CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "There's A Halloween Song We're Forbidden From Singing. I Found Out Why" Creepypasta

Episode Date: November 1, 2021

Happy Halloween 🎃 CREEPYPASTA STORY►by beardify: 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►Christian Bravery: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/dO...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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combe. for the National Teaching Program, I imagined I'd be sent to the Chicago inner city or the deep south, not this quaint, quiet New Hampshire town. I just couldn't understand why the place struggled to keep teachers, or any other out-of-town professional for that matter. There were always vacancies, even though there's virtually no crime, friendly people, and most of all, beautiful countryside. When the colours change in fall, the town looks like a postcard.

Better than a postcard, in fact, because no flat image could capture the vibrant yellows, flaming oranges and rich ruby reds that cover every hillside. Tourists drive for miles just to stroll through the colourful rain of falling leaves or snap pictures in the morning mist rolling through apple orchards and barnyards. As a lover of pumpkin spice, Halloween, and all things fall, I was in heaven. Starting at the beginning of October, elementary age students decorated the classroom, with paper cutters of ghosts and cobwebs, carved pumpkins, bobbed for apples, and read the legend of Sleepy Hollow. To my surprise,

I got a lot of positive phone calls from parents, praising the work I'd put into my classes and telling me how much their children had enjoyed them. Principal Harris even pulled me aside to tell me how impressed he was and mentioned that if I'd keep it up, he'd pull all the strings he could to get me a permanent position. Everything was going great.

until the day of the Halloween sing-along. I ordered a CD of spooky but kid-friendly songs and on the chosen day we turned out the lights put lit candles inside the pumpkins we carved and sat in a circle to sing. I could feel the children's anticipation build as I turned the CD player and hit play. After a few creepy sound effects of fluttering bats,

screams and witch cackles, the first track began Have you seen the ghost of John? Long white bones with all the skin gone. Ooh, wouldn't it be chilly with no skin on? As the second verse began, I looked around the classroom. Something was very wrong. The children who usually loved to sing was silent,

except a few who were crying. Most of them had plucked their ears with their hands. I'd expected the songs to be spooky. But this. Running footsteps announced the arrival of Principal Harris. He sprinted across the classroom and turned off the CD player, like someone disabling a bomb at the final second. Are you nuts? he pantered.

I... We can't have a talk about this after your class. Don't ever play that song in this town again. Understand? Give them... I don't know. Some notes to study or something. The afterclass meeting with Principal Harris was awkward.

but I wasn't sure if it was worse for him or for me. He kept picking things up from his desk and setting them down again, looking out the window and sighing. Finally, he cleared his throat and got to the point. As you know, Harris began cautiously. This is a very old town. We even have one of those George Washington slept here being bees. Can you believe that?

He tried to force a laugh. He died in his life. throat. Anyway, old, small towns like ours tends to have a lot of superstitions. They might seem silly to outsiders, but they're very important to us. It was clear who the outsider was in this situation. Seeing my daydream of a bright future in this town disappearing fast, I cleared my throat and replied, if I've done something offensive, I'm sorry, it wasn't my attention and I appreciate you letting me know so that it won't happen again. Do a lot of people in town have a religious objection to Halloween?

Or is it more like, no, no, nothing like that? Harris scoffed. We're not a bunch of Bible-thumping hillbillies up here. It's that specific song. And that specific story, in fact, that I need to ask you to avoid. What, you mean that old folk song? The Ghost of Jop? Yes, that one.

No need to say more. Let's just not mention it again, all right? You're doing great work here. I'd hate to see it cut short because of a silly misunderstanding. But why? Let's just drop it, okay? Harris was almost pleading. It was like even discussing the song was too much for him.

I think I've said all I'd need to, and you need to get back to class. Ha, another fake laugh. Look, just one other thing. You can expect some negative reactions around town. when the children tell their parents about class today. Try to take it in stride. Remember, this is a very, very sensitive topic for us. I left the ugly fluorescent glow of Principal Harris's office

with a bad taste in my mouth and a burning curiosity. What could be so bad about a song, especially one that was hundreds of years old? I went through the rest of the day on autopilot and bolted for the library as soon as I could. The storied old building This red brick and shadowy white columns Was one of my favourite places in town

I spent hours there reading Preparing material Or just chatting with the librarian Sarah Newman I waved to the frizzy mass of hair At the reception desk How's it going? Hello, Mrs Newman replied curtly

Can I help you? Ah I was put off by my friend's reaction But I wasn't about to start now. I wanted to ask you, I'm afraid I'm very busy. Sarah Newman cut me off, adjusted her glasses and went back to furiously stamping the library books, but I noticed that she glanced up at me again, with a twinge of sympathy in her eye. If you want to learn about town history, I suggest you check the newspaper archives, specifically the October issues from 1989,

1972 and 1958 should do nicely. The rubber stamp resumed its pounding. Our conversation was over. Soon, I was reading the headlines from October 1989. October 1st, students to sing about local legend in Halloween chorus. October 8th, protest against curse sing-along are our children in danger? October 15th, a spooky success, Halloween chorus, placed to a full house.

October 22nd, local children abducted, police suspect the worst. October 29th. Five students found dead. Details inside. October, 1972. October 1st,

New York folklorist has studied local legend. October 8th, A stranger in town? An interview with folklorist James Hatterwood. October 15th. Quote, stay out of our grows, Hatterwood's investigation sparks controversy.

October 22nd, New York folklorist James Hatterwood missing. Volunteers needed. October 29th, an unfinished tale, Hatterwood disappearance remains unsolved. And, in 1958, October 5th, Good Time Girls and Hooligans and lock inside a teen motorcycle craze. October 12th, miscreants or miscreants, or miscreants, understood, local council to ban teenage bikers. October 19th, angry greasers adopt local legend as their mascot, council concerned.

October 26th, accident or foul play, parents weep a tragic biker club pile up. The newspaper room was in the basement and a chill run over me as I read the articles. It wasn't hard to imagine what the local legend must be. The ghost of John. I didn't believe in ghouls or curses, but it was easy to see while the legend was a sore spot for the locals. I resolved to never mention it again. As I climbed the dim, creaky stairs, a loud buzzing made me nearly jump out of my skin. I had dozens of missed calls.

I listened to the voicemails as I drove home. Each one was worse than the last. Parents, who were only days before, had been calling me a blessing, or my child's favourite, when I was screaming at me, threatening my life, ordering me out of town, and in a few cases, all three. It brought me to tears.

These were the people who baked me cookies and showed me around town. How good a simple song have made them so thoughtlessly cruel? By the time I got home, my sadness had turned to tight-fisted anger, or at least that's what I tell myself to justify what I did next. None of this was fair.

How was I supposed to know about some dumb superstition? I was still sniffling and wiping my red, puffy eyes when I got out of the car and waved to the Volcker's, my neighbours across the street. The two Volker children left their toys on the lawn and went inside without saying a word. Their parents followed them, turning out the porch light as they went. More hot tears streamed down my cheeks. Without thinking twice, I pulled out the CD of Halloween

songs and jammed it into my car CD player. With the doors and windows open, I skipped with the tracks in search of one particular song. When I found it, I played it at full volume. I watched as one by one porch lights went out, and people enjoying the autumn evening skirt back to the houses. I was left alone in the driveway of my rented house, sobbing pitifully into the smoky October twilight. When I awoke the next morning, I had a few.

happy, quiet moment in my warm bedsheets before I remembered what I'd done. When I did, however, the anger and shame hit me like a punch to the gut. My morning coffee did hula hoops around my stomach. I dreaded what was coming when I got to school. To my surprise, no one mentioned anything. It was like the day before it never happened. Sure, my go-workers suddenly seemed more guarded around me, but there were no red-faced parents looking for a fight,

dismissal letters or hordes of sobbing children. The closest anyone came to mentioning the song was a boy in my second period class. Hey, aren't we going to finish the song? He asked. Shut up, Clayton. The girl next to him jammed an elbow into his rib. What? Clayton shrugged.

I liked it. Just because our parents are all freaked up. Clayton, we can't, another girl hissed. The class began to murmur. I had a teachable moment here. It was time to decide whether I was going to support the local superstition or encourage the kids to think for themselves. I made a mistake playing the song yesterday, Clayton, I replied sweetly. It bothers a lot of people and we need to respect their feelings.

I felt like a coward, but I didn't care. All I wanted was to put this whole thing behind me. I wanted to go back to how things were when I was first walking around town, coffee in hand, watching the leaves fall. A few quiet days past, I was beginning to think that I'd survive the first major classroom scandal of my teaching career, a little wiser, a little sadder maybe, but mostly unscathed. I decided to celebrate. I'd clear my head by visiting some of the kitschy tourist attractions in the small towns nearby.

As I drove, however, the weather took a turn for the worse. The misty morning clouds became a weird, yellowish grey and fat rain-druy. began to fall. Even with my wipers going full blast, it was hard to see. There was something wrong about this weather, something unnatural that put me on edge. That's why I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard a loud revving behind me. Who would be riding a motorcycle in this weather? The way the black riders appeared out of the rain made me think of the headless horsemen, with a logo on their jackets referenced the different legend.

Even in the pouring rain, I could read the bone-wet letters around their skeletal mascot. The ghosts of John. There was music playing above the sound of the rain. Was that? Elvis? Shake, rattle and roll? Six motorcycles had closed in around me, three on either side, and soon I couldn't even hear the rain over the rumble of their engines. What did they want? If this was a joke, it was in very bad taste.

If this was meant to scare me, it was working. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, but felt like my wheels were already hydroplaining on the wet pavement. A mysterious bike is surrounded my car, the rain-ragged shadows drawing closer and closer on each side. Their bodies, or long white bones, were hidden by black leather, and behind their scarred helmets, their faces, with the skin or gone, were completely anonymous. I could maneuver without their permission, and they knew it. It was getting harder and harder to see. The rain was a grey sheet that covered even the dead branches of the roadside trees.

As the road curved, I noticed the cyclists around me were pushing me, forcing me to make sharper turns to avoid hitting them. I would have even risked it if I wasn't sure that hitting one of them would make me of an accident myself. I don't know how long they kept it up. The cheesy 50s music, the deafening engines, the knuckle-widening head games. was meant to break me for what came next. The ghost of John began to slow down.

They wanted to force me to stop, to make me face six of them, alone on a storm-wash country road. My heart pounding, I skated to a stop with them in a gravel pull-off. They shut off their engines. Without that roaring, the only sound was the wind-lashed rain.

In unison, the dark figures dismounted. Slowly, one turned to me, reaching for his helmet, about to reveal what lay beneath. I stumped on the accelerator. The riders had left a gap in their wall when they dismounted their antique cycles, and I took it. Although, whether I passed through the line because I got lucky or because the bikers were something otherworldly, I couldn't say.

I swerved madly on the slick, windy roads, and nearly crashed through the guardrail of a bridge and into the roaring waters below. Maybe that, I realized, was the point. I drove home as fast as the wretched weather would allow. I'm not sure if it was the damp, the stress or something else, but my experience of the dark riders put me into bed with chills and a fever. Sleeping and waking, dreams and hallucinations blended so easily that I was unable to tell the difference.

Like the man who I saw and heard pacing to the house lost in thought. He had a long ball cut and a beard of 70's style and the suit jacket elbow patches of a college professor. When my eyes would flicker open, I'd sometimes spot him at my desk, scrutinizing yellowed manuscripts. The pentasmal professor's presence was almost comforting. As time passed, his behaviour became more and more erratic,

swinging from ecstasy to plate-smashing rage. I'm sure I imagined the next part, because no human could have survived it. I woke in the depths of fever some time in the lost hours of the night. I dragged myself to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. When I returned,

I saw the professor, plain as day, backlit by the lamplight. He was surrounded by dangling, skeletal figures, like puppets. They hung from every available surface. In front of him was an antique wooden trunk.

He held a bow-knife in his hand, and he was laughing. Of course, of course. I thought I heard him giggle. So simple, why didn't I see it before? Cheerfully humming the song, the professor peeled away thick, juicy cuts. Of his own flesh.

He kept going, in fact, until there was nothing left. When he'd finished, he put the skin suit in the chest, sealed it and carried it off, still chuckling to himself. I blinked. The hideous vision disappeared. I slipped back beneath the sheets and sipped my tea, wondering what my feverish brain would kick up next. By Monday. I felt better.

The hallucinations and bizarre dreams had stopped, but I was still left with more questions than answers. I decided to visit Sarah again at the library. The moment Sarah saw me walk to the door, however, she scurried off. I finally caught up to her in the stacks, trying to look busy. You're avoiding me, I accused her. Oh, I have no idea what you're talking. I did the research she suggested. I even played the song again.

At this, Sarah stopped speaking and went pale. She looked to both ends of the narrow shelves, as though she expected monsters to come and carve us up. You shouldn't have done that, the librarian muttered to herself. The more you play it, the more you talk about it, the more you think about it, the worse it gets. Her eyes darted from side to side again. It's too Tim back here.

We're alone. We shouldn't even be discussing this. But how did it start? I wondered aloud. I mean, if it's even real, then surely there must be a way to stop it. If it's even real? Sarah hissed. I can see in your face that it has started happening to you too, and you dare doubt it.

If you've let the song into your life this far and you're still alive, I do not want to tell you. get away from here and forget about it if it isn't already too late i'm not talking about this i told her about the bikers she looked miserable the whole time half wanting to cover her ears half dying to know more leaving town is out then she muttered to herself it'll get you on the roads i told her about the professor it's in your house already then sarah frowned it is too late she gave my shoulder a little squeeze. I'm sorry. Hurrying off, she turned one last time. And we did not have this conversation. I was expected at school the next day. Back among my pile of sheet music and childish instruments, I barely remembered where I'd left

off. But it didn't take me long to find out. It warns my heart how the students welcomed me back and even helped me find my place in their lessons. To them, of course, I'd only been out sick. They had no idea of the nightmare I'd been living since I played the song. The older ones waved to me with toothy grins, and the younger ones gave me those headbutting hugs

that small children seemed to specialise in. I just needed to distract myself, I thought. So I did something I'd sworn I'd never do. I played Christmas music in October. The kids were a little shocked, but the change of season did me good. In the classroom, singing jing. Engel bells and learning the history of St. Nick, it was easy to pretend I'd never heard of ghosts, hauntings or Halloween.

Outside the school building, however, the late autumn air seemed eager to remind me. Instead of crisp white snowdrifts, dead brown leaves swirled beneath the bare skeletons of the trees. Instead of colourful lights and holly, houses were decorated with fake cobwebs, wooden tombstones and other reminders of the long hand of death. Instead of ice skaters and carolers, the streets abounded with children in costumes that, for the first time, struck me as grotesque, twisted and wrong. When the trick-or-trees jumped out from behind hay bales or pumpkin piles, their masked faces frightened me far more than their intended targets, who ran away shrieking gleefully.

What was fun for them had become, for me, deadly serious. I realised how much I've been affected when I look at the look at the same. out the kitchen window a few nights before Halloween. I screamed silently when I saw the long white bones of a skeleton beneath a twisted apple tree in front of the house. It was watching me. I don't know how long I stood, staring into the black pits of his eyes, at his hideous, bony grin, its dead intensity. But finally I realized that it wasn't moving. Where the kitchen knife in my trembling fist, I crept outside to face it. I saw the string.

I gave the skeleton a shove. Plastic. I was still laughing at my own pathetic fate. When I felt a tug and my elbow made me turn. A child was there. Was it one of my students? Excuse me, miss, the child rest. Can I have some of your skin?

What? I was sure I misunderstood. Can I have your skin, miss? It sure is chilly with no skin on. That was when I realised the child wasn't wearing a costume. The thing before me was draped in a simple blanket, like a mortuary sheet. There was stained red. It was the kind of stain that might come from a small body with all of its flesh flayed off, I thought.

There were no eye or mouth holds for the child to breathe. the blood-soaked fabric, and it held only a single tallow candle for light. I backed away slowly. I didn't start running until four other identical shapes drifted out of the gloom, candles flickering on their faceless wrappings. Despite their small size and inability to see, they pursue me quickly through the cracked bracken, mud and heaps of leaves. They come between me and my rented house, and, like a panicked animal, I bolted dead ahead. and straight into the woods behind my house. Soon the only light came from the candles held by the five child-sized figures

that pursue me through the damp and foggy darkness. Tripping and slipping over gnarled roots and rotten logs, I understood with horror that I was being herded. The destination was clear. A silvery clearing dominated by a single dead tree. Now that I've stood in that clearing, I say that I have, indeed, seen the ghost of John. Oh yes, we all have.

A five student singers, Professor Hatterwood, the town's first motorcycle gang, other figures too old to name, and still others who walked in those woods before names even existed. We have all seen those long, white bones. I don't know why I was allowed to leave the clearing. Perhaps the ghost once it sung and story spread. Or perhaps it knows that I'll be back before all Hallows Eve. You see, where the haunted child touched my elbow, a grey spot began to grow. Little by little, the flesh around it grew pale and crumbled away like dust.

Most of my left arm is bone now, and the change seems to be grown faster. It sure is going to be chilly, with no skin on.