CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "We Knew Something was Wrong When the Trees Began to Move" Creepypasta

Episode Date: January 3, 2021

They shouldn't be doing that... right?CREEPYPASTA STORY►by EW_Entrican: 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►Diana Franco: https://index.artstation.com/artwork/...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 circumstances that led to my family fleeing Czechoslovakia in 1954 are always misunderstood. People believe it was because of the increasing despotic nature of the communist regime, or the student protests happening in Prague, or because of the food shortages that had plagued the country since the end of the Second World War. However, none of these reasons accounted for my grandmother's rapid departure, mostly because their effects were limited in a isolated village on the northeastern frontier. Rather, it was because the trees began to move. It's a story that doesn't really leave my family.

It's one of those strange, old tales that aren't worth telling guests or friends, largely because they wouldn't be believed. Nevertheless, it isn't something we shy away from, nor is it some great secret. I'll repeat the story exactly as my grandmother told it to my mother and how she later told it to me. I was 12 years old when the trees began to be. to move. I don't mean move, as in sway or bend. I mean they moved. It was on the last day of September, and me, my little brother were walking back from the schoolhouse along the dirt road

that led into the village. That track of land was, and always had been lined with poplars, and on a windy day, you could see them gently swaying back and forth, their tall forms happily waving in the breeze. We were chatting in the way that children do, watching our shoes stirring up the dust from the ground. When I looked up to see that in front of us, a poplar stood in the middle of the road. It was about 30 metres ahead of us, and identical to the rest, just planted squarely in the centre of the path. The banal sight of the tall tree, lightly rocking in the quiet wind, was set against the

fact that we knew this road. We walked it every day, and there most certainly wasn't, nor had there ever been a poplar in the middle of it. We cease talking immediately and cautiously approached. The trees, yellow-room leaves, were rustling pleasantly, and its sturdy, middle-aged trunk was planted firmly in the ground. Around the base were clumps of turf, where long strands of grass clung to the earth,

as if they had always been attached to that particular spot on the well-travelled route. The avenue had an even number of trees on each side, but adjacent to the rogue poplar, there was an unoccupied space. Between the poplar's former neighbours was a small patch of dirt untouched by grass or weeds We spent no time speculating On how exactly the tree moved as it did

We simply set off down the road towards the village To fetch someone Only with great reluctance did our father get out of his armchair Extinguished his pipe And ambled down the path after a long day in the harvest fields Nevertheless When he saw the tree he too went stock still and stared at it for a good minute or so

before he told him to fetch Brabeck, the aged village constable. When I returned with the old man, my father had started circling the tree, looking at every inch up and down. Within an hour or so, half the village had gathered around the impossible poplar. Perhaps it was a strong wind, suggested Brabac. You ever see a tree blown over like that?

Standing up pitch perfect? asked Carla the baker's wife. No, it's youngsters playing a joke. I'd like to see you hoist the grown poplar out of the ground and get it planted into the road, roots and all, said my father. I asked Father Klinzki what he thought it was, but he just pulled on his beard and shook his head. Eventually, he was just accepted as some inexplicable natural oddity.

Two young foresters cut it down, and Browbeck told everyone to go off home. While the poplar was mentioned over dinner, the subject was largely avoided. Nevertheless, I couldn't stop thinking about it as I went to bed that night. The morning brought further excitement. A farm labourer on his way to work found a large beach in the middle of the grain field. Someone soon found the patch of earth with a tree had originated some 20 metres away.

It was just standing there, surrounded by neat rows of crops. That day, the 1st of October, was marked by a second occurrence, this being that a second poplar was found out of place around midday. This one was in the cattle field that bounded the road, leaving another empty space in the avenue. Again old Brabeck was called, and again no cause could be established. Our local party member was called,

and he, along with a dozen or so villagers, stood around the transported trees scratching their heads. He said that it was odd, but surely not unheard of, that there were plenty of odd natural phenomena that had a logical explanation. He said that since the trees were hardly doing much harm, he saw no reason to report it further. The next day, he discovered an oak going right through the middle of his barn.

It had moved some hundred metres from where it had stood on the hill overlooking the village. Eventually, the partyman, Lautka, decided to convene the village committee, and that evening, he was deliberated that an inspector should be sent for. He called the central office in Estrava And the very next morning A young man in a smart blue uniform And spectacles arrived in a shiny Veebee police car That very same morning

Two ashes and a birch were found in the cherry orchid The inspector was quickly shown the sights of the moving trees As well as the poplar stump that lay in the middle of the road He took several photographs And kicked about the dirt in the places where the trees had vanished from However, upon hearing Brabara Barbeck's explanation and the testimonies of half a dozen villagers, including myself, he smiled and coughed and asked if we were not mistaken as the location of the trees,

and that it was not unusual to account the natural movement of the soil and the changing landscape to bizarre occurrences. This was admittedly rebuked, not only by the constable, but by Lautker as well. But what of the poplar and the road, Comrade? asked Old Barbeck. simply a prankster, no doubt. These are flimsy trees, you know. I shouldn't think you need more than a bit of digging to uprooted. The only trouble there is finding your guilty party. I imagine that local knowledge is good enough to lead to a likely suspect.

What did I tell you? It was only youngsters, said Carla. And the yolk in the barn, Glautka interjected. The inspector throw out his brow and cleaned his spectacles. A more complicated matter, certainly, but not one that defies explanation. What the perpetrators did there is move in the trunk, which isn't such a hard thing to do through barn doors, and then attach a few branches with wooden glue. The barn seems to be reasonably old. I don't suppose it was very difficult to sort through the roof and get bows through. That would have taken hours, Comrade, not to mention the noise, said Brabeck.

Then the conclusion is obvious, the inspector cried. There is more than one culprit constable. With that, he retired to his lodgings for having spent the large part of the day. day marching around fields. It was beginning to get late. He instructed Brabeck to begin looking into delinquent youths in the area and ordered that no further requests be sent, for it was a waste of the state's time and energy, which he noted the Lautke would be appearing on his record. With that, we all went to bed, not very enthused about the results of the inspector's assessment. This changed in the morning when half the village was awoken by the scream

of a milkmaid. She had set out for work in the early morning when she saw a strange shape in the distance. Upon her closer look, she found to her horror that a beach was standing, in the middle of a cow, the poor creature having been rent apart by the trunk. The inspector was hurriedly called for,

and when he caught sight of it, he vomited into a milk bucket. Having calmed his nerves with a glass of bitters, Prabeck led him to the road, where two more poplars had to be able to. supplanted themselves elsewhere. But, it's impossible, he said. I saw them.

I saw them yesterday. They were there. Right there. I know, sir, Brabeck said. It's been going on for days. The inspector became very pale, stared at the trees for several minutes. Eventually, he secluded himself in the committee hall

and set about processing the photographs he had taken so as to collect evidence that he only yesterday had declared impossible. Meanwhile, I went to see Father Klinski at the small, dirty white church that stood at the far end of the village. The priest was avoiding the inspector. He had only returned from prison five years ago, and he had very little time for partymen. I found him in the vestry, making a large pile of hindlals for the next service. This would have been done by the Sir Kristen had he not been conscripted last summer. He saw me by the door and bade me sit down if I wanted to talk.

"'Was it God, Father?' I asked. "'God? We can chalk it up to whoever, little one. "'That doesn't make it so. "'Why not, Father?' He sighed and wrapped his fingers on the back of a pew. "'Who has known the mind of the Lord, who has been his counsellor?' "'He said after a minute. "'I don't know, father, but could this be a kind of test?'

"'The tired priest shook his head. his face appeared deep in thought and he looked up at the round window above as if looking for inspiration perhaps but the world isn't that simple little one I returned home for supper when my father asked me why I hadn't been to school

I told him nobody had that everyone was staying in the village while the inspector was here my mother scolded me and asked me where I'd been upon hearing that I had been to see the priest she struck me over the head you should know better she said,

But what we do on Sundays is well and good, but you must stay away from Father Klinski until the inspectors away, my father said. That night I went to sleep, wondering who would move the trees, and whether it was God or the unmanageable teenagers from the farm up the road. In the end, I don't suppose it mattered. Day broke again,

and the inspector rose with his uniform unbuttoned and strode out around the village perimeter. He was followed by Ladka, who took note of six or seven spots where new trees had begun to shift. After an hour, the inspector warily sat himself down on the pavement outside the committee hall. I'm finished, he murmured. The Central Committee will never stand for this. Lodka determined on a resolution to the new crisis called for a meeting, abandoning the inspector to his wallowing.

After several hours of deliberation, the eight men, members marched up the hills towards the church, where the priest was mending the fence around the graveyard. Now tell us straight, Klinski, did you organise all this? demanded Lodka. You really think that question worth asking, the father said. You, priests are all the same. You're the same as the last one and same as the next one. You've been undermining the party in this commune from the start, and we won't stand for it. Men don't move trees, Lodka, you damned fool. This would have gone on further.

had a second group led by Carla, the baker's wife, not met the committee on the hill. The lot of you should clear off, she cried. What the hell do you think he's got to do with it? She pointed, accusatory fingers at several of the Catholic committee men. And you, turning on the father like that, a shame. This is committee business, Carla, Larkka said, although several in his company had begun to shift their feet. Brerbeck arrived shortly after, and the two groups reluctantly dispersed.

Eventually, it was agreed that an expert should be gotten in, and so the inspector was persuaded to call his botan of Strava to request the scientist from the capital. In the meanwhile, a dozen men, led by Latka, cut down every single displaced tree in and around the village. That afternoon, they burned them in the village square, and the bonfire wasn't extinguished until late in the evening. The following day, a botanist from the university in Prague arrived on the train, much to the enthusiasm of everyone. He was an older man in Tweed, carrying a large briefcase and a clipboard. He immediately asked to speak with the inspector, who showed him the developed photographs he had taken on his arrival. The botanist examined them carefully before asking to be shown the sights. First, he was taken to the first poplar stump.

Armed with the ruler and measuring tape, he sits about marking and evaluating the site. Once finished, writing in a red notebook, he cordoned off a small square around the stump, and another around where the tree had stood. He then began to dig at the patch of earth on the roadside with a small trail for a good half hour. Most intriguing, he finally said. No underground structures at all, no roots, just earth. It has all been transplanted here,

and then pointed towards the stump. Yes, comrade, nobody here has seen anything like it. He repeated this exercise with every stump in the proximity of the village, but stopped once he reached the beach that killed the cow. While the dead animal had been removed, the tree had stayed in place, for everyone was afraid to go near it. He withdrew a hacksaw from his case and began to cut into the tree. Only a few seconds in, a spurt of blood came pouring from the trunk, much to the horror of everyone except the botanist. Extraordinary, he murmured.

Absolutely extraordinary! As he continued, he discovered that the tree hadn't punctured a hole in the cow, but rather the trunk and the beast midsection had fused. Apart from the botanist, nobody dared to touch the trunk. After an hour of examination, he turned to speak to the gathered crowd. This kind of phenomena is, as far as I'm aware, completely unknown to science. It will undoubtedly require further research, but most importantly, I must observe the manner of the transportation as soon as possible.

Has a tree ever shifted during daylight? Rabeck suddenly shook his head. Then, it must be tonight, said the botanist with gleaming eyes. Throughout the rest of the day, the whole village set about placing wooden posts at precise intervals, exactly to the botanist specifications. Lautka had started carrying his pistol around the village, overseeing the project, while the defeated inspector watched them from his window. By the evening, a square mile or so was marked out,

and as many lamps as could be found were hung from the stakes. When there were no more lamps, the poles were covered in kerosene-soaked rags and lit a flame. That night, my family huddled around the window as we watched the botanist at work. He conscripted a number of villages to watch a certain quadrant so that the movement of the trees could be readily calculated. It was a long night, and, some time after my parents had gone to bed, I snuck out of the cottage with my little brother to watch the goings on. Although everyone guarding the poles looked wracked with anxiety, the botanist, who stood at the centre of the main avenue, watched the populace with wide-eyed enthusiasm.

He never budged from his position. His only movements were his darting eyes, which continuously scanned the dimly lit area. After an hour of watching him, he suddenly twitched. There, did you hear that? He cried to the nearest watcher. No, sir, they responded, and everything felt stuished. stock still, as if the night itself was listening. After only about half a minute had passed, a slow and quiet creek could be heard from the direction of the main road.

There it is again, you must have heard it. The botanist was joined by Latka, who nodded in recognition, his hand on the holster of his gun. It must be beyond the light of sight, wait here, he ordered. Picking up a heavy flashlight in his briefcase, the botanist headed off down the road. We watched the bright shaft of light, the only marker of his movement, bobbing along the track, jerking in pace with his steps. Suddenly, it fixed on one position, and we observed with anticipation, waiting for him to announce his discovery. But he said nothing, we heard nothing. The light was still and distant and some ways up the road.

After five minutes, Lautka cried out to him, but was met with no reply. Nobody dared move from their place. The whole village was shrouded in silence. Finally, Father Klinsky came down the church road and hoarsely asked the partyman what had happened. Lautka, frozen in terror, said nothing. So Klinsky grabbed a lamp dangling from a post and followed the botanist's path towards the light. A minute later, he cried out for help. Three or more men shoveled out of position and followed him to the place where the botanist had stopped.

calls were quickly made for everyone to go back indoors. The hodled group remained by the flashlight for a minute before swiftly coming back towards us. The priest caught me and my brother in the bushes by our cottage and quickly uttered us inside. We saw nothing more until the morning. When I arose, I ran out to find Brabeck and the father, looking out towards a distant poplar. I cautiously approached, and as I did so, I noticed that the botanist flashlight was lying next to the tree. Brabeck was holding something in his hand, something bound in a bloody cloth. The old constable withdrew a penknife and gingerly cut into the bark of the tree.

Immediately, it started flowing red. That evening, a meeting was called. Fear marked the vases of all those assembled there. It was made known that the botanist had disappeared, but that his hand had been recovered near a shifted tree. One question that pervaded the room, which was packed with the first of the room, everyone in the village, but nobody wished to speak. Eventually, Lautka stood up.

Unfortunately, there seems to be no route of action to take. What are we to do? Twice we have reached out, and twice we've been left with only more questions about our predicament. What would you have us do, then? asked Carla. Just wait for it all to end, until our houses are turned to forest? Lautka said nothing. He just looked at the ground.

We have to make the call. The botanish is dead, and we must report it. No, said Lodka. If we report it, it's over. They'll wipe this place off the map, tape it off, clear it of all of us. If we don't call someone, we're finished, Carla replied. It'll be the same regardless. For God's sake, man, a man is dead, Lodke, snapped an aged constable.

And we will be two, if you don't keep your damn mouth shut. You think the party will believe us? trees don't walk, they don't move and they don't murder either one person in this room is responsible or we all are at that the hall erupted with noise as arguments began blame being spread to every imaginable corner Brabeck made a feeble attempt to get everyone to calm down but the commotion continued until father Klinsky

and his booming voice bade all to be silent in passing judgments on one another you condemn yourselves these happenings are certainly bizarre but they're like the scientists said, natural events. No man or woman can bear responsibility for what has happened, and we can pass no blame upon anyone gathered here tonight. We cannot go on like this. We must report it to the authorities. Who are you to say? cried Latka. You think because you're a holy fool you can tell the rest of us what to do and avoid accountability? Listen, Comrade, this man has taught us that what's going on here is natural, all while preaching is

superstitious nonsense. We all know you're a hypocrite, Klinzky. It's him more than anyone else that has tried to frame this a freak accident. I say it betrays his own deceit. Murmiss began to arise from certain parts of the hall, the committee members all looking towards the father. Lautker pointed an accusing finger at the priest. Why is it that no trees come near your church, father? What is it about that ground that keeps them obey?

Perhaps they don't move on their own at all. Perhaps is what you're having us to believe to undermine the authority of the party. Don't be stupid, Lautka, Carla said, We all heard what the botanist had to say. Look where that got him. And I say, it'll be the same for the rest of us, comrades, unless we teach this Bible thumpber a lesson.

This is madness, interrupted Brabeck. If you won't make the call, I will. And with that, he headed for the door. Shouts arose from one half of the hall, and a committee member flung a book in the constable's direction. Out got dashed from the podium to block his way. If you report that death, then we're all done for. he said and withdrew his pistol from his holster.

We're done for all ready. Lautke cocked his gun and brought to the bear and Brabeck. Please and condemnations arose from the nervous crowd. Put it away, you damned fool, said Klinsky. Lautker swiveled around and aimed at the priest, anger building in his bloodshot eyes. Few had been sleeping recently, but Lauter least of all. The room ducked with every movement of his arm, his shaking movements revealing a patent terror.

There is a conspiracy here, he cried, to undermine the party, and to undermine me. Put the gun down, man, said Carla. Get back, step away from the door. The committee members had fallen silent as everyone else rose in cries of indignation. Laudka's thin body was pressing against the door. The pistol shook in his trembling hand. Rappek's imposing form stood over him. I'm making the report, Laudka, and you won't bloody stop me.

The old man sees the door handle. Suddenly, the whole building seemed to shake with a deafening explosion. Brabeck stumbled back, his hand clasped on his belly, a group of villagers rushed to the constable, grabbing him in their arms and scrambling to cover his wound with rags and handkerchiefs. Lauter stood still, his face pale, his mouth open. My God, he whispered, What have you done? said Klinski.

There is a conspiracy against the party, began the broken man and against me. The angry crowd surrounded him and, raising his gun once more, he found he hadn't the strength of fire it again and so fled into the square. His pistol clattered as it hit the cold stone floor. Klinsky quickly left to make the call

while most of the villagers took off in pursuit of Lautka. In his flight, he had grabbed one of the kerosene torches and had rushed up the hill towards the church. Carla led the furious mob after him, and they met him in the graveyard that stood before the steeple. For a brief moment he turned to face them, and in the dim light all could see that he was consumed with fear. Turning the torch around, he flung it through the round window,

shattering the stained glass. The post must have landed on the hymnals, for soon most of us could see the blaze. A few brave the door to smother it, but it spread around the old structure quicker than anyone could counter, and it was soon made clear that fetching water would be a futile effort. Instead, the crowd seized and gagged the partyman and carried him back to the village centre.

While half the village attended to the dying constable and the other had been apprehending his killer, none had been near enough to see the large U-tree transplant itself to the middle of the square. To this they marched the doomed man, for he had been condemned as soon as he fired his first and last shot. A length of rope was found, and although my father covered my own. eyes. I get still, he allowed his muffled screams as he was hoisted up by a sturdy bow of the hanging

tree. By then, Klinski had returned, and, horrified, bade them to stop immediately. Carla and the others shook their heads. No father, she said, not all sins can be forgiven. Silently, he passed them by and climbed the hill to see his church crumbling into ash. Some say the flames could be seen from miles away. He wept long into the night. and remained there until morning,

by which time Brabeck had bled to death and the sun had risen on a dozen new cherry trees. Sometime in the early hours, the inspector had emerged and retrieved Lauka's abandoned firearm from the hall. He wandered into the woods, and a few minutes later, a second and final gunshot sent crows

flying up into the crisp air. Later that morning, several trucks from the nearest military barracks arrived. Groups of officers spent few hours surveying the area. They looked around at the strange mess of thickets that lit of the landscape while their men smoked cigarettes and milled by the village. Only once an ambulance arrived, an hour so later, did they cut down Lauka's hanging body

from the U and placed it next to those of the inspector and old Brabeck. Father Kinski was dragged from the smoldering remains of his church and taken into the back of the black fan, all the while muttering something about forgiveness. We didn't hear of him again. Eventually, one of the soldiers kicked over an apple crate and called us to assemble. He told us very clinically that each family would be relocated elsewhere in the country, and that if we told any living soul about what a gun on, we would face imprisonment. With that, we were given an hour to pack our lives into suitcases, and were then driven

into a holding camp. My family was settled on the other side of the country and a town on the Austrian border. the same week, my father decided that we had to leave. One night we took our things and made the very dangerous crossing into the west. None of us ever saw our village again. But many decades later,

my mother had a run-in with an old acquaintance of hers from the next town over, who had told her that in the years following the evacuation, which was choked up to forest fires, the government had built a large brick wall around the former settlement. To what end?

She didn't know.