CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "The Whistler" Creepypasta

Episode Date: October 30, 2020

Do you hear the whistling? CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Erutious: 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- Oliver Odmark: ►https://www.artstation.com/artwork/GmoGB►https://www.instagram.com/oliverodmark/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-

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Gare for. Find what you need of on Amazon.com.com. When I was a kid, I had a mostly typical suburban childhood. White big fences, cracker box houses all the same, endless concrete for my friends and I to ride our bikes on, and the only strangers we saw with the occasional drifter or traveler that wandered through our town. My dad worked at the steel mill,

my mom was a homemaker, and I remember afternoons off from school, filled with bike rides, trips to the arcade, Boy Scout meetings, and, of course, exploring Stokes Woods that lay just of the secluded neighbourhoods we all lived in. Stokes Woods was where my friends and I had so many first. It was the first bit of real freedom we had, spending summer days exploring, making maps and setting up camps that would be found again later to our great amusement. It was our first brush of death, finding birds or animal carcasses on the trail. We poked them with sticks and owed, never guessing that one day we might share their fate. I was in the woods the first time I swore, yelling, damn it, as I skinned my knee when I was eight.

I was in the woods the first time I saw a naked woman, the glossy pages of Terry's dad's playboy held gripped in my sweaty hand as we sat around a campfire when I was 11. It hosted my first camping trip. I was the first place I was allowed to camp a lot. alone. Well, with Terry and Reggie at least. It was also where we found the tree house. The tree house was a relic of kids gone by. It was in a big old tree set into a clearing, a fire pit dug in its shadow, with a dumbwaiter to pull things up and a rope ladder to climb up through the trap door. It had been built in pieces and there was a wall inside with the signatures of kids who had added to it. When we came across it one afternoon, our nine-year-old eyes

growing wide with wonder, we knew we had found something special. Over the next few weeks, we replaced the rope ladder, cleaned out the fire pit, replaced the rope on the dumbwaiter after a disastrous incident that sent our stuff spilling 20 feet to the ground. We painted it too, finding some paint at the junkyard, and painting the faded treasure in a wash of purple and browns and golds. We added a bike rack, again with wood from the junkyard, and the easy trip to and from the yard made me believe that the treehouse may have been constructed from things they found in the junkyard. We asked Old Man Macy, the caretaker, and he said that kids had been coming and going for years,

taking stuff for projects in the woods. He was glad it had been put to such good use. We had been playing and camping and using the treehouse for a couple of years when Terry suggested a Halloween sleepover. It's on a Friday, we can camp out in the treehouse, eat candy and tell scary stories. I thought it sounded like a great idea and my parents agreed This may sound weird to some of you

But the town we lived in was very rural And crime was almost non-existent Our town had a population of around 1,200 Besides the odd traveller that sometimes blew through You knew your neighbours very well We had camped in the woods for the last few years And the Boy Scouts had taught all of us How to camp safely and not burn down the woods

That night we all hit the streets as soon as the lamps came on, pillowcases in hand and embarked on a sweet journey. We had a theme, as we always did, and we were all dressed as Avengers when we went out to trick or treat. I was Hawkeye, bow slung over my shoulder and cheap mask covering my eyes. Reggie was the Hulk, bodypainted green with absurd foam Hulk hands on his real hands, and Terry was Captain America. His store-bought costume topped off by a trashcan lid shield.

he had painted a star on. We moved from house to house, striking poses and delighting adults as they filled our pillowcases with candy. By the time the porch lights started going out, we had bulging sacks ready to burst from candy. We stopped at our home, dropping off a little excess candy

and getting our camping stuff and told our parents where we were going. My mom kissed me goodnight and told me to come straight home if there was an emergency. And with that, we set off. We walked the familiar trails into the woods, backpacks and bulging candy sacks weighing us down,

and the night was lit by a full and ghostly moon. Reggie and I talked excitedly about the candy, wanting to tell ghost stories as we ate it, but I kept getting distracted. I could swear there was a noise out in the woods, a bird or a high-pitched wind, and, as we moved towards the treehouse, it seemed to follow us.

The other two were oblivious, with a sound made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. We came to the treehouse at long last, and, in the full light of the moon, it looked ghostly and strange. Once we were safe inside the treehouse, lanterns on, and candy spilled under the floor, I began to feel at ease. This was our sanctuary. Nothing bad could happen to us here.

We were children who had yet to experience loss or real trauma, and we were secure in the knowledge that no matter how bad it got, our parents would still protect us from anything. We were foolish, but children are supposed to be foolish, I guess. Reggie was halfway through one of the four-size candy bars the Hudson's have been giving out when Terry suggested we started ghost stories. Terry loved scary stories,

and he usually had a good collection of them from the internet or wherever. Reggie brought a bean by chair over from a corner, and I drug a chair over so we could group up around the lantern. Normally, we would tell our stories around the fire pit, but I think we all sensed that tonight it was better to be inside. Halloween was unique somehow. Best to be inside after dark. Terry brought the flashlight up under his chin,

tilting the light knob down on the lantern, and grinned at us ghoulishly. This is a true story. I swear it on my life, he said theatrically, before beginning his story. He told us a story. about a kid plagued by the ghost of a hobo he and his friends had accidentally killed. They'd been playing a trick on him and he had choked to death on a sandwich.

After he died, the boy kept seeing him around, in windows or on street corners, but his friends wouldn't believe him. Then, while the boys were to sleep over, the ghost struck. I found myself distracted as he told the story though. The wind blew against our treehouse, creaking it in the branches of the old tree. but beneath the wind was a sound. A whistling coming from outside. A high-pitched keen that was not altogether tuneless. As I listened to it, it almost seemed to move through the surrounding trees as Terry wove his story.

Terry came to the climax of his story. The boys and his friends dying badly as he escaped the sleepover and ran back to his home. The ghostly hobo dug his heels, screaming his name as he chased him through the quiet streets, and the boy had made it home, and the boy had made it home. and slammed the door in his rotting face. He had leaned against it, safe at last. But as the banging began, he remembered one important fact. His parents were gone, Terry said, grinning in the flashlight beam.

He might have made it home, but he was still at the mercy of the ghostly apparition. Terry told us how the door had bowed inward, the ragged hands pushing the wood like wax paper. But I found my attention dragged away again. I could still hear the whistling again Closer now And I could swear there was another noise too Rustling leaves maybe Or leaves cracking underfoot

Or someone outside our tree house And as Patches pushed at his door Trying to catch him The boy snuck out of his window And disappeared into the night Never to be seen again Terry seemed to notice then That I wasn't really paying attention

Oh come on, that was a great story Huh, yeah, sorry something was distracting me outside. Reggie looked quizzically at me. What was it? I thought I heard some outside moving around in the leaves. Terry turned to look at the bare window and Reggie walked over to look out into the inky blackness.

The moon cast an odd light over his face, but as he scanned the ground, it gave away no sudden surprise. He shrugged his already broad shoulders and returned to his beanbag chair. He reached for a candy bar and started unwrapping the, silver foil.

Nothing there, he said after Terry, and I stared at him for a few seconds. Must have been the wind. Terry began another story about a shadowy creature that lived in a stairwell, but as he laid out the narrative, I could hear the whistling again. It warmed into my consciousness,

spinning through the trees outside like a drunken bird. I could hear the leaves crunching again, the wind making them rustle like skeletal wind chimes, and suddenly I too wanted to go to the window and look into the night. I was trying to listen to Terry's story, but the more attention I tried to give to it, the more I heard the noises from down below. Terry looked miffed when I interrupted his story

to go drag up the rope ladder. I latched the hatch and came back to find him with his arms crossed and an indignant look on his face. You think you can do a better story? Well then, hot shot, have at it. He tossed the flashlight at me, and I caught it by reflex. I thought about it for a moment

and realized that I did have a better story I could tell. Maybe by getting it out, I could alleviate the fears that had been consuming me. I was ruining my Halloween camp out for what? Some noise outside the tree house? It was probably just a raccoon

or something that had been spooked when we arrived. My knees had given me the perfect story though. So, these three kids were walking in the woods. They were going camping and were going to a familiar, spot in the woods to set up. They left their homes at dusk, wanting to camp out under the stars in just their

sleeping bags. Their parents told them that if anything went wrong, they could come home and sleep there. But the boys had done this a hundred times and felt that they knew the woods like the back of their hands. They felt like nothing in the woods could surprise them. They were wrong.

Terry sneered, but he sat close to the lantern and listened nonetheless. Reggie opened another candy bar. The story drawing him in as the stories almost always did. Reggie didn't really seem to like scary things. He was kind of a scaredy cat, but he liked the stories. He would sit and listen, getting more and more terrified,

but always begged for another when you were done. They walked towards the determined campsite, talking animatedly about the smalls they would make and the scary stories they would tell, but one of them kept hearing something as they walked. He heard the snap of a twig here, the crunch of a leaf there, and it made him wary. He told his friends, but they shrugged it off as nothing.

It was late afternoon, the sun was setting, and animals were coming out to forage. They were probably just hearing animals, moving around in the dry leaves. The two of them went back to walking, talking between themselves, but the third kept listening, kept looking over his shoulder to see what lay behind.

Terry and Reggie were paying attention. Terry, a little begrudgingly, but Reggie's eyes were large and starry as he listened. And, as I told the story, I almost thought I could hear the leaves crackling outside the treehouse. The wind in the trees rattled the dying year's foliage against the limbs, and a low whistle could again be heard outside. It was tuneless and wafting, and, as it warbled across my sanity, I knew just what was stalking these kids through the woods. He kept asking them to listen, telling them it was important, but they wouldn't listen to him. They kept walking and talking

And all the while The crunching of leaves and the rustling of limbs Followed them, getting closer and closer The boy became afraid The steps sounded large One of the others finally turned to him And he yelled at him, telling him to stop being stupid And just enjoy the trip

There was nothing out there No one by him could hear it He was being stupid, he needed to relax I paused for a dramatic effect Seeing Terry roll his eyes at the description of the boy in the story. That's when they heard the whistling. And I imagined I could still hear the whistling

outside the treehouse. He was getting closer and closer as I told the story. Was the story drawing it in? Was I calling it to the tree house? But by now I couldn't stop myself. The story needed to be told and I'd become a conduit for it.

I would tell it to the end. Even if the whistler came right up the tree after us. They all froze when they heard the whistling. This was no wind through the bows of a tree. This was a tuneless, monotonous whistling that cuts across the dying afternoon like suckle through wheat. It was behind them, seemingly on the trail, and they could hear it getting closer and closer.

They began to make their way towards the campsite, walking a little faster, but all three looked over the shoulder now. They were all made uneasy by that whistling, and they wanted to put some distance between themselves. in it. My friend sat forward, hanging on my every word, entranced by this new development. Outside, I imagined I could hear the whistling coming from just outside the clearing. They didn't talk anymore, they didn't laugh, and they didn't joke. They let their feet take them

ever onward, but the whistling followed them. The friend who had insisted it was nothing, so that maybe they should speed up a little bit. The campsite couldn't be far. Once they were there, they could take a side trail and get back to town, or whatever it was, would leave, and they could get back to the camp out. The other two agreed, but all of them knew that the camp was already cancelled. None of them would sleep here tonight, not willingly.

They sped up, but the whistling followed them, followed them steadily. One of them said they should stop and confront the whistler. He must be human, who else, or what else could whistle. The other two shot him down, though. The whistling was discordant, jangling against their nerves, sounded like nothing they'd ever heard before. Both agreed that they didn't want to find out what whistled like that,

and kept moving. Something bumped at the bottom of the tree, but my audience didn't seem to notice. It wasn't a heart bump. It didn't shiver the whole tree. It felt more like an inquisitive tap, a gentle knock, someone trying to get our attention.

I put it out of my mind. Maybe the wind or something. and kept telling. They kept moving, deeper and deeper into the woods, all the time being chased by the whistling. They broke into a run, the campsite still not coming into view, and still the whistling grew closer and louder.

The whistling took on a life of its own, rising and falling, as its chaotic tune became less and less discernible. The children put their hands over their ears, the noise scraping across their minds like a rusty scalpel. The hands would not block out the whistling, though. They heard it inside their heads as they battered their sensors, and when the first one tripped, the other two did not stop to help him.

They didn't hear his screams, but they felt a change when the whistling thing got him. A nightbird called out from the forest, but now the whistling was in my own head, and I only registered it as something different. I told the story frantically, hoping it would stop the whistling in my head somehow. They dropped their packs then and ran.

They sprinted. flat out, knowing that the rail must be just up ahead. They would round the bend, and there it would be. It would be there as it always was, and they could cut back towards town. It never occurred to them that the creature could just cut through the forest after them. The trout of town had a talismatic effect on them. If they could make it, if they could walk it, they would be safe. They ran, they wept, but the whistling followed them on and on.

Their feet crunched against the leaves and pine needles, sounded like gunfire, but they hardly noticed over the eerie whistling in their heads. My two friends were leaning close now, the lantern making their faces look like jack-o-lanterns as their eyes begged for the climax. And still, that whistling assaulted me, threatening to drive me mad. If they noticed it, they gave no indication.

When the second boy fell, the first never noticed. He ran and ran, trying to out-distance the whistling, trying to get it out of his head, And when his friend was found, the whistling again took on a different tone. The lone boy ran and ran, hoping to out distance the crazed whistling, knowing that his fate would be the same as his friends. Some say he runs to this very day. Some say the whistling got him in the end.

No one knows for sure. I heard the whistling abate a little. It didn't leave, but it did lighten slightly. I felt like crying as I came to the end of my story. Maybe I would be allowed to leave. live where the boys had died. The search parties found their backpacks two days later, animals

having worried them to get at the food. They found the campsite bare, no fire having been lit in weeks. But of the boys, they found no sign. No trace was ever found of the boys, not a scrap of cloth, not a footprint. They were never seen again,

but the children in the area say that you can hear the whistling in the woods on quiet nights, and on those nights, it's best to stay indoors. The whistling takes all who venture too close and the whistling will haunt you for the rest of your life however long that is.

That was when the whistling stopped. It stopped so abruptly that I wondered if it had ever been there at all. For a ten-year-old to question his mental stability is a strange feeling but at that moment I was just glad it had passed me by. The other two shook off their rapture looking as though they'd been hypnotised and Terry blew out a long breath.

Well, damn, that was a good story. I can't top that. And suddenly, I'm feeling kind of tired. Yeah, Reggie said dreamily. Me too. I think maybe we should go to bed. I would have argued with them most nights, but tonight I was as drained as the rest.

We laid out our sleeping bags and borrowed down, dropping off quickly without the usual talk that precedes it. I'd like to tell you that this is where the story he ends. I wish I could, but that wouldn't be doing justice to the memory of my friends. I awoke in the wee hours of the morning when someone threw a pillow at me. It was not thrown playfully. The throw was hard, angry and directed at my face. I sat up, roving my cheek and became aware of the keening whistle that had returned. It was louder than ever and it chilled me to the bone. For God's sake, stop it! Terry yelled, staring daggers at me.

Your story was good, we said so, but trying to scare us with this stupid whistling isn't funny. I heard someone crying and looked over to see Reggie in the corner with his hands against his face. The whistling was loud and discordant, just as I described it in my story, and it appeared that I wasn't the only one who could hear it now. Terry looked madder than I had ever seen him, and Reggie was clearly terrified after the story. I'd spun. It's not me, I swear, I told Terry. He glared at me for a few seconds before realizing that I was right. He moved to the window and I joined him, trying to see the source of the whistling. Most nights we would have seen nothing in the inky darkness, but under the

light of the full moon, the yard shadowy but visible. As we scanned the yard, we could see little. The fire pit below The logs we sat on as we toasted our marshmallows and weaners The woodpile we had tarped against the rain I'd almost decided to go check the other window And Terry gasped like a stepped on cat I looked and saw a man in a long dark cloak Step out of the tree line

He was dressed in a dark grey cloak A tall cowboy hat making him look almost seven feet tall As it pokes for the skies And the toes of pointy boots pokes from beneath the cloak. The wind seemed to loath to touch him, but by the way he pulled the cloak around himself. He would have thought he was freezing. I could see a pair of eyes reflect the moonlight as he looked up at us and thought he must be wearing glasses. Of course, we could see very little under the cloak, but he made me very uneasy. The whistling seemed to be coming from

beneath the cloak, and when it stopped, he began to speak, and I wished for the whistling again. His voice was raspy, pitched, croaksome, a dead man's pleading last words. I'm so cold, boys. Might I take shelter in your treehouse

for the night? I shuddered, not knowing what to say. Somehow, Terry found his voice. Go away. Our mothers told us not to talk with strangers. We don't know you. Please, boys, kind boys.

didn't your mothers teach you hospitality? Let an old man come in out of the cold. He pleaded. No, Terry said and moved away from the window as though the man might somehow leap to the window. The man didn't yell, he didn't plead. He just sat on the log beneath our treehouse and continued to whistle.

The jagged cords waffed it up into the treehouse and I saw Terry shudder as he began again. He picked up a boot that had been part of my costume and went to the window to throw it at the man. Terry sent it sailing, but hissed when it didn't connect. As the whistling continued, he threw several other things,

but the old man never seemed to be where he was aiming. Terry cussed loudly, reaching for the lamp. I wrapped my arms around it, begging him not to. It's all the light we have, Terry, please. He tore it out of my arms, growling as it came free,

and chucked it at the old man. He broke on the ground, shattering and fizzling with an electric pop, and the inside of the treehouse was darker for its passing. The whistling went on, though. The man never seemed to run out of breath. Reggie began to rock in the corner, sobbing loudly as the man whistled and whistled below.

Terry screamed at him from the window, his rage never-ending, as I covered my ears and tried to keep the threads of my sanity together. It seemed to last for hours, for days, and as I sat with my eyes closed I prayed it would end When I heard the floorboards creak I opened my eyes

I saw Reggie standing by the window His foot already on the ledge Reggie I breathed half getting up What are you doing Reggie looked at me Snott runners creeping down his face His naked face looked tortured

Tears cutting lines down his dirty cheeks He smiled gruesomely at me as he framed himself in the window, and I didn't have to ask what he intended to do. I tried to stop him. I pulled myself up from the floor to go get him, but it was already too late. I just wanted to stop.

He breathed before he threw himself out the window. We never heard him hit the ground over the loud and terrible whistling. Terry stormed over to the hatch and had unlatched it before I could throw myself across it. What do you do? I breathed. What do you think I'm doing? I'm going to go do something about this guy.

He's an adult, Terry. You can't do anything to him. Get out of my way. I'm going out there. He's scary, Terry. You shouldn't go out there. You'll end up like Reggie. You'll...

Terry kicked me, sending waves of pain through my gut. And I rolled off the trap door. I heard him throw it open and tossed the ladder down, descending in a shrieking rage as he made for the whistler. As scared as it made Reggie. The whistling made Terry a furious juggernaut. I drew myself up, my ribs hurting and hobbled to the trapdoor. I looked down before closing it and gasped in horror against my throbbing chest. The man was at the bottom of the ladder. His face was still

hidden by the cloak. His eyes are glittering twosome amidst the swirling dark void. And I could see the thick red fluid around the collar of the cloak. He was two rungs up the ladder temporarily frozen by my gaze and I slammed the hatch and threw the lock a second before he slammed into it. I crawled away from the hatch, seeing it buck wildly and hearing him scream at me to open it. He cussed and howled like an animal,

wanting to get in, but stopped by the strong bolt some past child had installed on the sturdy hatch. Maybe they'd installed it to keep him out, I thought after. My fear overtops me at some point and, as I watched the door jump in its frame, I must have passed out.

And the banging woke me up. It was daylight. And I screamed loud enough to startle whoever had been banging. Easy kid, it's Sheriff Basque. Are you okay? I dragged myself to the hatch, my ribs aching, and threw the bolt before falling back, panting. If it was the whistler, I hoped he was quick at least. My ribs would turn out to be broken, and their healing would be broken.

and their healing would encompass two of the worst months of my life. Every time I breathed in, I was reminded of the whistler and that last encounter with Terry. At that moment, though, I didn't care what happened. I just wanted it to end. Sheriff basked pushed the flap open, and I guessed I get to live another day. He took me to the hospital. He took me to the waiting arms of my parents, who pulled me into the warm embrace of their arms,

and threatened to never let go. I had been missing for two days, they told me, and when the police had seen the state of our treehouse, they feared the worst. They never found any sign of Terry or Reggie. I told them what happened. I told him about the whistling man, about Reggie's fall, and Terry charging from the tree house to attack him. I told him about how I'd like the trapdoor and passed out as I watched the man try to batter his way in. That was eight years ago. I've seen that night in my dreams every night since

The events live on in my memories in a living colour And I often wake up screaming As the man tries to break the hatch open In my dreams I don't pass out In my dreams the hatch doesn't hold In my dreams I wake up as he wraps his hands around my throat And drags me towards that pitch black moor He hides beneath the coat

I haven't been back to the forest since that day and I don't think I ever will lately though I've been hearing the whistling as I lie in bed at night I look out the window my backyard buttoning up to the woods and see two small figures

hovering on the outskirts sometimes the man in the coat is there too but I know better than to try and tell my parents all of them are gone when I get there and I just end up looking crazy I leave at college next week

and I've chosen one in the middle of a big city. I plan to attend it because the closest collection of more than four trees is 60 miles from my dorm. I'm hoping that distance will stop these apparitions. But I don't know. I can hear the whistling now, even as I write this.

I can hear my dead friend's soft calls as they entice me to come out and play. I can hear that whistling as it scrapes against my nerves yet again. I hear it and I hope that I get to leave a college before it becomes too much to bear before it calls me back

to the treehouse once more