the child was eaten up by the flames, and the woman's legs crushed, now trapped as the fire ate her away. I couldn't look away. I felt tears running down my cheeks as I finally regained my senses, the screaming around me breaking me out of my trance. The painter hadn't just known this would happen. They'd known where I'd be. And what I'd see. I don't remember driving home. The crash broke something in me. I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the woman and the child frozen in that terrible moment,

just as the painting had depicted it. The fire's light, the scarf, the desperation and the reaching out. It was all burned into my mind, replaying over and over. Like a punishment, I could do nothing to escape from. I was in purgatory. I didn't go to work the next day either, or the day after. At first, I called in sick, telling my boss I had the flu, until I stopped answering my phone altogether.

I threw the painting away, but it did little to numb my thoughts. I let the dishes pile up and clothes scatter across the floor, Everything in my fridge went bad, and the stench of rotting food filled the apartment, aiding in my misery. I didn't care about it. All I could think about was how, even though I knew I was powerless. I blamed myself for not at least trying to save them. But then I realized, I owed it to them at least. I needed answers.

When the fog of guilt finally eased a little, I was consumed by the need to know why this was happening. I scoured the internet, searching for everything and anything that could explain the paintings. I posted on obscure forums and searched for artists and local galleries, but I found nothing. Even the paintings themselves offered no hints. I still had the original painting of the field, so I picked the picture. the first one up from the corner and inspected the entirety of it. I looked for a signature, a date or a stamp, but still, there was nothing. The more I searched, the more questions consumed me. I kept asking myself why I was the one who had to find these and how they accurately

depicted things unseen. I tried putting a stop to the next painting I received, to no avail. When it arrived, a flood swalling a small street, I tried memorizing every detail. The crack sidewalk, the cars in the middle being submerged by muddy water, a bent stop sign in the corner. I sifted through maps and my memories, searching for streets that matched the one in the painting. I spent hours driving around, hoping to stumble across it. But I never found it. I hadn't even stopped to consider how I would prevent a flood of that scale, because if I did,

it made me feel all the more powerless. Days passed and the dread gnawed at me, growing heavier with each day that passed in weight. When the flood finally happened. It was nowhere near me. I dreaded the rare times I would receive a painting, but soon they started appearing everywhere. mailbox propped against the front door, even in the passenger seat of my car. They all came without warning.

A bridge collapsing into a river, cables snapping like aged threads as cars plunged into the waters below, the faces of passengers visible in their final moments. A tornado ripping through a tiny farmhouse, a roof torn away to reveal a petrified family huddled inside. aftermath of a sinkhole appearing below an apartment building. The details were always painfully vivid. I could almost feel the heat of the fire, smell the smoke and hear the screams. Each one stayed in my mind like a deep scar. I woke up to find one leaning against the foot of my bed. I felt the tube before I saw it. As I got out of bed, my feet brushed against something

and tipped it over. Another painting, except this one was not a disaster. It showed a small and dilapidated house with a sagging roof and boarded up windows. The yard was overgrown and the porch steps were broken. In the foreground stood a figure.

The man wore a jacket identical to mine, his hands were shoved in his pockets and his posture was stiff. His face was obscured, but there was no mistaking who it was meant to be. Me. In the corner of the painting was a street sign. Ashwood Lane, and in the bottom right corner, scrawled in the dark paint, was a signature. E.V.

The signature seemed to be there purely to mock me, a final taunt from the person who had been controlling my life without permission. This wasn't a prediction. It was an invitation. Or a trap. I was furious at finding a painting in the sanctity of my room. The guilt and fear had built up and exploded into a rage that stripped me of rational thinking. Ashwood Lane wasn't hard to find. It was on the outskirts of the city.

A forgotten road choked with weeds and lined with houses that looked like they'd been used in the set of a bad zombie movie. regardless it was still on my car's GPS so i took this invitation as a challenge and i wanted this all to end the house was exactly as it had been on the canvas the roof sagged in the middle and the windows boarded up the air was thick with the smell of damp earth and petraca i pulled the car to the curb and stepped out my legs unsteady beneath me In my dash to come here, all the emotions that were running through me were now fading, replaced with a sense of unease. I was about to face with whoever had been doing this. I knocked thrice, and with each knock the door opened wider. The inside of the house was horrific. The walls were lined with canvases, some stacked too deep, some stacked six deep.

Some leaned against the furniture and others piled on the floor. They were all disasters, hurricanes, earthquakes and wildfires. Each was as vivid as the ones I'd seen. The colors raw, violent and impossibly sharp. At the centre of the room was a person. E.V. He sat hunched over. His back to me.

a brush moving steadily across a canvas. It was still taking shape, swells of black and crimson dancing in an abstract chaos that I could not decipher nor care to. His frame was thin, almost non-existent, his hair wiry with spots of grey. He didn't turn when I stepped inside, didn't seem to notice me at all,

or simply didn't care. You found me, he said without turning. His voice was dry and ashy. I stepped closer, anger taking hold of me. You knew I would. Of course. He dipped his brush into a smear of grey, dragging it across the canvas. Everything follows a pattern.

You are always going to end up here. Why me? I demanded, my voice starting to crack. Why send the paintings to me? He finally turned, his dark eyes locking onto mine. Yet there was no malice in his gaze, no insanity, just a cold, detached clarity. Because you were paying attention, he said, matter-of-factly.

Most people don't, you see. They go through their days blind to the cracks in the world, ignoring the inevitable until it happens to them. But you couldn't look away. You saw the patterns, even though you could not understand them. I refused to flinch. You're saying all this was inevitable, that nothing I did could have stopped it? Exactly. He finally set his brush down, falling his hands in his lap.

The world is unraveling, one piece at a time. I just record it. There's no magic here, no divine inspiration. You people are just so stupid that it makes me seem prescient. He continued. Record it, I repeated, my voice starting to rise and my anger building. You paint people dying, children falling into fires, buildings collapsing, and families getting worse.

wiped out. You call that recording? What would you have me do? His tone remains steady, his calmness maddening. Stop painting? Would that save anyone? Would it change something? My work makes it all visible, finds the beauty in it all. I clenched my fists and fumbled with a zipper in my pocket. You could warn people, do something. Evie chuckled softly while shaking his head. "'Warn them, you can't fix what's broken, and even if you could, do you think they'd listen? People don't want to see the end. They'd rather stumble into it blind, believing they have the control.'

I thought of the woman and the child, the fire and the crash. There has to be a reason for all this. there really isn't Evie leaned back is bony frame casting long shadows in the dim light you want there to be meaning a purpose behind it all

because the alternative is too much to bear but the truth is simple and you already know it the room felt smaller and the air heavier my gaze flick to the painting surrounding us

each one laced with despair. I thought back to the things I'd seen again and my inability to take action. His voice cut through my thoughts. You just can't accept it. You've spent your life believing you are in control and that your choices matter. But they don't. You're just a witness, just like everybody else. You think you're angry at me.

But you're just angry at the truth. Stop it, I muttered. The only question is, how long you'll keep fighting before you accept it. Stop, I repeated, louder. You think you could change anything? He mused. You're wrong, I growled. You're just a coward that sits here, painting misery while the world falls apart.

Evie smiled faintly. The corners of his mouth. barely twitching. And yet, here you are, watching, just like I knew you would. That was it. My hand shot into my pocket, pulling out the zippo. My fingers trembled as adrenaline rushed through me while I thought about what I was about to do. You think I'll just let you do this? You think I'll let you keep making these monuments the suffering? At this point, it wasn't even looking at me. He turned back to his work and kept painting.

I grabbed the nearest painting off the wall, a tsunami ravaging homes and families and held it over the flame. The canvas caught quickly. The edges curled as the fire spread, licking at the vivid colors. The smell of burning paint filled the air around us, sharp and acrid. But I was not going to stop.

I tossed the painting onto the floor. The fire spread as I tore more canvases from the walls. One by one I fed them to the flames. Floods, fires and earthquakes, all of them consumed. As Evie kept painting. You really think this changes anything? He asked quietly. His voice now barely audible over the crackle of the fire.

I don't care. I spat tearing another painting from the wall. I'm done watching. I'm done letting you use me as an audience. Evie tilted his head, but still didn't look at me. You can burn the paintings, but it's all still there. I ignored him. The heat of the fire scorched my skin as I grabbed another canvas.

It wasn't until I turned back toward Evie that I saw. saw he had completed it. The painting on the easel he was working on. It showed what I thought. No, what I knew was the end of the world. Not a single disaster, not one moment of tragedy frozen in time. But everything, the sky was fractured, great jagged tears ripping through the heavens. The endless skies folding into each other.

exposing a blackness so deep it felt like staring into an open grave. The earth was in chaos, split into monstrous, gaping chasms that bled molten fire and bellowed smoke. Entire cities tipped and crumbled into the abyss, the skeletons of steel and iron twisting as they fell. The oceans boiled, gray clouds of steam rising into the air as colossal waves slammed against crumbling coastline. lines, ships torn in half or capsized in their entirety dotted the horizon like discarded toys. In the foreground, what was supposed to represent a vast forest was reduced to an expanse of blackened stumps, each one smouldering. Between them, the skeletal remains of animals lay scattered, among the wreckage, pressed against

the shattered windows of the crumbling cities, floating lifelessly in the border. boiling oceans, with thousands of faces frozen in terror, the mouths open in silent screams. And in the centre of it, the audience. It was me. I stood on a jagged outcrop of rock, my silhouette illuminated by the fiery abyss below. My posture was slack, and my hands lay limply at my sides. But it wasn't just me. Around my feet were smaller figures clutching at my legs. A child reached upward, her tiny fingers brushing against my hand.

And I knew who that was meant to represent. You see now, Yby said, you are the audience. Everyone is. I turned away from him. The fire was everywhere now, climbing the walls, defaring everything. The heat was unbearable. Despite how fast the old wood of the house carried the flames, there was always time to get out. Nothing physically locked him to his chair.

Yet he remained there, carrying on with his magnum opus without a care. You're still a witness. You failed, Evie said with finality. He was wrong. As the flames roared, he would fail to predict anything ever again. So I turned and ran, the heat chasing me out of the house into the cool night air. I didn't look back as the flames consumed the building, the firelight flickering against the darkened sky. I reached my car, slumping into the driver's seat and gripping the steering wheel like it was tethering me to reality.

I stared through the windshield, the house on Ashwood Lane burning behind me. It didn't feel like a victory. I drove home in silence, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me. My apartment was still how I left it, empty and silent. I entered my bedroom and picked up the house painting once more. I inspected it one last time. the weight of my actions sinking in. But before I had time to think about anything,

when I flipped the painting over, I saw another one, a silhouette running, from a burning house. The perspective was distant but unmistakable. My figure was small, silhouetted against the inferno. The flames roared behind me, consuming the house,

and everything inside. It was proof that once again I had failed to change anything. The house was burned because it was always meant to burn. I ran because I was always meant to run. Everything played out exactly how it was supposed to play out

and I was the witness.