CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - We were good to them for so long. It made us forget what happens when we aren’t.

Episode Date: May 10, 2024

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by TheAtlasOdyssey:   / we_were_good_to_them_for_so_long_it_made_us  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"-    • "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

I'm an old man nowadays, and the events described within this text took place a long time ago. Still, I haven't been able to move forward. Not really. Fragmented memories pop up from time to time. Images of that awful night sporadically haunting me. Seeing as I'm not long for this earth now, the grim reaper impatiently waiting, I figured putting it all into writing would make my life. last couple of months more comfortable in some way. Growing up, he had a house like any other.

It was red, the pigment of the paint originating from the iron mines further up north. The corners of the casing of the windows were white. A big plot of land surrounded our home and it included a barn constructed in the same traditional style as the main residence. Miles of pine bordered the property to the north and fields of wheat and ride to the east. A small gravel path, no wider than an L, connected us to the outside world. If you haven't figured it out yet, we led a quaint and isolated life. But it was good. It was a good life. I apologize. I'm forgetting myself. It becomes less rare with age. I suppose you're wondering what I mean when I say. We. A family of four plus change. That's who we were. My younger sister, Ingrid, was a gifted artist.

She would start a creative journey by making dolls at a straw and drawing on the walls, much to the dismay of our parents. In many ways, her spirit was unbound by the realities of life, which I've always admired. My father was your typical farmer, seemingly always armed with a sickle. Most days he wore a hat made out of straw and jeans suspenders, so much so that some folk came to call him Kufusere, a direct translation of cowboy with ironic undertones. He was strong-willed and cared for his family. Despite the complex relationship we had, I realised. with time that he had to shoulder the burden heavier than any man should have to carry.

Then, we have my mother, who was a kind and gentle woman, but she was never afraid to bring out her fierceness when haggling during intense negotiations. I remember one time at the local market, and she even managed to convince our nearest neighbor that the cow we were selling had magical powers. needless to say we ate well that week that may sound strange but such was a rural life back then phase elves and trolls

weren't merely folklore people gave gifts to these supposed forest dwellers and asked them to bless the crops when the harvest turned out bountiful they would thank the beings and they didn't they would ask what angered them I reckon most of it boiled down to superstition, flawed ways of explaining the unexplained.

The lone exception was that of our last couple family members. When father spoke of them around us, he called them helpers, because that's what they were, most of the time. Whenever he thought we weren't around, when the late hour struck and darkness would creep into our house, he would quietly call them Vatar, a more fitting denomination. The word itself translates the goblin, but it doesn't feel right to call them that. Whites. They were the whites of the land. It was easy to understand as a child. In essence, they assisted us with menial tests. around the property in exchange for porridge, fruits and pretty trinkets, which my dear sister gladly crafted. Or rather, that's the story our mother told us when we were too young to know about the darker side of the arrangement. One day, Ingrid and I found ourselves deep in the forest.

Tall trees older than our country rose towards the sky from mossy beginnings. Even though the sun shone bright, its rays couldn't pierce those ancient giants. We had been playing something we came up with. Helpers and herders. It was silly, as any game conjured in the mind of a child. One of us started as a cow and the other as a helper. The cow would run buck wild due to a particularly bad case of mad cow disease. Of course, the distraught herder would be.

be left with no other option than to seek assistance from the famous helpers. A gift to the imaginary helpers later, usually a pine cone fashioned into an animal, the cow would be cured. My sister moved empathetically. More so I thought. That was incredible, do it again, I said. I don't think that was me, she replied. Turns out, heard a real cow, which prompted an exploration. We moved through thick shrubbery, never minding the tiny scrapes from thorns unseen. The cow made another sound, but this time it was far closer. However, it was less of a humble moo and more of a piercing shriek. Poor thing was in pain. We huddled together on the ground and crawled into a bush. Through it, we saw the source of the sound.

The cow laid bloodied in the center of a circle made out of separate stones. If memory serves me right, it was five or six. I won't go into much further detail about the state of the cow, but it was bad. My younger sister had never seen such brutality and led out a gasp. The gasp, A gasp turned to sniffling, and sniffling turned to crying. I tried to hush her, but someone had already heard us. What followed was the berating of the century. Father had never been as angry with us as he was then. Since I was the elder sibling, most of it was directed my way.

He dragged me by the arm all the way back home, while muttering furious nothings. My sister walked by his side, still in shock from the grisly sight. I didn't listen to a word he said, or shouted for that matter. All I could think about was my father standing over the cow, crimson draped sickle in hand, dancing a terrible dance. The blood and the white shimmer of the blade reminded me of our house. I never saw my father in the same way again. Later that night, when the initial emotion had simmered down, I tried asking some questions. Both of my parents were on the defensive, but I soon wore them down.

Apparently, I was finally old enough to know the secret of the whites. Mother took Ingrid upstairs. Father sat me down at a kitchen table, candlelight flickering in his face. What do you saw? It was a sacrifice, father said. A sacrifice? Yes, like the porridge we put on the windowsill or the dolls your sister makes. But sometimes, they demand more.

Why? I do not know. There are many things we don't know about them. We know that they are intrinsically linked to this land, because they have lingered here longer than any man. We know that they tolerate us, even help us, because we bring them gifts. We know that they respect us, as long as we respect them, and the land we borrow. He went on for a while, detailing the many tenets of living with whites.

You weren't supposed to disturb their paths, for example. A rule made more difficult by the fact that their roads were invisible and ever-changing. You can never deny why to wish outright, but thankfully they weren't very demanding usually, and it always came with the reward of a ploughed field or milked cows. As he continued explaining, I started connecting the dots. It was not possible for my aging father to run the farm all by himself. It was almost a miracle our family had prospered the way we did. Except it wasn't a miracle after all.

He thanked me for listening and told me that I now was in the no, which meant more responsibility from now on. I was content with his answers and started walking up the stairs. When I thought hit me. Father, what do they look like? He turned to face me quickly. His face looked almost drained of colour. The flickering of the light highlighted his wrinkles in a way that made him seem much older than he was.

Go to bed, son. A while after that fateful conversation, my mother fell ill. Tuberculosis, the doctor said, the white death. She spent much of a time in the hospital. We visited her often, bringing small trinkets for her. My sister was inconsolable. and she entered into a deep sadness, spending many a day locked away in a room. This meant that my father and I had to do most of the work around the farm by ourselves.

Early mornings and late nights for months. It was taxing work, especially for a grown teenager and his elder. There were positives though. I would say I turned into a man around this time, and I got closer to my usually distant father. Also, we weren't completely alone. The whites were a godsend during this period, and much of my work focused on keeping them happy. Father eased me in, initiated me slowly. Sometimes I missed the mark, which would lead to tools or even cattle going missing. They could be mischievous, he had told me. Whenever my sins got too egregious,

I would hear the pitter-patter of small feet on the roof in the dead of night, windows being opened, whispers in a language I didn't recognise from the woods, and always, just outside my field of vision, I would sense dark figures hiding. These unspoken threats felt drain, wrenched in hatred and spite, far removed from the benevolent beings my father had described. But I suspected they were capable of more than harmless pranks, and by the way my father had

reacted when I asked about their appearance. He did too, eventually. I got the hang of things. The farm ran smoothly on the shoulders of two men and their army of hidden benefactors. were made, and we concluded that the annual harvest would cover almost all of our expenses for two years. At the same time, my mother finally came home from the hospital. Ingrid was overjoyed. I never told anyone that I often snuck out at night, bringing lavish gifts to the whites. Ornate silver brooches I had stolen, golden earrings and bracelets. All of it went to the stone circle,

in the forest. I did not ask them for riches or a pretty girl to fall in love with. I just wanted my mother to survive. During all my trips to the sacrificial altar, I never once did see them, but they provided nonetheless. I always imagined them the way tradition had painted them for me. A small, quite chubby, happy fella,

with a little hat on. Then again, a sinister energy had befallen the farm, despite the many good things happening. I didn't dare imagine them anymore. Our luck would soon run out. The first horror to rear its ugly head was the disappearance of Mother. It was an ordinary day. My father and I woke up at the first crow of the rooster. A fresh layer of snow covered.

over the path to the barn yonder, which made the trek difficult and miserable. I'd recently gotten a new pair of boots, two layers of leather and a thick layer of wall inside, but the cold still bit my feet. Father grimaced as we struggled against wind and snow. Today. You become a man, he said. What do you mean? I replied.

Do you remember the cow? I shuddered, hopefully not noticeably. Of course I remembered the cow. Turns out, it was my turn to sacrifice a living being. At first, up until then, it was always smaller things, dead things. Now, I would have to take a life. He chose an older bull. He was sick, and most likely would not.

not last the winter either way. As far as we knew, it didn't eat them so the disease wouldn't matter towards the quality of the gift. It made it easier, but not by much. I made my way through the forest with a leash, connected in one end to my hand and the other to Gunner. It was a weird feeling. Gunner had been alive longer than I. It'd seen so much. from the humble beginnings of our family to the discovery of the white. I remember wondering if he understood what was about to happen. When I looked into his eyes, I decided that he didn't. The ritual had to be performed in a certain way.

I began by tying the leash to a tree nearby the circle and started covering the bull with ox tallow. I removed a small pouch from my waist and dip my fingers in its contents. Red ochre. I painted a kind of sign which my father had taught me on the forehead of Gunner.

If it was a letter, it was from a language I didn't know, or even had heard of. Not Latin, which would have been my go-to guess as far as sacrificial languages go. Not Swedish, not Sapmi. The mystery, the knife quickly moved across the throat of the ball.

Before I had time to contemplate the morality of the situation, Gunnar laid in front of me. The red in the snow was too pronounced to be ochre. Blood. I had decided to perform the kill quickly, not only for Gunnar's sake, but also for the whites. The most important step of sacrificing a living. living thing was the dance. We had been up late many nights practicing the moves. Father had stressed the importance of doing it correctly. My movements were jerky, just as he had shown me. It felt as if I relive the moment in the bush watching myself. The dance was reminiscent

of the final few seconds of life in an animal before death came. Or something. Sometimes it even looked like the rigamarist after death. The dance was death in some sense, or at least closely connected to it. I breathed a sigh of relief. The deed was done. But just as I turned around to start walking home, I caught a glimpse of a figure halfway hiding behind a tree, whispers in both my ears. A headache grew in my right temple.

The white stepped out into the moonlight, and I saw them for the first time. Short, no taller than a meter. Its body was a shimmering mess of shapes that looked to be morphing constantly. The shape looked roughly humanoid, but it was clear to me I wasn't supposed to understand their form. Ferrofluid. That's what it looked like they were made out of. opalescent, glassy, active ferrofluid. I could have mistaken it for beauty if it wasn't for the mask it wore.

At the top of the shape sat a white mask, with black rings around the holes for the eyes. The eyes were rather pale, glowing yellow, and they observed me closely. There was a hole in the mouth as well, positioned in such a manner. that it looked like it was frowning. And in the mouth were rows and rows of deathly, thin teeth. The white pointed at me, its arm starting to stretch. Sick! It simply said, or screeched without moving its mouth.

I ran home, terrified. When I finally got home, the house was in shambles. Furniture thrown around. Shards of glass draping the wooden floor, planks ripped straight out from the wall, and my mother was missing. I found Ingrid, catatonic at the base of the stairs, and my father was comforting her. He gripped an axe tightly. Apparently, Ingrid had heard scratches on the door. She had run to tell my mother, he told her to hide.

She ran up to a room, crawled under the bed, and held her breath. She heard a loud noise and the sound of 20 feet tapping, a scream, and then silence. Silence for two minutes, she estimated. Then a maniacal cackle. The whites crept around the house looking for Ingrid. They turned every stone in the house and came an inch away from getting her too. They'd entered the room she was hiding in. At least three making a sound as if they were trying to smell her.

A long arm started feeling the underside of the bed and finally gripped my sister's foot. As luck would have it, my father had heard the screams and into the house, swinging a torch and axe, just as the creature had found Ingrid. They scattered, some jumping out through the open windows, some seemingly disappearing into thin air. But no sign of our mother. This was new. They had never encroached on our home before. Sure, they would make their presence known through knocking on the windows and crawling around the edge of the forest. But never like this. Maybe safety was no longer. Father, God, sloppy, after that dreadful morning.

I never said anything, but deep down I felt like he gave up. And I was angry at him for that. He still had two children to take care of, even though I know he blamed me for it all. I do not know what I did wrong. Still, to this day, we would last six more months on that farm. It was dark out, but not in the normal sense. Some nights are darker than others. that I now know.

In hindsight, maybe it was a sign. Pack your bags now. Get the hell out of these godforsaken lands. Alas, I cannot change the past. Father and I were eating a silent supper, some sort of stew with the side of potatoes. Before me sat a broken man, the marks of time chipping away at the marble.

Ingrid had, after her mother's presumed death, gotten into the habit of late-night walks. Father had protested, but she was relentless. A determination reminded me of Mom. This particular July night, she burst through the door, giving my heart some trouble with keeping up. She looked distraught, horrified. But worst of all, Sad. I disturbed the path, she simply stated.

There were no questions. No, how did you know you stepped on one of their roads if they're invisible? No, you'll just wait and see what happens. We all knew better than to think rationally about the whites. If Ingrid knew she had walked over one of their roads, she had done so. Father stood up. Getty things. Only essentials, I need to release the animals from the barn.

I do not want to give them anything for free, he said. That was a bad idea. He could just leave with us now. Why did he have to be so stubborn? However, there was no stopping him. Oh, how I wish I could have stopped him. He grabbed his jacket and sickle, slurped down the last. of the stew in motion and ran out of the door.

Ingrid and I started packing. I helped her with what constituted essentials only, while trying to pack mine and also my father's bag simultaneously. Some clothes and mora knife my father had given me and one of the necklaces I had stolen. That was it. The rest would be forever left behind. There was an invisible ticking clock hanging in the air.

The dread in the air started getting thick. You could almost touch it. Where was he? Ten minutes, fifteen minutes, twenty-five minutes. Something had gone wrong, and I had to go help him. I asked Ingrid to start the truck. She said she knew how. Then I was off to the races.

I don't think I ever had or would ever again run. that fast. I clenched my fist around my knife and started preparing myself for what I would face. Funnily enough, I could have spent my whole youth preparing for that sight, and it wouldn't be enough. I entered the barn silently, and the barn seemed to respond with its own silence. No animals to speak of. He had managed to free them. But where was he now? I crouched and made my way through the building slowly. There was scattered hay and muck on the floor. But this was no time to be fancy.

A weird smell emanated from the furthest corner. It was subtle at first, then stronger, and finally nauseating. Rot. Death. I turned the corner. And I almost threw up. Against the wall, two meters up, was my father. His torso separated from his head and limbs.

All of his parts were nailed towards the wood in a Jesus-esque manner. But the cross wasn't connected. When I got a little bit closer, I saw that it was, in fact, connected by thin strips of flesh. A cowboy crucified. In my shock, I could only think about two things. How did the rot advance so quickly? And where were they?

The answer to my second question appeared instantly. They materialised for nothing. Some were hanging on my father, digging claw-like extremities into him, or covering him in ox tallow. Some were dancing beneath. some were staring at me with empty yellow eyes. Tens of crystalline horrors descended upon my location in desperation. They stepped on each other, pushed each other to get to me. It was the most ancient of instincts that told me to run.

So I did. They were always just a step behind. It felt like they would grab me at any second, doing God-knows-what with me. I imagine the sharpness of their teeth. I imagine what they hid beneath that mask. In that moment I felt certain that if a man ever gazed upon their unmasked face, he would go mad. I barely managed to get out of the barn before one of them tackled me.

It pinned me to the ground and I slashed my knife at its body. The material of its body rapidly changed from solid to liquid form in the area I hit it. It floated in the air, not affected by gravity. Then it rematerialized the solid, attached to the white yet again. It had no effect. But it gave me a split second to slither out of its grip. I saw the headlights of our truck. I ran.

Where is he? My sister desperately asked. He's dead. Go! In the car, I noticed that much of what used him in my car, was missing. The whole muscle ripped, almost clean off. Someone must have been looking out for me. I don't know how I possibly ran that distance in that condition otherwise. After a couple of minutes, I passed out from the pain, so there is that. I could never quite sleep well after that night.

I could swear I started hearing their whispers everywhere, the sound of their feet, sneaking around barely out of sight, but I never saw them again. We must have been tied to the land. Thank everything that is holy. Both Ingrid and I carved out good lives for ourselves, but we carry this with us wherever we go. I do not know who moved up there after us. I pray they're still alive.

I pray they figured out the whites and what they mean, Otherwise, God rest their souls.