CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "When the wheat grew over our heads, we weren’t allowed outside" Creepypasta

Episode Date: November 3, 2020

The Gah - ree - loCREEPYPASTA STORY►by mikerich15: 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...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-

I'm afterdam, for the maids'er. For the maids, they're two-hour faster. Doy. Toadm? With Eurocity direct, though? 16 times per day from out Brussels and in two-hour. Now, from 19 euros, in place of 25. Book you tickets on NMBS International.com.

The festival season is aang broken, and that betticket. And so, came Kim to Amazon.com. On the way. On look to a water-dict tent, a comfortable luget. Oh, so, knus. And Lupeartprint regalards. Miao. Now, Kim, Just like Kim, just like,

Mauder man, oh, wait a-hack-is-even, have he now only modder on? Oh, yeah, only modder. DROG-Blyver? Gare for. Find what you need to know-hob.com.com. This is the first thing I remember. When the weeds grew over our heads, mother and father sat my brother and I down on the kitchen table,

looked us each in the eye and said, you can't go into the fields. Why? I asked. I had been asking why to almost everything my parents would say You have to brush your teeth Why? You have to wash your hands Why? You can't push your brother Why? Why?

So, when they said we weren't allowed outside My response was almost automatic Why? I looked over at my older brother The one who made me laugh all day The one who was always being silly Not listening to mother Getting into trouble anytime he could

always happy. He wasn't smiling. He was wide-eyed, hand-hanging, frozen, staring out the window behind me, locked in to the nightmare. My father put his hand on my shoulder, gently, but with enough pressure to snap my eyes back to his. He breathed the words out, distantly, deadpan, serious. The garrie low will see you. The gary low will take you. The gary low will take. you. Then, the gau will lead you. Year one. When the wheat grew over our heads, my brother and I shut the curtains in all the rooms. If I could see the fields to the window, I wouldn't be able to stop looking. My mother found me one day, standing and swaying, dancing with a wind-blown wheat.

She tried to get my attention, clapping in my face, screaming my name. But if she touched me, I would let loose a shrieking, wailing and wailing, like a screeching kettle. My brother ran to the window, closed the curtains, and I stopped screaming. Then my brother, my mother and I, stood there, hugging each other, crying together. The garrie low took three that year.

Year two. It doesn't seem possible now, but the wheat had barely begun to burst out the ground one day. Then the next morning, it was just there. A great sheet of yellow and grey, a tide a wave of weaving wheat stalks, tossed around in the wind like kelp in a storm surge. I cried and yelled and screamed at the windows, and my mother ran to me, hugged me close and whispered, Please, be quiet, the Gary Lowe will hear you. Shh, only one was taken that year.

His head was left on the doorstep of his house. The Gary Lowe always left the head. Year three. When the wheat grew tall enough, it began to bend and break under its own weight. It would slowly droop over like an old man with a broken back. Then the morning came when the wheat could no longer hold itself up and it collapsed to the ground. My father would rush into our bedroom, hooping and hollering with an unbridled joy I never saw from him any other day of the year.

He would whistle some tune as he put on his boots and went out to the field with the grin plastered on his face. In his hands he held a giant, blade, a reaper's sith, and, my father would whip it through the air, decapitating each stalk. I'll never forget the sounds. That whipping sound, as the blade cut through the air. Then, the halting, thump, as each stalk fell to the ground, one by one the wheat would fall. Shht, thump.

We called this, the calling. The moment when we were finally free. if only for a short time. It would take three days for father to clear the whole field. Shhh. Each day I would sit at the window, watching my father, big and strong, cutting down the storks. No, not watching my father, watching the fields, waiting for Garillo to take my father to eat everything but the head. Each day of the calling, I would open the front door, and find my father's head on the doorstep. I would scream and scream, and my mother would come and hold me, telling me father's head wasn't there. Not really. It's just in your mind. Still, I waited for Garri Lowe to come. Year 4. It was outside my window. The Garri Lowe. Pitched black night. I could hear it through the windows, even though they were closed. Short bursts of quiet, high-pitched grunts.

Then slamming, a vicious thundering on the floorboards, conclusive waves that were almost rhythmic. The sound ripped my ears apart from the inside. So loud it felt like it was in the room, screaming into my face. I instinctively hit the light switch, and suddenly there was nothing. Dead quiet in a brightly lit room. A still moment as I took my breath. Scurrying noises on the wall outside my room made me scream.

In seconds, it would be at my window. Too late, and caught a glimpse of it, framed through clear glass. The garillo, monstrous, and ancient, and antiquitous terror, sinewy, spiderous limbs hung low in the air. Crawling, slithering. I screamed, and it looked right at me. I have never had a sleep without nightmare since. No human deaths were recorded that year, but a herd of wild horses was found slaughtered the next month. morning, 15 eviscerated corpses, soaking the surrounding grass meadow in a sickly red. Year 5. The wheat had begun to sprout, and it was like a permanent shadow had fallen over our home.

We felt it in our bones. The garrie low was coming. For the first time, my father took me into town. The town was no more than a single main street, something you'd dry past on your way to somewhere else. We needed supply. things elast us through the wheat season. Sometimes it took weeks, sometimes it took for the wheat to grow tall enough to fall over. Sometimes it took months, weeks and months where we'd have to stay inside. The thing I remember most about the visit were the other people. I'd only ever saw Geoffrey and his father, our far-off neighbours who came around once a year to visit and to trade. Trade what, father? Whatever we needed. But, walking down that small, simple mainstores.

street. I remember the other people. When they all looked away. When they saw us, they averted the gaze. Heads down, eyes almost closed. Then I would look at my father, his head high and proud, eyes always forward. Why are they looking at his father? They are ashamed. Of us father? No son. Of themselves. He wouldn't tell me why they felt shame, why they wouldn't look at him, or me. I should have asked. Maybe he would have told me. I also remember the girl, Sandy, walking hand in hand with the mother. She was the only one who looked at me. Bright blue eyes, straight blonde hair, down to her shoulder. Probably, only a little older than I was at the time. Sandy's head was found the next morning, after the culling. Year six. The winter snow had melted, revealing the bare earth.

that would soon begin to sprout. In the weeks that followed the melt, we had lots of adult come to the house. I just remember my parents sitting in the living room with the visitors, hushed voices, constant glances towards the windows where the wheat fields loomed over us. Then my father, big and proud and strong, finally standing up and saying, No, we will never. When the wheat grew over our heads that year, we heard the gari low every night. A mournful, angry call. Sometimes it felt far away. Distant rumblings Of a passing thunderhead. Other times it was in our field.

We shut the blinds. Didn't turn on any lights of the dark. My father sitting on his chair and facing the front door. His huge scythe laid across his lap. Sometimes the gary low would slam against the house. Not against the door. Never the door. Thundering thrashes on the ventures on the very foundation rattling the floorboards. My mother holding my

and I, telling us to stop crying. Please, you must be quiet. Then one night, humans screams cut through the air. The next morning, the wheat had fallen over, and my father started the culling. One of the spring visitors came to our door. He was on his knees, head in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably. My father held on to him. The man just kept saying, I'm sorry, over and over again. The gary low He saw him

He saw him He wouldn't look at us Year 7 The townhall meeting I was finally old enough to come to the annual event The only time the whole town came together in one spot Hard to remember everything that was said Lots of yelling, lots of people huddled together

Crying, screaming at each other Then my father stood up And everyone here knows what they have to do. their mothers, their mothers, knew what they had to do, he said. Those who have decided not to know where they stand with me. No one is coming to help.

Then a group of men, six in total, stood up and said, We will kill the Gariloh once and for all. No one cheered, no one clapped. My father sat, shaking his head. The six had heavy jackets, guns, axes, and machetes to their bodies. They came through our fields, to the forest that lay far beyond our property,

a dot on the horizon. Where the gari low comes from. The six never came back. One head did. My father found it on our doorstep. Year 8. Our closest neighbour, Geoffrey Farling, or Farling, as my father would call him,

came to the house with his son, Jeffrey the third, Jeffrey the calling. after the colling, we would visit and play, as I imagine normal children did when they didn't have to think of the fields. This year, though, something was different. Farling was worn down, eyes sunken, loose skin that hung off his face.

He and my father were arguing in the kitchen. I only remember snippets. We can't keep... Fowling said. We have to. We are the only ones. Given everything, tried. Lossed everyone. My father turned and seemed to sense. For the first time that I was there and I could hear them, he stood up and shrewed us out of the house. We started running around the yard outside when Geoffrey III suddenly froze in place. I asked, are you okay? He whispered back.

The gary low I shot him I shot him and looked back. We never spoke its name outside of the wheat season. It won't. Not if you follow the rules, I hushed to him. He stood with his back to me gazing out into the fields.

Just like it got my brother, he said. It was the first time he had said anything about it. Geoffrey II had been taken two seasons before. He turned around to look through me. Then he pointed a small, bony finger to the horizon. The gary low, we'll get all of us.

And then he walked back into the house. On the day after the culling, Papa went to visit Geoffrey's farm. Farling hadn't come, which was something that hadn't happened in ten years. When he came back, father's face was pale, ashen and streaked with tears. tears. The man was a walking block of granite. Jeffrey Farling had woken up in the morning of the culling and couldn't find his son. Instead, he found two small fingernails dug into the soil outside the front door and drag marks going back into the wheat fields. Papa held Farling, held him close and tight as Farling kept rocking back and forth on his knees, whispering the same thing over and over. I thought it was okay. it was supposed to be okay.

Jeffrey's head Year 9. My brother's 16th birthday. In the morning my father came into her room and hugged him. My mother cried. I can never stand to see my mother cry but when I went over to her

I realised she was laughing. My father and brother too all smiling and embracing and laughter coming out of them. They looked at me and must have heard the questions rolling around in my head. My brother bent down and said, now it can help now the garillo won't get me. On the calling, my father gave my brother his very own scythe, and they went to work. Schhththt, thump. I stood there on the porch, unable to touch the ground

below. I scanned the horizon, looking for the garillo, daring it to come. You can't get them Now, Day two And gone And my brother and I Awelled away I was asking him The wheat and the fields

Were you scared? Was it tiring? Will I get my own scythe? He was so tired He could barely reciprocate The energy of my youth Just non-committal grunts I went to sleep

To the sound of his snoring I woke up to the sound Of something else The room was picture black. No moon. Why did I wake up? Something in my dream. I was being pulled across the floor. No, not the floor. The fields. I was being pulled through the dirt, crying and begging. I took my hands into the soil and the nails ripped off. I was Geoffrey III. The Garry Lowe had come. Then I remember why I woke up. The Garri Lowe was in our house.

house. I looked over. I looked over. But he was empty. His blanket on the floor. It was outside my room. It had to be a dream. I willed myself to wake up. My brother was 16. He was going to be okay. He was supposed to be okay. I summoned the courage to get out of my bed. Only then did I hear him. My brother. So soft, it was almost imperceptible. But that was my brother's voice. I followed it The one that looked out The one that was never

Open. The curtains Were never up But now they were They were up And the window was open And I caught my first glimpse of my brother He was standing at the edge of the lawn The place where the grass stopped

And the wheat began His back was to the house To me But, swaying in the wind, matching the wheat. The wheat. There was a section that hadn't fallen over yet. Impossible. And my brother was standing right in front of it.

But he was 16. He was supposed to be okay. Then, his shimmer, a wave of movement so quick, I almost missed a thing. Move across the air. Shhtk. Thumb. My brother's head was taken off his body so quickly that his body still moved. His hands dug themselves into the dirt in a last gasp of instinctual preservation,

so primal that he was ingrained into his bones. The Gary Lowe was taking him. The Gary Lowe would eat him. My brother's head, sitting upright on the grass, the last surprised look of his open eyes, staring right back at me. Then, screaming. Mine. my fathers,

And, The garry low, year ten. The wheat wouldn't stop growing, it wouldn't fall over. We've been inside for three months. Every morning, my father would take a deep breath and open the curtains, and every morning his body would visibly sag. My parents shared a look. I could see the fear in both of their faces.

I asked my father if this has ever happened before. He just shook his head. He hadn't spoken a word since my brother the year before. Then the wheat stalks began to move on the back edge of the field. They shuddered and shook. The garry low. We shut the curtains, turned off the lights. We sat together, huddled on the couch, gripping each other. My mother was silently saying prayers under a breath. My father just stared straight ahead, looking at the picture set on the wall above the door. The same picture he always looked at every morning. He would put his hand upon it every time he left a cartside. I asked him about it once years ago. I asked him who the group of people were,

the ones who all stood side by side with axes and sores and scythe's in their hands. There must have been a hundred of them. They were standing in front of a forest, the same forest that lay beyond our property. When I asked him all those years ago, all he told me was this. This. Those are my ancestors. They took this town. They made this town. That was the last he ever spoke of it. Now he stood up, an unfamiliar look on his face. My mother began to cry and plead with him. Don't do it, she said, you can't. My father simply stood there, looking at me, and then smiled the saddest smile I'd ever seen.

I hadn't known. He bent down. He bent down, put a big, and said he loved me, that he had been wronged this whole time, about the town, about the people, about my brother, about the gari low. Then he walked out the door and into the field. Watching my father, as he went into the field, I saw something open up. some great, gaping more of darkness. My mother, me, for my father, father, he kept walking. Did he not see it? The black, the black, father, don't go. Then, a hideous screech, everything was just gone. In one fell motion, the entire field of wheat simply tumbled over, and my father was never seen again. My mother and I waited until the snow fell, when the fields were glazed with a white sheet of ice, before moving out and away from the only place I'd ever known.

When we left, the effect was almost immediate. I began to forget, about my brother, about my father, about the garillo. My mother never spoke about either of them, or the town, or any of it ever again. I don't think she forgot, though. Some nights I'd catch a crying, to herself. I left her

she died she died, old, loved, alone. The next phase of my life was mundane and unremarkable. I got a job, met someone, we had one child, a girl. It was when she turned 16 that everything changed. She wanted to go to the country.

For all my life, I'd never been interested in it. All that open space, that open air, the fundamental lack of civilization. I hated the idea of it, but I could never figure out why. Then we drove out to a farm where she could pick apples. I screamed in the car when I saw it. The wheat, fields of it all around me. I screamed and screamed until my partner pulled us over and she grabbed my face. I saw her and heard my daughter crying as everything flooded out of me. The car really low. I remembered. We didn't continue on that day.

I couldn't move a muscle, couldn't drive, couldn't talk, because the gari lo was still out there. It would find me. It would take me. And it will eat me.