CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "The Wicker House" Creepypasta

Episode Date: August 28, 2020

Who wants to come over?CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Shadowswimmer77: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/T...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"- 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-

Of course, everyone claiming residents in Arthur's wake knows tales associated with the Wicker House. It seems that every small province plays host to some structure of ill repute, which, as if by some supernatural magnetism, draws rumours of ghosts and bogies, wrapping the timber and stone of its foundation in a shroud of darkness and horror. In Arthur's wake, the Wicker House fills this odious task. Scant days after arriving in town, while taking the time to familiar, I realized myself with a local watering hole and its residence, I became introduced to the well-known superstitions surrounding the Wicker House. As a man of science, I knew any truths to be found in these outlandish stories were likely embellished to points unrecognisable.

Nothing was firsthand. All experiences were from a friend who knew a fellow who may have seen something. It is the provincial mind which transforms wild dogs into wolves that can walk like men and interprets astronomical. phenomenon as harbingers of certain doom. Still, my curiosity sufficiently piqued, I endeavored to better inform myself upon the subject through more objective means. To my great surprise, while failing to confirm

more supernatural claims of the tales, the town records in the basement of the local library did provide aspect to a more sinister reality all their own. The house was built in 1920 by the millionaire Thomas Wicker, who, in addition to being both a successful oil prospector and fission magnate, was by all accounts completely insane. No one knows what first drew Wicker to Arthur's wake. Some speculate this as the first outward sign of his impending madness.

What is known was that the foundations of the house, which would come to assume his name, were poured almost immediately upon his arrival. The structure was supremely modest for a man of Wicker's means, rising a mere two stories in height and composed of scarcely a dozen rooms plus cellar and attic for storage. The house was built on Blackwood Drive, a major tributary of the town's main street

and close to the industrial centre, such as it was. The plot itself consisted of about a quarter acre, the yard home to a few blossoming trees and a small garden. The whole of which was surrounded by a high wrought iron fence accessed by a similar gate. The posts of this formidable perimeter

were topped by wicked spikes to discourage would-be trespassers. Construction concluded rapidly and the autumn of 1920 saw Wicker take up residence in the house accompanied by a maid, groundsman and his wife. The lady of the house quickly became subject of gossip

among the townsfolk. During the construction, Wicker had boarded his wife in parts unknown. None could recall when she arrived arrived at the house. One day she was simply there. As the groundskeeper cared for the exterior yard and garden and the maid handled all domestic chores, including trips to market, the lady herself was never seen to exit the house. Due to the complete lack of socialisation, the townsfolk did not learn so much about the woman as a Christian name. The servants themselves shed no light

upon the subject. The man hailed from a remote part of the dark continent and the woman appeared to be a mixed breed, vaguely of the Orient. Wicker had acquired the surface of each while abroad for business dealings, and neither spoke a word of English. Naturally, the Lady Wicker was the object of the most persistent rumour. Early speculation was she suffered

from some exotic malady, which left a drawn and bedridden. These theories were repudiated by those few who would occasionally spire from the street. In each case, she was seen exclusively at night, staring forlornly through the second-story window of what was assumed to be her bedchamber, lit only by candlelight from within,

until all appearances, the picture of health. Additionally, there was little chance that typically damp and sunless climate of the wake would be prescribed to improve one's constitution by even the most inept of physicians. As common folk are, with a logical explanation absent, more fantastic theories were crafted. Some began to speculate the woman was a witch,

others an enslaved angel won by wicker whilst dicing with Satan. What all who observer agreed upon was a singular beauty. I gleaned much of this information from the archives of the local paper, especially one such curiosity piece which was accompanied by a photograph of the lady in question. The scene was just as I had heard described, the single lonely prisoner peering through the window and across that terrible iron fence into that darkness of the night. The photograph was modelled due to the quality and the prehistoric equipment and the lack of natural light, effectively obscuring the ladies' features. Indeed, it was difficult to

distinguish whether the blurred form was in fact human, though it did project an impression of unmistakable femininity. And yet, even through that greyish haze, I could perceive a certain piercing, almost hypnotic quality of her eyes. Wicker himself was something of a mystery though, considerably less so than his bride. An attractive man, tall, dark-haired and well-featured, many a young woman found herself undeniably jealous of the seldom observed Lady Wicker. Though often away for long periods on business excursions, at home, Wicker would frequent the only drinking establishment in the wake,

an illicit locale consistently ignored by the well-brived to police force, charged with upholding prohibition. Although he had no one in town that might be explicably named friend, Wicker was known to purchase drinks for the house on his occasions of patronage, and was as such engaged in conversation by no few number of fellow revelers. He never took long for Wicker's tongue to be sufficiently loosened, at which time he would regale his latest pass-love hangars-on, with fantastic stories of his journeys abroad. Forbidden hoodoo rights of the Caribbean, strange tribal sacrificial.

sacrifices in the heart of America, dead men who walked in Eastern Europe, and countless others, each one's stranger and darker than the last. Though Wicca never spoke of his wife directly, these tales only serve to expound upon the rumors of her origin. Things progressed much in this way for some five years. Wicker would travel and carous upon his return. The servants went about their business without comment or complaint. The townsfolk gossiped. The lady remained a shut in. The horror occurred without warning.

The events that took place on the eve of Samhain in the year of 1925 have gone down in the history of Arthur's wake as unembellished fact. Among the town's records, I discovered the report of the patrolmen dispatched to respond to the disturbance of the Wicker House. The narrative was itself accompanied by the most gruesome of photographs from the scene in question. I will summarize their contents directly. Thomas Wicker returned from his latest trip abroad on the 31st of October. Having stopped briefly at home, he arrived at the aforementioned drinking establishment in a clearly agitated state. The always impeccable dressed Wicker was stoppily garbed. One shirt towel hanging out of his trousers, shoes scuffed beyond repair.

It was obvious he had not recently bathed or shaved. His well-groomed hair was must, and his eyes were bloodshot and wild. Approaching the bar, he seized an entire bottle of liquor, took several long swallows without use of a glass, and ignored all attempts of other patrons to engage him in conversation. Taking a final drink from the bottle, he placed his wallet and the entirety of its contents on the bar, smashed the now empty receptacle upon the ground and exited with the astonished eyes of the present following him. that this entire portion of the episode occurred within a completely illegal establishment is not lost to me, although it apparently was on the investigating patrolman. As I have said, they were well bribed. That no mortal eye remains which observed what happened next is surely proof of a merciful

guard. The two patrolmen who first came upon the scene was summoned by terrified reports of shrill cries and demonic cackles, long-term veterans and high-term. men both were nevertheless ill-prepared for what they would soon find at the Wicker house. Armed with a lantern and clubs in hand, the men carefully approached the dwelling now ominously quiet. The great iron gate was open askew, as was the oaken door at the top of the steps leading into the interior of the house.

Receiving no response to their shouted inquiries, the patrolman cautiously entered the foyer and proceeded to search the ground floor. They found the first horror in the kitchen. The maid had been tied with thick hemp rope to a large table. Limbs spread and secured to each of the four legs. She was nude, the butcher's knife which had been used to slit the throat permanently sheathed in a heart. Glistening blood dripped from a cruel altar, slowly pulling on the floor, while tell-tale splatters painted the walls like a macabre decoration.

The patrolman shared a glance of mutual, unbelieving dread. tighten their grips upon their clubs and continue to search the premises in complete, terrified silence. Having determined the cellar empty through a brief, yet understandably taught examination, they exited the back door to the yard and discovered the groundsman's body.

A thick wooden stake had been erected in the centre of the garden and crossed by a perpetual beam. The man hung naked, suspended from the crossbeams by spikes, harshly driven through his wrists and ankles, in a grotesque, simulacrum of Christ's crucifixion.

He'd been disemboweled, Roby andids pouring out of his belly, dripping blood and excrement. Horrified, the patrolman reluctantly agreed that a premature conclusion of their search to summon reinforcements would provide a very dangerous murderer a chance at escape.

The men re-entered the house and agonizing proceeded up the winding stairs to the second floor. Systematically, they searched each room, uncovering nothing, until only one remained. The bedchamber of the elusive Lady Wicker. Eyes wide, heart pounding wildly,

the lead man slowly eased a latch. Raising their clubs, the men burst through the door and stopped dumbfounded. The room was completely dark and empty, devoid of any trappings or furniture of any kind. By the thin beam of their lantern light, the men saw that strange occult symbols have been scrawled on every surface of the room, though those on the far wall had been somehow marred.

Of the murderous Thomas Wicker or his mysterious wife, there was no sign. A noise from above alerted the men to their quarry's location. Returning to the hall, they spied a trapped door operated by a string, which, when pulled, revealed the ladder leading up into the lightless storage space of the attic. The two patrolmen stared at the entrance, yawning black and white. as the more of some infernal creature, beckoning fools to wonder to their doom. Unable to decide who would proceed first, the men threw evens. The unlucky loser took the lantern and ascended the ladder.

He stopped halfway through the aperture, lantern held high to better diffuse its light and ready to beat a hasty retreat to the relative safety of the hallway below. The attic was in a state of disorder, strange souvenirs of wicked. trips abroad stacked haphazily throughout. The constable slowly played his beam out, gradually revealing each destroyed mound of clutter. At last, the light fell up on the attic's far corner, revealing the huddled, gibbering mass of the man they sought. Or what had been the man. Indeed, whatever serves to separate man from beast, had, sensing it was no longer a suitable dwelling place fled the form of Thomas Wicker.

The handsome features were gone, replaced by deeply sunken cheeks and a hideous grin. As the patrolman stared terrified, he could see the creature was covered in the blood of his victims left below. Hands about his knees, Wicker slowly rocked, babbling to himself. Joined by his fellow, the constable steadily advanced. Arms outstretched, they ready to seize the thing that had been Thomas Wicker, when mad eyes shifted upon them and the muttering stopped. In a moment of seeming clarity, he whispered,

She's gone, before emitting a maniacal howl and leaping to his feet. Taken aback, the patrolman hesitated, affording the lunatic room to bound past them to the window and hurl himself through the glass. His desperate shriek gave way to a sickening thud. The men rushed to the broken window. Far below by the light of the moon, they saw the body of Thomas Wickard jerk impaled by the wicked spikes

atop the iron wall. By the time the patrolman descended from the attic the hideous motion had mercifully stopped. The remainder of the report is compared to the extraordinary events that had thus far taken place remarkably mundane. Determining that the murderer was indeed dead

the patrolman called for reinforcements. The house was searched in detail and much speculation was made regarding the fantastic totems and fetishes populating every knock and cranny. All who set foot on the premises were in unanimous agreement that Thomas Wicker was unequivocally mad.

Most confounding of all, there was no sign to what fate befelled the mysterious Lady Wicker. Taking the lunatic's final utterance as related by the patrolman, the investigators deduced of the lady, tired of being regularly abandoned, had fled to parts unknown

during Wicker's latest trip abroad. Upon his return, the shock had been enough to push the man into a murderous rage. Since virtually nothing was known of the woman, neither when she came or even her proper name, no search was mounted and the case dismissed. It is from this point that the tales depart from the realm of logical reason to instead dwell into the twisted byways of urban legend. About a month after the death of Thomas Wicker was when the disappearances began, the investigation of which ultimately led to me.

my arrival in Arthur's wake. Parents will put their children to bed at night and find them gone the next morning. Exhaustive searches of the wake uncovered nothing. Strangers new to the town were accosted, imprisoned and, in one instance, lynched by a frightened mob. Some questionable evidence was found on a man's body after the fact, and, with the suspect too dead to proclaim his innocence, the police happily declared the case closed, that the pattern of disappearances has continued for more than six.

60 years would suggest they were mistaken. I have been unable to identify the first acclaim seeing a strange light emitted from the long-abandoned window of the Lady Wicker's bedchamber, nor the one who swore hear the sound of children playing as he hurriedly passed the accursed house. I do know that the tales have spread and grown to the point they are not so easily dismissed. Shortly I will ascertain any truth to them that may be. I turn off the small audio recorder I have been speaking into and place it into my pocket as I make the turn onto Blackwood Drive.

Heaven only knows for whom I make these notes. A lifetime of chasing ghost stories of hunting down tales of creatures that delight the imagination and offend the sensibilities has thus far provided me no hard evidence of the existence of some supernatural realm dwelling in the darkened shadows of our world. Indeed, each investigation only has been. further affirms what have long determined. The human mind is a miraculous thing in its unabashed propensity to deceive itself, and yet I abide.

Perhaps this will be the time my perseverance is at last rewarded with even a bare glimpse of that other place, a place every man knows, yet none have seen but in their blackest nightmares, a place of monsters. Slender, tendrils of fog quest hungrily between my feet like living things as I approach the ruins of the Wicker House. Pushing through the rusted iron gate, I am reminded that, despite my misgivings, I too am human, my mind as readily capable of deception as any other. Indeed, making my way up to the front path, a trick the moonlight suggests a soft glow emanating from the second-story window, as if from a candle lit within.

And, were it not impossible, the visage of a beautiful woman stares down and smiles at me approvingly. My hand tightens on the knob. As children's laughter reaches my ears, I open the door.