CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "The monster my family lived with had rules" Creepypasta

Episode Date: July 23, 2020

The monster my family lived with had rules. I was thirteen when I learned what happens when you break them.CREEPYPASTA STORY►by ChristianWallis: 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►CARLOS VILLAS: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/1PkaZSUGGESTED 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 Zolk was there before me, as much a fixture of my life as gravity or air or the sense of my own body. It exists in even my earliest memories as a constant warning against carelessness. It was there when I brushed my teeth, giggling in the bathtub. It was there stealing food that fell under the table at every meal. It was there, sitting above my bed, struck in my hair with hands the size of dinner plates. Every morning there were new rules All learned from close calls that happened the day before Every week we reviewed its effects on us

How to improve how to be smarter How to be safer For a long time I couldn't even distinguish the rules made for it And the rules made for us Don't touch the oven when it's on Be careful of the kettle Don't play with plug sockets

Don't put cables in your mouth Watch where you step never used an appliance without first checking the wiring. Always look daddy look out for the Zog as he backs out of the driveway. Rules upon rules upon rules, growing in number and complexity until we felt stifled. All of us slowly going mad from the suffocating need for constant vigilance. Other teenagers had fun.

Other teenagers stepped away from the rules and embraced freedom. That's what adulthood was meant to be about. Or so I thought at the time. but not for me. The rules just kept growing. Eventually I realised that other families don't have Zolgs, just us. There's only one of him, and whatever inexplicable force brought him into existence

saw fit to put him with us. For years, it had never occurred to me to evaluate its presence as anything other than a simple fact of life. But when I saw the madness for what it was, something inside me changed. A hatred crystallized into an icy core. I was filled with memories of his little egg-shaped body and lanky arms with those huge yellow-green hands. Whole night spent listening to him waddling down the hallway as he scratched his dangling yellow

fingers over the walls, gagging at the things he'd sneak into mom's cooking, crying at every dead animal left on our doorstep. I hated that stupid thing. I hated it so much that one day I snapped and lashed out. Wack! I hit it so hard, it flew off the table where it had been dancing on my plate, and it hit the wall with a satisfying thud. I expected my mother to fly into a rage at this blatant transgression of family law,

but instead she just ran up and held me, stroking my cheek. It felt like a nightmare, my mother clutching me, and everyone crying and shone. shouting while the thing laughed from where it lay. Why didn't it hurt? Hadn't I hit it? And then, as slow as a sunburn, a red outline of my own hand formed on my face,

and I came to learn exactly what it was the Zog was after. It wanted us to hit it, to kick it, abuse it, kill it. It wanted our malice, our frustration, our carelessness. It wanted nothing but our suffering, and anything we did to it came back unto us. A hundred times worse, a hundred times as slow. You should see what a broken bone looks like

when it takes four hours to render into existence. Bone looks like putty being pulled apart by a child. Skin reddens and depressors into long, streaky welts. Layes of tissue and membranous flesh pulled apart laterally until finally it all tears with glacial slowness. It looks like quivering despair, like grief, not screaming agony, because when pain is that horrific and that unstoppable, you don't yell or cry or shout. You give up, you retreat, you turn catatonic and switch off, or you just die.

And the Zolk, despite its rocks like teeth and leering grin and hillbilly giggle, is smart and patient in surprising ways. Every time I touch an oven or a car Or even just a light switch I need to think a thousand things over Did I remember to check the walls To look at each and every plug socket Have I seen the Zolg anywhere Has it got its grotesque mouth

Clamped around a cable just out of sight Waiting for me to plug it in or switch it on Has it wrapped his mouth around the exhaust of my car Ready to suffocate Every action and consequence Has to be thought out in the most expensive explicit detail. Every bump on the road has to be investigated, lest it turn out that the Zog has cleverly watched you for days, traced where you work, so it can slip out one night

and waddle breathlessly to an ideal overpass bridge. My brother once broke two ribs when it managed to leap in front of a ball he went to kick. My sister spent three weeks in hospital after she poured bleach down the kitchen sink, failing to notice that the Zog had unscrewed all the pipes and was waiting gleeful. to gulp down poison. I'm the only one left now. My father was the first to go, not because he was careless,

but because he always took it upon himself to do as much as he could. You couldn't even turn on the TV without him insisting on pressing the button for you. It always felt so controlling, so stifling. But once he was gone, it became pretty clear why he did it.

It was never the same, without him. Mum tried so hard, but it was never the same. She had her own fears, her own struggles to contend with. I can't really blame her for not being able to do the work of both of them. I remember coming home from school and they were waiting for us in the living room. My older brother had gotten back before us and was sitting silently at the kitchen table. Tears welled up in his eyes.

God, that was the hardest. Dad looked... Well, he almost looked relieved. But seeing my 19-year-old brother cry was like a breezeblock to the face, and, in that instant, I knew something horrific had happened. They hid him away.

I still don't know exactly what happened, but I made a pretty good guess from the state of the lawnmower that mum dragged out to the curb, and the fact we wouldn't see the Zolga game for at least eight days. I had later learned that in moments like that, it will stow away and knit itself back together slowly,

which, at the very least, explain the giggling I heard coming from the linen closet during those horrible, silent nights. Dad never did scream. I'd hazard a guess that he killed himself, and I know I should feel some relief, but I glimpsed his body on the way out, and the thought of those injuries happening to a lifeless corpse just sent shivers down my back. We never mowed the grass again It was a loss too great

And over the next few weeks Mom deteriorated She started drinking Crying late into the night While my brother would cook us food And tell us that everything would be okay But It never would

Never again She only got worse She might have had a chance if it was just us but we couldn't just abandon our vigilance, our paranoia and fear, and we had to carry on as normal. Jesus, we even had to check Dad's coffin before burying it. For a while there, she almost came back. Looking back, it couldn't have been more than a day or two at most,

but she did manage to set the table for us just once. We were all there, Dad, dead and buried, and none of us having some of us having some. seen the Zog since his death, when from upstairs a door slammed shut and mum was so startled she dropped the food she was holding. Its flat, hairy feet slapped down the stairs one by one while its heavy wet gurgles punctuated a horrified silence. With a sort of mounting disbelief, I watched it walk up to the table that obscured its stumpy little body from my view and drag itself up under one of the chairs. Dad's chair. dad's place.

Mom had even set a plate for him, if only by instinct. And you know what? It didn't look at me, or James or Laurie. It looked at Mom. It knew what that single gesture would do to her, and it laughed

the whole time we had to pin her down and stop her from driving a knife right into its face. It gibbered and howled with such joy at a threat, but we stopped her from doing it. And after that, I don't think she was ever the same. That was when the drinking started. It was also when James became the new favourite. It had always shown a special interest in Dad,

and without him around, it fell on James to become the focus of its attention. We'd always thought we'd been doing such a good job, but without Dad, things felt a thousand times harder. James was injured six times in his many. months and things were never much better after that. I remember he took me fishing. He asked Mom to keep an eye on the Zolk and stop it following us and we went together and for a few blissful days it was just us and no one else. And he told me all about the lessons he had learned in the last few months. He told me about the Zolk's favorite resting place, some

of the intricacies he had deduced, and more importantly that I would have to steal myself and be ready for what happened if he ever failed. And, like all of them, he eventually did. But not before we found Laurie crushed the death. We think she dropped the microwave on it, but we can't be sure. It was the first week at university, and she didn't even call to tell us, but we knew she was aware she'd done it, because she called in sick to all her classes a day early. And then she just locked the door and let it happen.

We didn't even realise the Zolg had found her, but it had somehow, and the sight of her lying on her bed, pult to the thickness of a few planks of wood, as it giggled and jumped on a broken remains, will forever be lodged in my mind. I like to think she found a way of ending it, but I don't know that at all. She could have sought help, something to ease the pain, I'm sure of it, but we don't know for sure. and I have to wonder if she felt it all, every second of it. She was in there all alone for at least a day and a half. James disappeared for a few months after that, and it was just me and mom. When James finally returned, he stank a booze and had this haggard look about him, and I couldn't help but wonder what he'd done in that time.

It'll get me, he said. Sooner or later, I just wanted a taste of what life had to offer. All the good, all the bad. But later, he would confess that he had just tried to run away and lost control. Hedy, with the belief that he'd escaped the Zolg and downtroddened by the guilt of what he had done to us. Except, the Zolg had followed him. Slowly and carefully and relentlessly, it had followed him. You can leave it behind for a while, but it won't be cheated, and somehow, it just,

It finds its way to you. Even if you're on the other side of the world, it'll get to you, and it'll never take more than a week. James must have known that, but he tried anyway, moving from place to place and doing God knows what. He lived with that guilt until his death, even though I never gave his laps a second thought. We were all just trying our best. I tried so hard to make him see that, to make him forgive him. but there was nothing left for him except the dark spiral downwards. He'd brought habits back with him, and with little else to do,

he let those habits grow into their own ugly monsters that rivaled even the Zolg. I still don't blame him. His suicide note was so rational, so thoughtful. He really had convinced himself he was doing us a favour, but the fact he died by pumping the Zog full of heroin, tells me he had other ideas. It was a good attempt, as far as ways, to beat the Zolg go. And it was with great despair that I first saw his face and realised he hadn't won anything at all.

No one will ever know exactly how it happened. Zolk at least spent four days crying in a cupboard, but James died nonetheless, and it didn't look like he died in ecstasy. His eyes were hollow, his skin grinned. gaunt and leathery, and his jaw had dislocated in a scream so terrible you could fit an open hand in his mouth. However, the Zogar twisted and reinterpreted the poison in its veins. What felon James looked like a ritualistic murder gone wrong, like a possessed corpse had gotten

trapped in a box and left a rot while the demon within raged and bent its host in terrible spasms. I didn't even tell mum the details, but I have to do that. guess she knew, even if she was barely present by that point. In a sunken eyes and loose skin, I saw a pale reflection of James and came to accept that even when the Zol doesn't get its way, it still doesn't lose. The months that followed were hard. Mom was barely in the 60s, but she was being eaten alive by grief and fear.

Towards the end, she wouldn't even leave the bed, too afraid to risk her. injuring the Zolg. I became a full-time carer and paid my own price in the process, trapped in that house or constantly working to keep Zolk away from her. Every meal took hours to prepare, every moment of relaxation brought

crashing down by either Mum or that thing. It became brazen after Mum went Catatonic. It started throwing things at me, playing with the idea of open attack as it smashed plates or slapped my phone out of my hand. I ignored it for the most part, relegating it to the back of my mind, while the stress ate away at me like a cancer. There simply was no other choice, or at least so I thought. I used to sit and watch it stare at Mom.

Sometimes it'd venture to try and push my buttons, using her as a prop. But I simply ignored it until it finally gave in and just savoured her slow and agonising. death. It marvelled at a bed sores, laughed when I cleaned her, and chuckled with joy as her hair fell out. And somewhere along the line, I decided, I decided that it wasn't right for it to get so much pleasure. All of us were suffering while it was having the time of its life. If it was within my power to stop it having that little bit of joy, to deny it that happiness, then it only seemed right that I'd do so. But, what did that mean?

I think I knew the very first day. I realized how happier pain made it. I just didn't want to face up to that fact, so I pretended otherwise, but some things can't be buried. They linger in the back of your head like a guilty pleasure, and no matter how much you tell yourself you won't do it, that it's a line too far away. to be crossed. Deep down, you always appreciate that you can cross it. If you need to, if you want to. When did I first want to? I'd say, with complete honesty, that it was when I had to carry her to

a bath, and I stub my toe on a bedpost. They say you should fear the man who delays reaching out to take something they want, but I didn't wait very long at all after that moment. I was quiet, calm, effortless. No conflict or worry was worn on my face. I merely took a deep breath, took her to the bathroom, and drowned her.

My mother didn't feel anything, but the Zolk sure did. For the first time in its life, it directly attacked me, scuttling down the hall to come skidding around the bathroom door and then leap at me with its fists flailing. But that fat, hairy little egg didn't have it in it to stop me.

And it yelled and cried and wept and clawed at my exposed legs as I bent down and drowned my mother in the tub. It practically tore my calves to shreds. But I didn't care. Not one bit. And oh, how the irony

rolled in, because right before my eyes, its own legs began to bleed and wilt. And the panic in its eyes betrayed the subtle inversion of rules we'd never figured out. until then, when it was over, I didn't know what scratches were from her trying to escape

and which were from it, and I slum to the side and laughed at the absurdity of it all. The little bugger was hunched over and vomiting a greasy mixture of hair and bile, and its wretched, jaundiced eyes, went tears of pus, and I just kept laughing at it, just like it had always laughed at me. I even imitated it, holding my hands.

hands over my stomach and fake sobbing just like it did to us at Dad's funeral. And then I weased with joyous giggles when it ran out of the room cursing me in its weird language. Whatever forces binds it, that kind of murder messes with it in unpleasant ways. And with that leverage, nothing was ever quite the same for it. It spent weeks weeping in the attic, but I found it and dragged it out into the light, and watched it wither and struggle. I am quite sure it would have died if I'd followed it up with another kill,

and then another. But there's only me, and I can do nothing except savor the quiet victory of causing it such longing despair. It's still stuck around, of course. If anything, it's more determined than ever, but I don't think it'll get me. It's also growing older.

God knows what their lifespan is. I've found maybe two written references to them in my entire life, so it's not like I can just check Wikipedia for an update. But it is getting older, thinner, closer to the grave. It's just a thing after all. Maybe it won't happen in my lifetime, but I sure as hell won't be having kids and I look forward to the thought of that stupid thing left old

and alone in this world. It'd probably spend its remaining days dancing on our graves, but jokes on it, because we'd be free and it'd be left down on earth playing its stupid game against players who have all but left the table.

Unless, of course, it just goes and finds another family, in which case, well, now you know how to kill it.