CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "When our town loses power, we light candles. Not for ourselves, but for them" Creepypasta

Episode Date: July 17, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Frequent-Cat:   / when_our_town_loses_power_we_light_candles...  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 web" ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher, and...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creepypasta  ►"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 was finishing up my afternoon shift at the gas station, when the power flickered once, twice, then died for good. The store went silent, except for the hum of the old drink fridge winding down, and outside the entire street had begun melting into darkness. For a moment, I stood behind the cash register, staring at the dead monitors, thinking about how I'd be leaving this place for college in two weeks. Thinking about how small and heavy it felt to still be here. By the time I logged up and stepped into the fading sunlight,

candlelight was already blooming in windows up and down Main Street. Tiny flames flickered behind lace curtains and lined porch railings, glowing against the dark like cautious eyes. That was just what people did here whenever the power failed. It didn't matter if it was a two-minute brownout or an hour. overnight storm outage, candles came out fast. No one ever explained it to me in words that made sense. I just grew up knowing that when the lights went out, he lit a candle for them. No one really said who they were. No one wanted to. I've always gone along with it,

habit mostly, maybe a bit of fear too, if I'm honest, but nothing deeper than that. Grandma was the believer. She would hum under a breath, low and tuneless, as she lit each wick in the living room. Her hands would tremble as she moved from candle to candle, whispering prayers I never fully understood. The prayers meant to keep us safe, she said. I used to watch her and wonder if she really believed in what she was doing,

or if believing was just easier than asking questions no one had answers for. All I knew was that every window in our street would glow By the time the first hour of the blackout passed Every porch would have a candle burning And every family would stay inside Quiet waiting for the power to come back on I jogged the short distance home My train is slapping the pavement in the hush

There was just enough daylight left to make it home Without the streetlights the neighbourhood felt swallowed by the sky, leaving only small islands of flickering light in the windows. Every porch had its candle lanterns burning. Some families set out mason jars with tea lights lining their walkways, flames bending and trembling in the spring wind. It was beautiful in a way,

if I didn't think too hard about why we did it. No one was outside, not even porch smokers or gossiping neighbors leaning on rails. Windows were curtained tightly. The only movement came from the restless flames themselves, stretching shadows across gardens and driveways. When I was little,

I used to think the candles made the town look warm and alive. Grandma would tell me stories about how her own mother lit them every blackout, whispering that they kept the watchers calm. At school, teachers never spoke about it. My friends and I would joke that the candles was just a hillbilly blackout tradition, something to make us feel special when power companies ignored us. But I still lit them.

We all did. Even the new families who moved here eventually fell in line. No one wanted to be the only house dark during an outage. Our house sat at the end of Sycamore Lane, a sagging one story with peeling blue trim. It was smaller than most, with two thin porch posts wrapped in chipped plastic ivy. Grandma always said she liked being at the edge, away from the busier parts of town. Fewer eyes watching her every move, she'd whisper with a smile.

Though I never understood what that meant. I pushed through the gate and up the front steps two at a time, the wood creaking under my weight. My fingers shook as I thumbed the keys from my pocket. I wanted to see a silhouette in the window rocking slowly in a chair, candlelight pooling around a lined face as she mouthed prayers into the quiet. That was how it always was. Even when the power returned, she lit the candles burn down to wax puddles before blowing them out just to be sure.

Inside, the living room smelled of lavender wax and melted paraffin. Dozens of tea lights flickered along the windowsill and the old bookshelves crammed with worn cookbooks and yarn baskets but there was no humming to greet me no whispered psalms or half-forgotten lollabies weaving through the candle-lit shadows grandma was slumped in a rocking chair head leaning against the shoulder

her eyes are open staring at nothing the glow of the candles lit a face from below deepening every wrinkle into something hollow unwaxon. Her chest rose and fell in shadow, uneven breath that rattled in a throat. Grandma? My voice cracked as I crossed the room, dropping my bag by the door. I crouched beside her, gripping her wrist. Her skin felt cold and damp.

She didn't blink. Her breathing fluttered like a candle about to go out. For a long moment, I knelt there, listening to the ticking of the wind-up clock on the bookshelf and the soft hiss of candlewicks burning low. Outside, the street was silent, holding its breath under the blackout sky. Emergency services never came out during a blackout, whether it was due to tradition or a logistical reason I never knew. But what I did know was it was useless to try. My chest tightened. I stood and moved to the candle shelf,

pulling down the box of fresh votives. If Grandma couldn't finish them tonight, I would. I didn't know what else to do. All I could think was, keep them burning, keep her safe, keep whatever waited in the dark from thinking

our house was empty. I moved through the house with a box of votives balanced against my hip, placing candles in her, every room. The kitchen counters were already lined with wax-stained saucers from past blackouts, each ready to cradle a flickering flame. I lit one beside the sink, another on the breakfast table near Grandma's half-finished crossword. Her pencil rested

diagonally across the grid, its razor worn down to metal. In the hallway, I set a stubby pillar candle atop the shoe cabinet, its orange glow stretching toward the bedrooms. Shadows dance across the peeling floral wallpaper, blooming and shrinking in the shifting light. Each flicker made me flinch. I kept listening for Grandma's voice, hoping she would call out to me,

ask what I was doing, or tell me I missed the spot. But the house stayed silent, apart from the quiet hiss of wicks catching fire. At the bathroom door, I paused the checker breathing again. From the hallway, I could see her chest rising and falling, slow and uneven. Relief thin the tightness in my throat for a moment. I whispered a quick prayer, words she used to say when I was scared of thunder. Keep her safe, keep them away, bring back the sun.

The last candle sat on the living room window ledge. I knelt and held the match to the wick. For a moment, the flame flared bright, illuminating the frost-webbed glass. My reflection glowed there, skin pale under the candle's bloom. I moved to blow out the match, but something beyond the window caught my eye. A figure stood at the edge of the yard where the candlelight faded into darkness. She wore her cotton house dress with a hem that bowed. brushed her ankles, and her hair was pinned back neatly from her face.

The woman's shoulders were straight, her head tilted slightly to one side. Even from where I knelt, I could see her smile. My heart thumped so loud I couldn't breathe. It was Grandma. She raised one hand and curled her fingers in a gentle beckoning motion, inviting me out into the darkness, Beyond the candles. My hands fumbled for my phone as I backed away from the window.

Emergency services were no help, but maybe someone from the town knew what to do. The screen lit up blue and empty. No bars, no emergency signal. I tried again, pressing the numbers harder, as if force alone could push the call through. Each failed attempt made my chest tighten until I felt I couldn't draw breath at all. Come on, come on, my voice shook in the quiet room. The only answer was the low hiss of the candles burning along the shelf. I shoved the phone into my pocket and turned to check on grandma. For a moment, I thought she was still there in a chair. The shadows clung thick

around the cushions, curling into shapes I almost recognized. I stepped closer. I heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my teeth. The chair was empty. The front door stood open, letting in a chill breeze that carried the faint scent of damp earth and blown out matches. The candles by the entry had been extinguished, wax pooling around black and wicks. Their smoke coiled upward and thin grey ribbons that faded into the dark. Grandma? My voice cracked.

I rushed to the doorway and peered outside. The street stretched silent under the blackout sky, only lit by the flickering candles in windows and porches. I stepped onto the porch boards, clutching the frame to keep my knees from buckling. Grandma! I shouted again, louder this time. My voice echoed off quiet houses, then fell flat. At the far end of the street shadows flickered at the edge of the driveway.

They were tall, thin shapes standing just beyond the candlelight's reach. They didn't move, they didn't speak, but I could feel their attention pressing against my skin, pricking cold and sharp as sleet. Lights glowed behind curtain windows. I saw a neighbor across the street pulled back a lace curtain with two fingers,

her eyes wide and round in the dimness. Our gaze is met. She shook her head once in a quick, desperate motion before letting the curtain fall back into place. Another window brightened as someone flicked on a flashlight only to click it off immediately, leaving candle flames to flutter alone. Please, I whispered,

though I didn't know who I was asking. I remembered Grandma's mother's old warning, the one she always made me repeat before bed during storms when the lights flickered. Never go outside during a blackout without a single lit candle. They can't see you if you carry the light. My hands were empty. I was standing barefoot in the dark, nothing but silent watches between me and the rest of the world. I stepped off the porch, the chill grass flattening under my bare feet. My eyes darted across the yard, scanning for any sign of her.

The shadows at the end of the street still stood silent and watchful. I forced myself to look away, focusing instead on the ground directly before me. Halfway to the garden beds, a faint glimmer caught my eye. I moved closer, hard thudding against my ribs so hard it hurt. There, nestled among the dandelion stalks and damp earth, lay grandma's old brass candle holder. Its curved handle rested on a patch of flattened grass, wax pooled and solidifying around the wick.

I crouched and touched it with trembling fingers. The wax was still warm. The scent of lavender clung to it, soft and sweet. in the cold air. Tears prickled in my eyes. She never let this candle go out, not once in all my years living with her, constantly replacing it when it got low. She kept it by a chair every night, even when there was no blackout, flame flickering against the dark until dawn came back. I clutched the holder to my chest and stood, wiping my eyes with my sleeve. The street felt wrong in its silence.

My gaze drifted past the fences and rooftops toward the tree line at the far edge of town. Beyond the open fields, in the dense clutch of old pines and bare-boned oaks, hundreds of tiny lights flickered between the trunks. Pin bricks of gold hovered in the dark, steady and silent. They weren't fireflies. The lights didn't barble bounce. each remained fixed at a different height.

Some low to the ground, others near the canopy, spread among the trees in careful, unnatural patterns. My breath caught. I could almost see shapes holding them. Figures with edges blurred by shadow, each carrying a pale, unwavering flame inside them. They stood in silent rows facing my direction, though I couldn't see their eyes.

The sight made my skin tighten until I felt I might crawl out of it just to escape the feeling. I realized then why it never made sense before. Growing up, I always thought the candles were for us. They kept bad things away and kept our homes safe until the power returned. That's what everyone said, even if they never explained how. But no one ever talked about the woods. No one ever spoke about what the candles were keeping lit for. It was a gap I never noticed because I didn't want to,

because the thought that the lights weren't barriers, but invitations felt too heavy to hold as a child. So I never asked. None of us did. A memory rose sharp and sudden, Grandma's voice, low and quivering, as she cleaned and trimmed the old wicks. They need light to find their way home

If we don't give it to them They'll look for another glow to follow I pressed the hand over my mouth Fighting the nausea climbing up my throat The candles weren't meant to keep spirits away They were to guide them back to wherever they came from To keep them moving past us Without the light showing them the path

They'd find another source another warmth, another living glow to carry them through the dark. And tonight, the only other light left. Was me. My breath rasped in my throat, shallow and quick, but I forced myself to move slowly. Rushing would only make the candle flicker harder. With how close I was getting,

if it went out, I knew I would not be able to relight it in time. The closer I drew to the tree line, the colder the air became. My bare arms prickled with goosebumps and sweat cooled against the back of my neck. The pine trunks rose tall and silent before me, their branches clawing at the dark sky. Between them, the flickering lights spread deeper, forming rows and clusters among the shadows. I paused at the edge of the woods, the scent of damp needles and rotting leaves, curling into my nose. The candle trembled in the faint breeze

and small flame bending toward the trees. I moved forward in a single step, then another, careful to keep the holder level. My hands ached from gripping it so tightly, but I didn't dare loosen my hold. As I crossed into the tree line, the light shifted. They began to move,

drifting out from behind trunks and thickets. Figures emerged with them, pale shapes that blurred at their edges. The faces were smooth and empty, with thin, white skins stretched over blank hollows. Each one emitted a small light from their chest. Maybe a representation of their soul made manifest, looking like a flame standing tall without so much as a tremor. Each only had one light in them. If I had come with more candles for safety,

They didn't make a sound, no footfalls, no breaths, just the soft hiss of wax burning and the faint crackle of my own candle as I passed them. I had to walk slowly, measuring each step to keep from stubbing over roots or fallen branches. The candle's flame pulled my attention, forcing me to watch it more than my path. The ground was littered with pine needles and twigs,

each threatening to shift under my weight. Every time the wick gutted from a trembling step, my chest clenched so hard I felt a might vomit from fear alone. The pale figures pressed closer, creating a narrow corridor of flickering gold. The heads turned to follow my movement, though they had no eyes to see me with.

My scalp prickled with constant sweat as I felt their attention tighten around me, a silent suffocating curiosity. They parted ahead, revealing a small clearing deep among the trees. In the centre, stood my grandmother. Her thin cotton nightgown billowed faintly around her ankles in the breeze,

though her hair and arms remain utterly still. She stared forward, eyes glazed and unblinking, mouth slack, her hands hung at her sides, empty. A shape moved behind her, taller than the others, dark enough to drink in every shred of candlelight nearby. Its form shifted with each step, thin and bony. Its hand emerged from the gloom, long and skeletal, skin stretched taut over jutting knuckles. It extended its hand toward mine, palm up, waiting. The meaning pressed into my chest.

with a weight of stone. It wanted my candle, my light in exchange for grandma's return, a soul for a soul, or at least what it thought was a soul. I died to my grip until my knuckles burned, unable to breathe past the cold swell in my throat.

Even though I knew I wasn't giving it my soul, I was still handing over my only light, Without the flame Would I find my way back Through these trees Without it Would I become just another flickering shape Among the silent congregation

My grip loosened around the brass holder The flame wavoured once Before steadying again Bright and calm against the dark The skeletal hand remained outstretched fingers curling in silent invitation My chest felt tight enough To crack my ribs apart

Every instinct screamed to turn and run, but I forced myself to take a trembling step forward. I extended the candle. The figure's hand closed around the holder, skin crackling with a sound like frozen branches breaking. The instant my fingers let go, the darkness searched inward. Shadows rushed past my face, cold and sharp, scraping against my skin as if testing its warm. warmth. I lunged for Grandma, my fingers wrapped around a thin wrist, gripping bone under soft skin. She didn't move at first. For a single crushing moment, I thought I'd traded a soul for nothing, that I'd lost both of us to the woods forever. Then her arm twitched in my grasp, her chest rose in a

sudden, ragged breath. Her eyes flickered with awareness, confusion clouding her gaiting again. as she turned her head to look at me. The shadows shrieked without sound, rushing forward with a sudden violent hunger. Without a candle, I no longer blended in. And just like an immune system, they went straight for me, as if I were an invader.

They clawed in my shoulders, scraping across my back, ripping the thin fabric of my shirt with ice-cold fingers. I tightened my eyes. held on Grandma and pulled her forward, forcing her feet to move across the pine-littered ground. We stumbled between the pale watchers, weaving through their silent ranks, branches snagged in my hair and whipped across my face, scratching skin raw. Roots rose from fallen needles, catching my toes and sent me staggering with each step. Grandma gasped beside me,

half dragged, her thin legs trembling with effort. The wood stretched on her. The wood stretched on Unendlessly, every tree the same twisted silhouette in the wavering candlelight ahead. The shadows closed in behind us. I could feel them brushing against my back, pressing cold fingers to my spine. My legs burned with each lunging step, muscle shaking so hard I thought they might give out before we reached the edge of the trees. We broke from the tree line into the open. The house stood ahead. porch lights dark, candles flickering weakly in the windows.

My legs gave out for half a step, and Grandma stumbled beside me, her feet scraping uselessly across the grass. The shadows poured from the woods, stretching over the lawn in curling, gasping streams. She sagged in my arms, her head falling against my shoulder. Her voice was thin, barely more than a breath. Leave me. She whispered, You have to run.

They're too close. No, I gasped, tightening my grip around a waist. I'm not leaving you. Please, she breathed, tears spilling from her closed eyes. Go, they only need one. I tried to pull her forward, but her knees buckled. It was a miracle she made it this far in her age, and it didn't look like it would be able to make the distance together.

The shadows surged, reaching for her first, curling black fingers around her ankles and calves, creeping up a thin cotton nightgown. Panic burned in my throat, hot and choking. The house felt impossibly far away, its candlelight too weak to shield us from the cold tide crawling across the grass. A door swung open across the street. Mr. Harris, our elderly neighbor, stood in his doorway, holding out a pair of thick pillar candles, the flames strong and steady in the wind. His eyes were wide, shining with terror. Take it, he shouted.

I let go of Grandma's wrist for a split second, grabbing the candles from his shaking hand. I rushed the second into my Grandma's hand as she was being dragged across the lawn. The instant the flame passed into the grip, the shadows recalled. with a snapping hiss, the shapes crumbled backward, folding in on themselves, until nothing remained but the night breeze bending in the grass. I clutched the candle to my chest, its warmth seeping into my frozen fingers. Grandma sagged against my side, her breath's ragged but strong. The porchboards creaked under our weight as I half dragged her up the steps and into the

soft circle of flickering light. The first pale light of dawn bled into the sky, turning the edges of the woods to washed out grey. Streetlights flickered back to life, humming with a familiar low buzz. Power returned with a quiet surge, clocks blinking 12 in every room. The candle still burned,

the flames small and stubborn against the morning light. I sat beside Grandma's bed, dipping her cloth in warm water to clean the scratches along her arms. Her skin was thin and marked with bruises and cuts where the shadows had grabbed her. She winced once, then fell silent again, staring at the ceiling with heavy eyes. Almost done, I whispered, wrapping gauze around the deeper cut near her elbow. My own hands trembled with exhaustion, wrists blotched with purple where clawed fingers had scraped away skin.

The house felt empty, despite the quiet wearer of appliances coming back to life. The candles burned on every shelf and table, their wicks curling black above trembling flames. Grandma's gaze shifted toward me, unfocused at first. Then her eyes cleared,

and she reached out, her fingertips brushing my wrist. Thank you, she whispered. Her voice roar and hoarse. Thank you for bringing me home. I swallowed the tight ache in my throat and pressed a hand between mine.

Rest now, I said. You're safe. When a breathing slowed into a gentler rhythm, I stood and gathered left over candles from the hallway. The sun had risen beyond the fields, painting the window glass gold. But I lit one last candle anyway and set it on the sill. Its flame glowed against the daylight, a thin orange tongue dancing in silence.

I watched the tree line beyond our yards where the shadows still clung low to the ground. The candle flicked once, its scent of lavender curling warm into the room. Maybe this is how it goes, that when life ends here, we're taken to be willing. one with those things. There's a chance I've disrupted the natural flow of this town. All I know is I've bought some more time for my grandma, for when she inevitably joins them. In the next blackout.