CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "There’s a Creature That Lives in Our House. We Pretend It’s Part of the Family" Creepypasta

Episode Date: May 12, 2025

 12345678901234567890123456789  ,  12345678901234567890123456789  12345678901234567890123456789  12345678901234567890123456789  views  11 May 2025  CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Horror Stories PodcastCREEPYPASTA STORY►by Saint ZanderCreepypastas 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

Growing up, I had what most people would have called a perfect childhood. We had money, quite a bit of it. We lived in a house with high windows, soft carpet, and a backyard big enough to forget where the edges were. My father, Jonathan, was a quiet man. He led prayer every morning before school and every night before bed. And he spoke with conviction. My mother was grace in motion. She read poetry, cooked like she had studied it,

and always seemed to know what I was feeling before I said a word. I loved them both deeply, without question. They didn't hide things from each other, but hid one thing from me. There was a strange man that lived with us. Perhaps that's the wrong word. He existed in our house. always on the edge of where light ended.

He rarely appeared as a full apparation. Sometimes he was just a flicker in the corner of a mirror. Sometimes it was deeper, shadows that didn't move when the sun did, or the smell of smoke in a room where nothing had burned. And he scared me. While my dad and I were cleaning out the garage, I had worked up the courage after an afternoon. noon of silence to ask him who the man was. He stopped stacking the boxes, straightened his back,

and smiled at me. That's your uncle, he said without hesitation. He doesn't mean you harm. As young as I was, I knew my father didn't have a brother. That night, he sat me down at the kitchen table. His hands folded in front of him. And he gently but firmly told me that if I ever saw anything strange, mirrors, shadows, or noises that didn't make sense, I should ignore it. He said it firmly as if it was one of the house rules, just as important as brushing my teeth or saying grace.

He told me not to ask questions. If you see him, just keep walking, he said. I asked him why. Because that's what we do, he said. He looked. Scared. After that conversation, I started paying closer attention to the way my father acted around the house.

After sundown, my father would become wary. He grew quieter and more rigid. He would sometimes excuse himself and go sit in the basement, like he was hiding from him. I remember the first time I saw him, really saw him, not in a mirror or a trick of light, but in full. He stood on the back porch, his face blank, and hands at his sides. His coat was dark and long, and his skin looked grey under the porch light, dull and lifeless. wherever he appeared my father answered the door

before anyone else could he would step outside pull the door closed behind him and speak in whispers I couldn't hear much but I knew that the man would hand him something a piece of paper my father would tuck the note away

move with urgency and leave the house without finishing his meal or saying goodbye Sometimes he would make calls from the landline in the garage. Once he didn't come home until morning. He looked drained, his shirt was unbuttoned, and his kind eyes were bloodshot. I tried asking about the man once. I didn't even make it through the question.

Don't, my father said. Not angry, but firm. Just don't. After that, I learned to keep quiet, but the man kept coming. It happened ten years ago. I remember the exact date because it was two days after my birthday. I just turned eight, and I was still riding the high of presents and cake, and the way my mother smiled when she sang.

The weather had started to turn, the heat pulling back and leaving behind that crisp early autumn air that carried the scent of dry leaves and chimney smoke. That night, I saw my father standing at the back door again. I was on the stairs holding a book. I heard the door open, and I saw the man outside. He looked the same as always. I knew what would happen.

I had seen it before. The man would hand him a note, my father would read it, and then everything would shift into motion. He would leave, pray, or make a quiet call to someone I'd never met, but that didn't happen this time. The man passed in the paper, my father looked at it, looked down and unfolded it. His eyes moved over the page, once, then again. His hand dropped to his side. He didn't move. He just stood there, holding the paper.

I thought he was going to faint. I stepped down onto the next step. He turned slowly, his face pale. He looked past me. He looked like he had aged ten years in that moment alone. Then, he really looked at me. My father had never looked at me that. way. Hell, nobody has ever looked at me that way since. His eyes filled with tears, and I thought

he might say something, but instead he turned toward the hallway. My mother had entered the room. She had a dish towel in her hands still damp from washing. She looked at him. He handed it to her. She unfolded it. Her mouth opened and at first no sound came out. She stared at the paper, blinked once, and then collapsed onto the floor, her knees hitting the tile. She screamed, not in fear or even grief, but in helplessness, a sound that split the room. I didn't know what was on that paper yet. I just knew it broke something in her, something that wouldn't heal. father crouched beside her and tried to return the paper, but she pulled away. She crushed it in a

fist and held it against the chest. After my mother crumpled to the floor, my father finally seemed to remember I was standing there. He turned toward me, and for a second I thought he was going to call me over. Instead, he gave me a small nod. His voice was quiet. Go to your room for a little while. Your mother and I need to talk. I didn't question him. I walked back up the stairs and closed my door behind me. I sat on the carpet by the window,

legs pulled against my chest, watching the backyard sway in the wind. I figured someone had died. Maybe my grandmother or someone from my father's side I'd never met. That would explain the tears. At some point I pressed my ear to the floor I wanted to hear something

anything but there was nothing at first just the settling of the house then eventually I heard my mother her weeping was soft barely there sorrow that couldn't be helped or postponed

her voice cracked a few times but I couldn't make out any word Then it faded again, and I was left in silence. I must have fallen asleep at some point, because when I opened my eyes, the sky outside was darker, clouded over. The hallway was dim. I didn't remember going to bed, but I must have crawled up there. I got up and walked to the door.

I needed to pee. I crept down the hall, dragging my hands against the wall as I was. went and stopped just before I reached the stairs. I could hear them. My parents were downstairs speaking in the kitchen. They weren't whispering. They weren't even trying to be quiet. My father's voice was sharp, strained.

How are we going to do this in just six months? There was the sound of something clattering on the counter, a cup maybe, or a spoon. Then my mother snapped back. We can't just give him up. He has never asked for something this messed up before. How do we even go about this? Curse your grandfather, Jonathan.

She sounded panicked. Her words hit like stones thrown in every direction. My father didn't answer right away. I heard in pace as I stood at the top of the stairs. My heart thumped harder with each passing second. I didn't understand what they meant. Give up who. What did six months mean?

Who had asked for something? But I did hear the fear in their voices. My mind went back to him. That was when the idea first started to take root in my chest. I didn't know what he had written down, but I knew it had something to do with me. And I knew, for the first time in my life, that whatever he was, he had power over my family. The days that followed felt wrong in ways I couldn't explain to anyone.

My parents weren't fighting openly, but everything was different. They would stand in the same room and talk like strangers, forced to live under the same roof. The atmosphere changed. Even on clear days, the house felt darker. The man appeared more often. It was hard to know what I was seeing anymore. He began showing up in my dreams, not always clearly, sometimes just the feeling of him. Other nights he was a shape behind the glass or a figure on the other side of the window waiting for me to wake up.

I wanted to ask my parents what was going on. I wanted to tell them that he wasn't even trying to stay hidden anymore. But I was afraid of what they'd say, and then I noticed something else. My mother started gaining weight. She wasn't eating much, but her belly was fuller, and her steps were slower. Her shirts no longer hung the same. I saw her once in the bathroom mirror, holding her hand to her stomach. I could see him standing right beside her. He was growing bolder, or maybe. We were growing weaker.

As her stomach grew, so did the weight pressing down on everything inside that house. I caught my mother staring out the kitchen window more often, her fingers resting on the counter like she was waiting for something to appear outside and carry her away. My father, my father, became more devout than ever. He spent hours locked in the study, muttering under his breath, his voice rising and falling. He was constantly reciting scripture. I peeked in once through the crack of the door and saw him kneeling, not just praying, but rocking, whispering between his teeth or staring at the floor.

I only got the courage to question the entire situation one time, but I was, met with bland responses. They were clearly shrugging me off. The night it all fell apart, started with the wind. The trees scraped the windows, the power line swayed and groaned above the roof, thunder rolled in circles, never close enough to crack the sky, but loud enough to rattle the windows. I woke to screaming. My body reacted before my thoughts called. I was caught up. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding and my chest already tight. I could tell from the tone that it wasn't just anger. My mother's voice tore through the house with desperation.

I climbed out of bed and stepped into the hallway, too scared to move closer, to afraid to go back. Her voice rang out from downstairs. We have to give it a kid tomorrow, Jonathan. She sounded broken. My father answered her, pleading. We'll find another way. Just wait, please. I'm done waiting.

She screamed. You know what will happen. You know. There was a crash. I stood there, gripping the banister, my hands shaking, my stomach twisting. Then I heard the scream. My mother, one sharp, terrible sound that cut through the house like metal tearing through cloth. And then nothing.

I ran. I was already down the stairs before my brain caught up to what I was doing. The air smelled sour. The lights in the hallway were off, but there was a glow from the bathroom door. The light spilled out into the dark, casting shadows on the floor. She was on the ground. My mother, her body was twisted at the hip, one leg stretched out, the other bent beneath her. Blood had soaked through a dress and pulled under her shoulders.

Her head was resting against the base of the tub. Her eyes were open, glassy, her mouth half-parted. There was a knife in her hand. I couldn't breathe. My father was beside her, on his knees. His shirt was stained, his face blotched red. He held something in his hands. I didn't understand what I was looking at.

It was small, pink, a mess of limbs and tissue. He cradled it like it might cry. He was rocking back and forth, whispering something to it over and over. I wanted to scream. I wanted to ask what happened, but nothing came out. I turned and ran. My hands hit the stair rail. I missed the step and slammed into the wall halfway up.

I kept going, back to my room. I closed the door. I crawled into my closet. I curled up and held my knees to my chest. I stayed there until the sun rose. The funeral for my mother. was quiet, not because there weren't people there, but because no one knew what to say. A small church just outside of town, the one my father used to preach at,

the sanctuary smelled like lilies and varnished wood, the windows were fogged from the cold, and the pews were half full of people from my father's congregation who wore solemn expressions. Some of them brought casseroles, some brought their children. None of them brought answers. The casket was closed. Everyone said she seemed so happy, so devoted, so warm. The official cause of death was suicide. The coroner's report cited blood loss.

The fingerprints on the knife were hers and hers alone. They said it was a clean case. I didn't speak at the service. I sat in the front row and stared at the floor. I didn't cry or blink much either. It felt wrong to do either one. My father stood up and delivered something that could barely be called a eulogy. I watched him closely, trying to find her in his face,

to find something human, something breaking. But there was nothing. Just a voice repeating words he didn't believe any of them. more. Afterward, we drove home together in silence. I watched the trees move past the window, still half stripped from the last storm. When we pulled into the driveway, I asked him if we could talk. I tried to ask him what really happened, what was happening, and if she'd said anything before

she died, he didn't respond. He walked inside, locked the bathroom door, and didn't come out for an hour. We never spoke about it again. My father stopped going to church. He stopped returning calls from the other pastors. His Bible stayed on the shelf untouched. The prayers stopped, the grace before meals,

the whispered blessings before bed. All of it. Vanished. What replaced them were bottles. He kept empties stacked. in paper bags under the sink until there were too many to hide. I would hear him in the kitchen long after I'd gone to bed, opening new ones, drinking them in silence,

sometimes whispering to himself. But eventually, the whispers changed. He started speaking to him. Sometimes he laughed, sometimes he cried, sometimes he begged. And other times, he just seemed to listen. I stopped trying to talk to him. I had questions that I knew would never be answered and fears I didn't have the strength

to put into words. I didn't know what else to do. It was four years after she died. I was seventeen. I had been holding it in for too long. I didn't plan to say anything. it was a bad day and he was already drunk. And when I found him on the porch muttering to the darkness again, something inside me snapped. You killed her, I said. He didn't lock up.

You let her die because you're a coward. He lifted his head slowly, like the words took time to register. I could see how empty it'd become. He looked thinner than he had ever been. You never did anything, I said. You never fought for her. You just did whatever you were doing. You let a bleed to death on the floor like that was normal. He opened his mouth, but failed to speak. Then he stood, fast enough to knock over the chair behind him.

He wanted you, he shouted, tears forming in his eyes. A child of ours, that's what the note said. He was trembling now, shoulders shaking, arms clenched at his sides. He gave us six months. We didn't know what to do. We couldn't give you up. You were just a boy. We thought maybe if we gave him another one, it would be enough.

I stared at him. So you? I tried asking. He nodded. Then he shook his head, then nodded again. We tried. He said, we tried to make another child, but we didn't have enough time. The baby, it wasn't ready, and your mother, she couldn't bear the thought of handing you over.

So she... He covered his face with his hands. He sat down hard and led out a sound that didn't belong to any version of my father I had known. A sound of something breaking for good. She chose the only thing she thought would work. I didn't say anything else. I couldn't. I didn't even know if I hated him anymore.

I didn't know what to feel. I stood in the doorway, watching the man who had once led prayers and kissed my forehead at night. He looked smaller now, smaller than anything I'd ever seen. He had given up a long time ago. He had just forgotten. To die, my father collapsed onto the couch, shoulders buckling under years of grief, had finally found their voice.

His face was wet, red in the corners, streaked with the cries of a man who wasn't weak, but had surrendered to the truth. I sat across from him, arms resting at my knees, breath shallow. I felt sick. My skin tingled and my skin tingled. My legs ached, but I didn't move. I needed to know. Where did he come from?

I asked. My voice was quieter than I expected. He stared at the ceiling above my head, eyes unfocused, as if he was watching something move across it that I couldn't see. Then he nodded just once and began to speak. My father, he said, slowly, as if pulling each word from a well buried deep in his chest. Your grandfather made a deal with something, I think. He swallowed hard, rubbed to the corner of his mouth, and kept going.

I was born wrong, crippled. I couldn't walk, talk, or even breathe right. They told him I'd never live a full life. Doctors gave up. I don't remember any of it. I was too young. But he swore it was hopeless. Then one morning, I stood up, I talked.

I was fine. He let that hang in the air for a moment, then looked down at his hands. That's when he came. After I got better, he showed him. up at our door, just standing there. Father knew what he was. I don't know how, but he did. And he let him in. He looked up then, straight into my eyes. He did things for him, just like I did, and still do. He leaned back on the couch, his voice trembling now. I don't know what the first note said, but I remember what happened afterward.

Her cousin vanished, then my uncle. One day, your grandfather refused to do what the man said. He thought he was strong enough, I guess. He shook his head, jaw clenched tight. People in our family were taken, my father included, gone without explanation. I don't even know what it is, he said. He never told me. Maybe he didn't know either.

Maybe that was part of the deal. Keep serving and stay ignorant. He gives us wealth and luck, if you can call it that. But... He ran a hand through his hair, then dropped it to his lap. He exhaled a slow, tired breath. I curse him, my son. I curse my father every day.

If he just left me, the... the way I was, maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe I'd have a short life, a quiet one, but a real one. And you, you would have never known any of this. His voice cracked again. He didn't wipe his eyes this time. He let them fall freely. I used to wonder if I was ever supposed to be a father. If maybe he let me live, just so I'd carry the burden to someone else. He turned toward me and, for once, didn't try to be strong. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have ended it. I should have done something. I should have... I don't know. I don't know what I could have done, but... It should have been anything but this. His words hit hard.

My chest burned. I hated him for so long that I didn't. know how to stop. But hearing him say those words and the ruin behind his eyes left me hollow. For the first time since my mother died, neither of us was angry. He leaned back on the couch and tilted his head toward the ceiling. His lips moved as he mumbled to himself, words too quiet to catch. Eventually, the weight of everything dragged him into sleep. I sat there for a long time after he closed his eyes, listening to the wind outside and the faint clock ticking above the fireplace. When I finally stood and left the room, the house was quiet. I moved into the hallway, not sure where I was going. My steps were slow. My thoughts were slow. My thoughts.

wouldn't settle and then I felt it. A light touch on my shoulder. I froze. I turned my head. He was behind me. Not half there, not distorted in a mirror or hiding in a shadow. He stood, fully visible, completely real. I could see the lines on his coat, the folds in the collar, the age in the cloth. He was tall. His skin was pale, but not corpse pale, just drained. His face was long and unreadable. His eyes were... I can't remember them. He held out his hand. There was a note in it. I didn't reach for it. My arm moved on its own. My fingers took it from his hand. And the second left his palm. He vanished. I stared at the paper for a long time before I unfolded it. My hands were shaking. My throat was dry. I already knew it was meant for me. Three words.

Written in neat, slanted handwriting. Cripple. Your father.