Creepy - Day 1 - I Was Born on a Child Farm

Episode Date: October 1, 2020

Some people never really leave...***Content warning: child abuse/death***Written by IAmHowardMoxley***See your donation rewards podcast at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCQ3SrH_3fsROXFAjomKcUtw***Produced by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and dismal. disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents the 31 days of horror. Day one. I was born.

on a child farm written by I.M. Howard Moxley. There is no free will. Those are the first words I ever read. I woke to them every day for many years. They were written on a sign. The sign was hung above the opposite row of bunks in the sleeping barn. I have no memories from before the farm.

I assumed I was born there. None of the children there knew why we were. were here or where we came from. Nobody even knew how long we'd been at the farm. Some children aged. Some didn't. I can't remember much, but that's what happens when you're not given too much to remember. I remember always being deliriously hungry.

We'd be fed three small meals a day. But before everyone, headmaster ran on Zenon, would make us watch him sprinkle a few drops of clear liquid from a labelless brown bottle on the food. Then he would serve behind a steel door and slide out each meal through a window so you never knew if your meal was poisoned. Some of us stands thrown the edges of their food. Nobody was eager to dive in. Not when we'd seen a dozen kids turn blue and die in front of us after picking the wrong meal.

Several of us rarely ate the food. I never ate from my plate. I would scavenge what little clean scraps there were in the garbage. I ate four crows. They are just as disgusting as saying implies. And I'd go full Renfield and eat flies, ants, dandelions, cockroaches, clover, pillbugs, anything living and somewhat edible. I would keep the spiders.

I had a special place for those. The twenty boys and thirty-odd girls worked in the fields, provided all the food to the farm, a crumbling wood compound fenced by tall barbed wire in the surrounding woods. Past that? The wilderness. Even though there wasn't spotlights or guards, the farm was much more inescapable than a prison. Every few weeks headmaster Xenon would take the near hundred of us to the edge of his farm,

where he would blow a strange brass whistle. bloodshot German Shepherd sprang from underneath as if they've been waiting for his call while was foaming as they gnashed their teeth on the rusted barbed wire threatening to break in and chew us alive as the headmaster coldly smiled and spoke with a voice that sounded like gunshots fired far away their old dogs gone rabid i have learned through one of you how to train them so they only obey me and if you run they will kill you or make you wish you stayed here with me the farm never had answers very few people came the rare delivery trucks a prison bus a black tinted window thunderbird that made a powerful turbine roar as if rocket engines were installed under the hood and they only dealt with the headmaster the only person to leave the with the driver of the Thunderbird. There was a rumor that we were not real kids at all,

that Headmaster Xenon was a demon who crafted us all from blood and ash. We never dared speak to the headmaster, and asking a question was ludicrous, as a question would mean a touch from his hard, cruel hand, a hand that made the surrounding air a pincushion of pain that would sting your skin, even if his hand grazed yours. But above the poisonings, back-breaking labor and cleaning, scavenging for food and never knowing a single day what was going on, we feared the night's worst of all. Being exhausted from working in the fields all day wasn't enough to overcome the fear to sleep. When it was darkest and the air had fallen still, we would hear the headmaster's creaking footsteps just appear.

in the center of the drafty barn without any kind of warning. Sometimes we would hear him walk on the roof, up the walls, on the ceiling. I can still hear his breathing if I close my eyes. That sick pigs wheezing agonized breath that sucked air in and out in a guttural exhaust. The breathing and the footsteps would circle and circle until he heard someone cry.

That's when the Taken would give one last cry before they were gone. Along with the headmaster, the missing child would return to their beds in the morning bearing new marks. A glancing finger left a nasty red and purple smear on one side. Sometimes black fingertips dotted their bodies. We would never say anything about these marks to anyone. We were always afraid the headmaster would hear, and give us matching marks to boot. Sometimes he would touch you with his entire palm,

leaving a wrinkled imprint as raw and painful as hot iron brand. I had a few marks as well, but I considered myself lucky that I only had a few marks, as far as I could tell. I was one of four boys and five girls who cleaned the headmaster's home, the farmhouse. I cleaned the bathrooms and emptied out the shit cisterns, by slop bucket and rope.

I cleaned the bathrooms, and eventually I found a few loose ceiling boards above the toilets where I was scrubbing for mildew, standing on the windowsill. They were right above his toilet. I began thinking, this was my life for what felt like many years. I swore I could have named 25 separate times the frost came, but we had no way of keeping track of time.

not even by our ages. I swore sometimes we would see a kid go from looking 13 or 14 back down to looking half that. Time made no sense at the farm, and I knew that I wasn't going to get out by waiting. When I'd woke one morning to find a searing red-hot handprint of headmaster ran on Xenon on my upper arm, a hazy starvation-induced pain emerged from the fog of my brain. I went to the special place by the cisterns where I had kept every black widow spider I had come across. I kept them behind a false brick in the side of the farmhouse

where I had once collected eight of them and discovered that black widows were cannibalistic when grouped together. Only the strongest survived. I kept hosting tournaments until 108 black widow spiders were reduced to 26 of the more. toxic, twitchy, and bite-crazy widows you never want to meet. I was bitten only twice and came very close to an agonizing death both times. I knew one bite wouldn't do a monster like Xenonan.

I was set. I was ready to enact the last stage of my plan when everything changed on a cold day in early December when a helicopter as black as the Thunderbird made a couple of low-sorice. circles over the farm. Raynon Zinnon went insane. He poisoned half of the meals the day after the helicopter came. And after breakfast, he took us all outside to form a queue outside the chicken slaughterhouse. When he began leading us in one by one, a few joined me and ran.

Judging from the screams, he caught most of the runners. But he didn't catch me. I spent many nights fantasizing about this moment when I wasn't listening to his footsteps of sick breathing. I put the black widows inside an old compartmentalized chocolate box scavenged out of the woodpile, perfect for keeping each one locked away. I went up through the floorboards and hidden the space in the bathroom. The headmaster may not sleep through this paranoia,

but everyone's got to go eventually. Even monsters. Those cisterns didn't shit themselves. It was dark by the time that he arrived with his candle. The sound of him pulling down his trousers and his simultaneous grunt masked the sound of me moving the planks above him aside and pulling the lid off the box of 26 nightmares,

showering the headmaster with ravenous crazed gladiators. My beauties began biting the headmasters. soon as they landed. The terror of the child farm. The demon named Ranon-Zinnon like curled around his toilet. Eyes swelling shut. A mouth locked in a disgusted, surprised, outrageous gurgle of horror spasms wrecked his whole body before his eyes swelled completely shut. He saw my small seven-year-old face peering down the hole in the darkness. The missing child. The headmaster began to cackle.

I knew this could happen. There is no free will. It's fine. I live ten thousand years already. I lived your happy summers. Wonderful marriages. Fruitful successes. Your life was beautiful beyond compare.

That's why I... He smashed a few spiders scuttling around his face, but I could tell he was fading fast. You and I are ghosts now, were his last intelligible words before the headmaster's breathing stopped. I hid for four hours before. carefully making my way to the window, the safest place in the room. The spiders were done and gone. The chopper returned with a convoy of armed men right before sunrise. I was the only survivor

of the farm. The captain of the operation was a man named Clinton Moxley. She field investigator for the hermetical office. He adopted me, and I took his last name. He was the one who named me Howard. I told my father what little I knew. He corrected me on a few things. The headmaster's name wasn't Xenon. It was a man named Clark P. Gaines. An anomalous individual.

The office he worked tracked the headmaster down here. My father was the one in the Thunderbird. Elder Moxley had told me about the time the office. had captured the headmaster for study within one of their field labs. The subject grabbed Frank Bernweiss's wrist, one of the team's eldest members. They saw Frank's 79-year-old face twist and contort until the wrinkles disappeared, and the flesh had lifted up on his face. In a few seconds of agony, Frank was a middle-aged man again. My father said that he personally personally stopped the other agents from interacting, as they were gathering film evidence

at the unique phenomenon associated with Clark P. Gaines. Frank was known to be a formidable fighter, but was helpless to the touch of Gaines. Every time Gaines' hand would land on Frank's bare flesh, Frank would scream, turning more pubescent every second. Clark would only let go when Frank was a child again, squirming in an old man's close. close. He chooses victims who had good lives. My father would explain as he would tuck me in. His existence is the greatest evidence that time is a physical dimension, something that exists, and has always existed. He lives your years in just a few seconds. Frank was left with nine bad years of a 79. You would think being young again is great.

Remember that he was left with the mind of a nine-year-old, without care of friends or family. You know that pain well, Howard. The office didn't have the resources to care for Frank. We believe Clark Gaines is responsible for over a hundred thousand homeless children across the world. Frank was just one of them. Another human with a used-up timeline. I asked the only father I am. knew why he adopted me.

He brought me to the master bedroom's dual mirrors and told me to take off my shirt. Because I owe you. You were an old man once, Howard. You were my mentor and my partner within the office. You went into the farm by yourself to try and shut it down. I had hoped that you would remember anything about your past. but I see the headmaster got to you too. I looked behind me,

using the set of mirrors to see my own back for the first time, and seeing it covered with handprints. That was many years ago. True to headmaster's words, I had been a ghost among the living since then. It's been hard even sleeping, especially now. For the past few nights, I've heard both the headmaster's footsteps and rasping breath next to my old man bed.

My father never said they found the headmaster's body. I know he wants his farm back. He wants me back. He wants all his children back. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us at Creepypod on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, or email us at creepypod at gmail.com. All stories told on this podcast can be found at creepypasta wiki.com and are protected by a creative Commons license some rights reserved unless otherwise stated