CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "The Winter Cellar" Creepypasta

Episode Date: October 3, 2020

Don't go in the basement. CREEPYPASTA STORY►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...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-

The festival's season is Aangbroken and that betekent mudder. And so, ging Kim to come to comason.com. On the way, on the waterdict tent, a comfortable

lute bed, oh, so, snus, and Lupeart print regalarze. Miao! Now, now he has Kim not for the modder,

just like that the dancing mottram, there, oh, wait just even, has he now only modder on? Oh, yeah,

only modder. Drove blithe? Goar for. Find what you need to need on Amazon.com. I hadn't been down to the cellar since my sixth birthday party. I hated everything about it.

I hated the smell. Thick and noxious, heavy, old cedar shavings, rotting PVC piping and wet. Trapped water that seeped into dark corners and stayed there forever. The smell filled the place and yet somehow was just an odor after all. I hated the actual process of going down too. The stairs creaked, groaned and flared. under any weight at all. Somehow, they always seemed seconds from collapsing entirely,

folding in on themselves, expertly, like how my grandfather shuffled the deck of cards when we played go fish. And the light. Jesus, the light. It was a singular bulb. One. Pastel yellow, flickering inhumanly,

and too bright in the centre. Glowing, beaming. There, as if that light held the centre of the whole universe, the infinite expanses of time and space, and whatever else was beyond the eight planets that we learned about in school a few weeks prior. The light hung unsuitably from a thin chain, and it swung with the steps.

The whole cellar seemed to move, in fact, impossibly intertwined, connected at the joint somehow. It was a terrifying sight, moving down the stairs, into the waiting dark, the distant corners just out of vision, undefined, never fully filled by the unholy orange light

that cast strange shadows against the rusted metal shelving that had once so lovingly been put in place by the previous owners and had been long since abandoned. The corners. Those dark corners. My mind filled them with abstract horror sometimes. The things I couldn't see. The things I didn't want to. Slippery tentacles, huddled rats, spiders with twelve legs as long as my fingers,

small beady red eyes with no pupils, and once my fully formed first-grade teacher Mrs. Jewel, Mrs. Jewel, we called her, who had sent me home from recess for refusing to come inside, only this time she had two heads, and one began eating the other. When I'd imagined those things at the age of six, the dead, horrible things that crept into every consciousness

when left in the wrong kind of dark, I'd been able to shake them away with some effort, as I moved down the stairs that shook and quivered and shrieked and waited to drop out from under me at any moment. There was some power in the act, closing my eyes as tightly as I could, clenching my fists

and wishing the nightmares away with everything I had. When I opened them, finally, after what felt like an eternity, the dead sway was gone, the unlife and foul power that held caught in that cellar. It was just a room, after all,

just four walls and a floor, man-made, built by hands just like mine, calculated and scaled with rulers and drawn with skillful position in a good old-fashioned number two lead pencil. It was just a room then. I could make it just a room. Except on my sixth birthday, everything was different that day. My dad had asked me to go down and get his black toolbox from one of the shelves so that he could fix the goddamn handle on the front door before my grandparents and cousins came over and it jammed and we embarrassed ourselves.

I hadn't fully understood the urgency of this wish or why my dad had become so angry that day fidgeting with the screws but I knew better than to question my old man when he started to get red in the face even if it meant going to the cellar even on my sixth birthday I had taken one last deep breath

hoping not to take in any of that stagnant damp air grabbed the brass handle wrenched the door open in a way that surely would have made my mother swap me across the ear if she had caught me in the act and trudged down the steps in some strange cross between an army march and a man sent to the gallows. Determined and terrified. It was the only way to survive the cellar in my estimation. If I stopped for a second, even one, I was sure something would reach out and grab me by the collar, or the shoulder, or even worse, the ankle.

Old, far too long fingers closing quietly around my foot, pulling me. down into those goddamn corners, the ones I knew were actual physical boundaries, but felt like so much more. I had been nearly down the steps when I had to take my first breath, exhaling too long, nearly choking in the forced inhale of lost oxygen, muddy shoe soles and the bloody remains of a dead throbbing being pulled apart by ants on the sidewalk. I remember the smell most of all. Death, stillness, scary in how motionless it really was, and how treas of, and how treas of

I had begun to sprint downward then, rushing madly along the uneasy cement pavement that was cracked under my feet, hoping to all hope that I didn't trip and splay out, that on a rare occasion I'd actually managed to tie my shoelaces correctly that morning, and most of all that nothing would reach out and grab my ankle. Nothing would be worse than that. Nothing except what I had seen then, edging out of the darkness, both silhouetted against the black and painted blood orange in the swaying light

plain as could be. A face. Not just any face. I recognised it. Curly red hair and stars of freckles that filled a galaxy on his cheeks. It was Ralphie Bynes, the too tall for his age

second grade baseball player who lived three houses down and the brick house to the right. I didn't have time to think. everything moved too fast. I had a cracking sound as Ralph's bones broke. The heavy tear of polyester fabric as the boy was folded into and against himself

smashed together by something I couldn't make out in the black corners of the room. Ralphie didn't react as his body broke. His face didn't move at all. He was already dead. His eyes were pale and glazed over, fish eyes staring at nothing, no recognition at all.

I never forgot them. What happened next, I played in my head nearly every night, and just about any time I was left alone with my thoughts over the next two years. That dead, motionless face was pulled back into the shadows, slipping quickly out of view, and was lost. I heard ripping then, skin and muscle, shattering bone, and hungry jaws recoiling flesh. I ran.

My feet felt as heavy as heavy as. led, but I forced them up, smashing against the wooden cellar steps that creaked and groaned under me, and laughed. My father didn't fix the goddamn door handle on my sixth birthday. He chased me as I ran out of the cellar like a bat out of hell, past my presents

and birthday cake, never truly seeing them, and onto the street as summer rain began to fall, heavy and furious, turning the once brilliant day, grey and sour. Of course, my parents didn't believe. me. It didn't make sense to me either, but I had to tell someone. I begged them to check the

cellar, and they did. Nothing was out of the ordinary, not a bucket or screw out of place, no sign of struggle, no belongings or sign of life anywhere. I insisted they call the Binds family, and after 15 minutes of hysterics, they did. No, Ralphie wasn't there. Of course he wasn't. He had gone after batting practice that morning, and they would see him later that evening. They assured my parents that everything was quite under control, that Ralphie followed his exact routine every day in June, and they thanked them not to get them worried about their son based on a six-year-old boy's tall tales and wild imagination. Everything was fine, they insisted.

They were right. For about three hours. I locked myself in my room, and my parents were fine with that. They were embarrassed enough for one day. If I hadn't scared them so much and so uncharacteristically avoided my own birthday, they may have sent me to bed without dinner. My sixth birthday party was cancelled

and rescheduled for next Saturday. My parents didn't expect a call from the Bynes family at half past five, a call asking if I was playing some kind of joke on them, that Ralphie had actually missed batting practice that morning and hadn't come home for dinner. The police were called next, and yes, after a day it passed, they did come to check the cellar.

They of course found nothing and apologised my parents for having to stop by. My mother went to bed early that night and I could hear her crying for my room. My birthday party took place two Saturdays later, once things had quieted down some, and I didn't go anywhere near the door that led to the cellar. All of my guests were accompanied by their parents, who never seemed to let them. them get out of sight. If I was honest with myself, I hadn't really cared about my birthday party anymore. But that was then. That was two years before. I was eight. It was my birthday. I had grown four and a half inches and sometimes I forget about the incident entirely. That was nice,

though it didn't last. Ralph's face always found a way back into my mind. I'd grown to hate it, hate the curly red hair and dumb freckles hate those cold grey fish eyes that saw nothing hate the way it made me feel afraid and small and more than anything hate the fact that it wouldn't leave me alone that it reminded me

of the cellar it reminded me that whatever was in that cellar whatever it was was still there the inexplicable thing that stayed just out of sight like crunched bones and ate little boys just like me. I shook my head and clenched my fists, feeling my uneven nails take hold and dig in there. No one had ever found Ralphie, and after a while, people had stopped talking about it too.

It brought up too much, and it made them scared for their own children. Two months after the incident, Ralphie's parents sold the house and moved to Iowa. I'd watched them leave in a yellow rental truck from my room on the second floor, and could have of sworn, I'd never seen too sadder people in all my life. I let my eyes open after a long moment, pushing these memories away, as I often did, letting the colours and lights of the kitchen flood into my vision in a brilliant stream. Reds and blues and yellows, birthday cake,

sugar frosting and rainbow sprinkles, scarlet streamers and balloons that were as big as my head. I felt safe and warm, just for a moment, maybe for the first time, truly in two years. The cellar, that evil thing that was somewhere below me, out of mind. As long as I kept it that way, I heard my mom's voice then, distant, calling me, inaudible, except for in its quality. She wanted something from me.

There was a hint of desperation. The same way she would call me down for supper, or to take the garbage out when my dad stayed at work late, and she had shrimp peels or old garlic clothes to dispose of. At first it didn't register, not fully. I was surrounded and filled with colour and light. It was my birthday. Eight years old. Soon I'll be off to third grade, back with my friends in class,

playing tag at recess, with all new teachers to meet, and then so much more. To grow and run and play and be a boy. I heard my mom's voice again, and this time it roused me from my thoughts. Her voice was louder, though still distant, the sound indistinct and cuttural, as if I had heard it underwater during swim practice,

this time not desperate anymore. Urgent. Then it was gone, silent. I felt my heart began to beat against my chest and the small hairs rise on my arms in the back of my neck. Mom, I called out, trying to pinpoint a locate. in the two-story home, as I often did when she needed me.

In this, I'd become an expert over the years. I was often called to help, and always came. I was a good boy, and I prided myself, especially in taking care of my mother. Timmy? Her voice came again, straight and piercing, almost disappointed. Mom? I almost shouted. I'm down in the cellar. The words hit me like bricks

Ice crept of my spine And settled in my throat The two words came again Over and over again Mom Seller Mom Seller

Against all my fears and childish rationalities I ran quickly covering the length of the kitchen And adjacent hallway I stopped before the open door that led down Down to the blackness Where that one light swayed hypnotically like a tongue and my mother called for me in a dread scream near panic. Timmy? Help!

I crossed the threshold, quickly descending, one foot after another as the stairs buckled and heaved under me, yelling for my mother. The blackness that filled the cellar was so total, so complete that I didn't even realize that there was a change in the light, as the door upstairs slipped quietly closed behind me. I arrived on the landing, scanning the pulsinging shrouds left or right,

quickly for my mother, knowing that she was here somewhere, that she had come down to get something for my party, and that it, the goddamn cellar, had gotten her. Some part of me had known this day was coming, that the place had been lying in wait, waiting to hurt, waiting to hurt me. Some part of me knew that this dark place was awake again, hungry again, the way it had been that rainy day when it snapped Ralph's spine and carried him away. Some part of me knew that it had waited precisely for this moment. My voice cracked as I shouted for my mom into the ether. Her voice came back dry, insolent, fragmented, and near some sort of animal snarl.

Oh, what a good boy you are, Timmy! I stood, stunned, a long silence coming over the dead space and the low voice that it so perfectly impersonated my mother. Always looking out for your mother. I knew then that it was too late. It had me. I screamed, but it was cut short. The light bulb, too powerful in its centre,

like an eternal sun, flicked once as it swung ominously above me, and my eyes jumped to it, clung to it, something, anything, in the all-powerful rolling dusk, and went out forever, enveloping me in nothingness. I felt then, as somehow I knew I always would, cold bones in my ankle, porous, decaying flesh, take hold there, and pull, wrenching me down and into those impossibly stretched corners, where reality bent and flailed and broke. I screamed. I felt something else too.

A mouth, rows and rows of teeth, a more, or something as close to it as I had ever felt, began to crawl at my legs, devouring me like a pillowcase, combing the length of my body, rising up my abdomen and to my chest. I screamed again, knowing I only had seconds left. Soon, I would be gone, lost, left here forever in the dark, some impossible place that didn't exist, just like Ralphie Bynes, gone, forgotten. My parents would look for me, they would cry, they would hope, but they wouldn't find anything. Soon they too would pack their belongings in a U-Haul and leave town,

ashamed, scared, lost, ruined. It would be like I never existed at all. I had to survive. There was a rush of feet. Light. Light beating back the darkness, pushing back those

horribly long corners and whatever gnawing evil had taken hold of my body and pinned it against the dirt floor. My parents raced down the steps and wrapped me in their arms. I cried and they held. me as best as they could. It wasn't enough for me to forget the feeling of teeth.

Thousands of them. Tasting, not yet chewing, but oh so close. My eighth birthday wasn't a happy one. And that was enough for me.