Creepy - La Bruja

Episode Date: April 8, 2019

She's my lady...***Credited to KillHawke1 and Narrated by Andrian Zambrano***Please consider supporting the podcast at Patreon.com/Creepypod ***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Produced by Steve Blizin, Puzzle Audio***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.

This is the bloody disgusting podcast network. This podcast has been a possible thing to our patrons. Like new patrons. In Sweden, we call them wienerbreads. All right. I'll pause here for just one second. I will read whatever name you give me for the most part. And I've read some of these already.

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All right, just two more quick things, and I can expand on these later if people want. First, due to concern by some patrons, I've switched the charity at a T-spring store. I don't want to get into it on the show, but if you email with questions, I'll elaborate. The short of it is that 100% of profits in April will now be going to We Rock for Autism, a music therapy charity. And two, for those asking about the status of the hate home, it's happening. I sign the contract with the publisher and things are moving forward. Thank you all for your support and patience. I cannot explain what this is meant to me.

Just a reminder, though, publishing doesn't work as fast as my podcast, so the estimated release date is looking to be around spring of 2020. But believe me, I'll keep you up to date. Okay. Now, this is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pop. 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. Crippy Presents La Bruja, credited to Kill Hawk One. And narrated by Adrian's and Barretted by Adrian's and Barra. God damn it, not again, screamed Ricky. After opening the much-anticipated email, Pinchis pendahos, he said even louder.

Hizos de su putta madre. He picked up his expensive mouse and threw it against the wall. Bess in my culo, putos! He slammed his fist down, shattering the tricked out top of the line, gaming keyboard. record. Ricky continued to stare at the message, the words mocking him from his computer screen. The message was topped with a large header and white font that stood in contrast to the black background.

Right there, the two-headed words that said, story deletion. Ricky is all too familiar with these words. In fact, he should be able to recite the entire message from memory by now. Story deletion. Your story has been deleted because it does not meet the quality standards. If you feel it did meet the standards, please state your case on deletion appeal. Make sure you follow the instructions to the letter there, or your appeal will be automatically denied. Ricky loves scary stories. He comes from a culture rich in the history of the supernatural and the macabre.

The only thing he loves more than scary stories is writing scary stories. Sadly, there is one problem. How do I put this? Well, the truth of the matter is, our friend Ricky here is, for lack of better words, a shitty writer. There is zero talent in this poor boy's head. And the same can be said about his imagination, too. His characters have no substance. His grammar is atrocious.

His plot developments are non-existent. and his word choices are, might I say, infantile. In fact, I would go as far as to say that I've seen pigeons shit out more interesting narratives than this kid. But I digress. What is truly sad about this whole ordeal is that Ricky truly believes his stories are good. No, no, no. He thinks they're great.

the dark and sinister entities that inhabit the worlds he creates are far superior to anything seen in a movie or found on the internet. Or so he believes. His dark tales are capable of tapping into the primordial pools of terror buried deep within our subconscious minds. That's what he expects his readers to find from every one of his works. Whereas you and I would see it. it for what it is. A juvenile, uninspired, boring, piece of shit. Some have even gone as far as to say that his stories are so bad that looking at the

words for too long will give you pink eye. One boy claimed that after being forced to listen from beginning to end, Ricky's story gave him a near infection. whether any of that is true or not. It is a well-known fact that once you finish reading a story authored by Recky, you are actually more stupid than you were before you started reading. Brain cells literally drop dead in the middle of whatever brain cells do in their brain cell lives. And believe me, it's not just a few, but a lot of them.

Alas, Ricky will not hear it. He doesn't like rejection. And he already has it in his head that they're not even reading his stories. He is convinced they don't even bother to give him the time of day and automatically delete them. The tantrum builds and his cheeks turn red and he screams out loud, Why won't they listen to me? They never give me a chance. He knows this to be true, especially in consideration of how they treat him in what they say about his stories.

He angrily reads the comments. Bad grammar and punctuation. But I'm new to this site. Can't you just tell me what to fix or maybe fix it yourself? Mispelled words. It's the way my character speaks. Poorly written and awkward sentences. English is in my first language, so give me a chance.

This story is not creepy. What do you mean it's not creepy? There's a fucking witch in the story. How's that not scary? Ricky is a spoiled kid from a well-to-do family. Never has he had to go without. Never have his demands not been met. Never has his ungrateful heart ever been denied a single demand.

There was nothing he could not have in his pampered life. However, with such a luxurious lifestyle, he has also never had to dream or to aspire to bigger and greater things. Despite their value, all the objects of his desire were carelessly tossed to the side or forgotten when interest was lost. They meant nothing to him. Eventually, Ricky turned that frustration outwards, upon those who were weaker and less capable of standing up for themselves. For every insult, every slight, and every time he didn't get what he wanted, he inflicted that rage back upon the innocent bystanders ten times over.

He terrorized all the children within his sight. Well, tonight, that is why I had been sent. That is my charge from my Ladama. Tonight, I will reveal to him the stories of his people and enlighten him about where he comes from. I bring knowledge under the cover of night and carry revelation on the tip of my tongue. With his last breath, he will learn this final lesson. thou shall not suffer the cries of a spoiled child. So, when the boy lays his head upon his pillow and closes his eyes to sleep,

he will be unaware of the small leather pouch tucked ever so carefully beneath him. It will call out to her. It will summon her, and she will come. She will drink even though her thirst for revenge can never be quenched. She will feed her hate, though its hunger can never be satisfied. To understand the events soon to come to pass, we must look to the past. Know this, the more days go by, the more things stay the same. Long ago, the people of Mexico suffered from the deeds of corrupt men,

and they endured the cruelty of the true rulers of the land, the cartels. While sabbatry and brutality swept across the plains and darkened the skies like a cloud of locust, a small village near the city of Catamaco, Mexico prospered. It remained a tranquil, safe haven, untouched by the evils of men. In those days, the village, were weak and vulnerable. They could not defend themselves against the powerful and corrupt men, infected with the sickness of greed. Government and town officials lined their pockets

with the sweat and blood of the poor. New justice or protection ever came for the people. Farmers' crops were plundered and destroyed. Workers were kept in a constant state of poverty. Their sons would be taken against their will by the bandidos to rest. replenish their numbers. Alas, it was the daughters of Mexico who suffered the most. Many mothers and fathers could only mourn before a single lit candle, for there was no body to bury for the funeral. They would live their lives, never knowing what became of their beloved child. Too many shallow graves sprinkled the countryside with the bones, from unnamed girls.

Among this violence, all but one village suffered. Those of questionable character and darkness in their hearts would not dare enter the borders of this town. For its people were under the protection of a powerful curandera.

Her name was known from afar and her magic was strong. The evil men knew this to be true and they would not risk her wrath upon them. This ate away at their egos, and soon they began to conspire amongst themselves. In secret, in darkened rooms, they plotted how to be rid of this meddlesome woman. Early one morning, the curandera woke to the sound of a child's cry. It was not a cry of terror, but a cry of pain.

She ran out of her small house to see a boy sitting on the dirt path, that ran alongside her home. Next to him was an old bike. Hitched to the rear wheel was a weathered cart, carrying a large wooden box. He sat crying on the ground, clutching both his arm and leg. Even from a distance,

she could see the two painful welts upon the boy's skin. The curandera knew precisely what happened and took a glass jar of salve from off her shelf. She went out to the boy and warmly said, What's the matter, little boy? No answer came from the boy.

A little irritated, she asked. Te pico algo? Did something still new? Was it an or an abyspa? Was it an ass or a wasp? Again, the boy said nothing. The curandera was. becoming annoyed.

She looked carefully at the boy who sat silently before her. From the clothes he wore, she knew he was a rich man's son, most likely the child of an elected official or a member of the town's elite. She gently applied the medicine to the two painful stings. The skin was hot and bright red, surrounding a lump the size of a large grape. When she finished, the boy simply turned and turned. jumped on his bike and peddled away without a word. This angered the curanderer, and she made a mental note.

In the very near future, someone will need to teach this boy some manners and the importance of respecting his elders. Shortly thereafter, the curandera went about her day-to-day business and forgot about the rude little boy. That night, after the curandera had laid her head down to sleep, She awoke to a loud bang. Her door had been broken down by several large men. They bound her hands and gagged her mouth to prevent any chance she might utter a hex upon them.

They took her wand, made out of the sacred Watulco wood, and they snapped it into. They removed her saco of curation, her medicine bag, from around her neck, leaving the poor woman completely. defenseless now. The men dragged the woman before the town's clergy, who were the most corrupt of the moan. Denied any opportunity to defend herself, the curandera was accused of witchcraft and blamed for this year's drought,

and the poor harvest. They said she was in league with the devil and proclaimed her to be a brouca. They sentenced her to death. The unlock, Sheared upon hearing the verdict. She looked across at the crowd and mourned at what she saw. The faces she had known for so long, those faces who came to her when they were sick

or needed healing were gone. And their place were hateful and dark eyes, filled with the bloodlust of an angry mob. She stood on a platform next to a short, thin coughing that stuffed. up right. The crowd shouted and jeered as they grew impatient. She closed her eyes and tried to center herself amongst the shouts and swears and insults. The Curandera began to pray. She prayed to the Holy Mother for deliverance. She begged and pleaded for her protection. She pleaded with all her might. She begged the Holy Mother with desperation. proclaiming her good deeds and a righteous life she had lived.

Only silence, greeted the curandera. The crowd suddenly grew quiet, and the curandera opened her eyes. She saw the crowd separate in the middle and make a path for a little boy. The familiar child rode an old bike and pulling cart with a box. He dismounted the bike and walked around to the rear, opened the box that sat upon, the cart and carefully removed a large burlap sack. He held the bag at arm's length and quickly brought it and its contents to the clergyman. As the man of God took hold of the sack, the boy looked up at the woman, smiled and disappeared in the sea of bodies within the mob. Still bound,

she was marched relentlessly to the edge of town. All the way, she was beaten and humiliated by the people who followed along. She was brought before a freshly dug grave and shudbed hard into the open coffin. She stared up at the men, mocking her from above. Just as they were about to seal the coffin shut, the clergyman held up his large hand with the board. burlapsack. He flung the bag into the coffin and the men quickly nailed the lid close. The men picked up the coffin containing the curandera and dropped it into the dark hole.

The sound of dirt covering the coffin was loud and thunderous. The curandera lay terrified in the pitch dark. Just before the light had been extinguished, she saw what had been tossed in there with her. At her feet laid the largest wasp-mist she had ever seen. Soon she felt hundreds of thin

legs being crawling all over her body. They angrily explored this dark prison as they searched for the one who had dared to disturb them. Time slowed down as the Kurandera waited

for the first thing to strike her. Once again, she prayed to the Blessed Mother for protection. And still, there was only silence. Pain from the first sting exploded over her right cheek. The sharp stinger was stabbed into her flesh. It tore through her skin and went in as deep as it could. The wasp contracted its abdomen slightly, pumping its venom to its victim. It pulled out his sharp tip and again jabbed the stinger back into her flesh.

For the wasp can use their stingers over again. Even if they have exhausted their venom, they will not stop piercing your skin. She screamed in pain as she was stung again and again. They stung her eyes and crawled into her open mouth and stung her tongue. Insects crawled down her throat and into her. her ears. Benham filled her veins, and her skin turned red as it swelled and burned. The wasp poison saturated her blood, causing it to thicken and burn. The swelling cut off her breathing, and she began to combust. This angered the little beast, and they stabbed her more relentlessly.

Blood trickled from every puncture, not a single spot on her body, was spared from the wasp sting. The pain continued to grow. Never did it lessen. She was about to call out to the virgin mother. Then she stopped herself. Betrayal and abandonment hit her deeply, causing more agony than any wasp could bestow.

Anger and hate consumed the woman. She knew what she had to do. she would call out to the other deity. This deity would come. She would call out to the Santa Mwarte. Santa Morte, I call on to D. I offer myself to D. I deny the Holy Mother.

I deny the Father. I deny the Son. I deny the Holy Spirit. Take me and I will do thy bidding. The curandera laid motionless in the darkness, wheezing and gasping for air. Her stings upon her skin were stretched out until the tore from the swelling. The swarm of insects continued to poke and jab with their long stingers. The buzzing of their wings was deafening.

Then suddenly, all was silent. The scraping of long fingernails traveled down the side of the coffin. The curandera tried to open her eyes, but her face was too bloated. It mattered not. She had not sight, as the wasp-thingers had penetrated her eyelids and filled her eyes with venom. The scraping stopped, and the curandera heard the low and ancient voice of a woman speak. What's the matter, my daughter? The crowd had not yet dispersed when the ground began to shake.

The men had lingered and were congratulating themselves and laughing when the ground opened up. Black thorns emerged from the soil where the curandera laid, and the dirt blackened with decay. All was still for a moment until a deep and inhuman moan was heard from the sky. It called to its new disciple beneath the ground. The villagers cowered when the low voice boomed from the cracks that spread out from the spot of the woman's unholy grave. I curse you. I curse your children. They will taste the venom that now flows in my bane. When I hear a child cry, I will come. I will come for your children. They will feel my sting.

I will nest within a home made from their skin. I will use their bones for stirring my roof. I will quench my thirst with their tears. I will dance to a melody made from a symphony of their screams. She let out one final wail of demonic rage until only the same, sound of wasp wings could be heard. Three days later, the traitorous boy held by the curanderia disappeared without a trace. It was fate that brought the two together.

He had been tasked with finding a wasp nest. It was by chance that two of the insects escaped and stung the boy near the curandera's home. She had shown him mercy, and he had repaid her with rudeness and betrayal. An empty bed was all they found. well, except for the small pouch hidden underneath his pillow. Within it, they found it held only a piece of paper wasp nest, ash, and a lock of hair cut from the boy's head. She still keeps part of him on her at all times, even to this day.

As time went by, more and more of the children disappeared. Eventually, like the righteous curandera, the little village died of slow and painful death. The people in that area still speak of the dark brouja. It is said that when the day shortened and the nights grow cold, children must be especially good and obedient. For if a child is spoiled and shows no respect, the brouca will find you.

They say she is dressed all in black and wears a cloak made of wasp. She can fly long. long distances and climb up walls. She will tap on your window and tempt the child to let her in. Her nails will click and tap on the window pane until the child hears her voice from outside in the darkness. So that is the story of La Bruja. She is the one I serve. She is my lady and I serve her well.

I find those children who are spoiled and rotten. I find the ones most deserving of the fate my lady brings. And who am I? Well, let's just say that I am someone who is familiar with matters such as these. But that is a story for another time. However, I will tell you this. I am neither an angel or demon. But I do perform God's will.

I bring balance. That is my mandate from the world. heavenly father. The brouca has no mercy. She holds a dark, powerful magic, fueled by an inexhaustible source of hatred and rage. I direct that rage to those deserving of it. Such hatred and wickedness cannot be allowed to roam free and go unchecked. I ensure the innocent are protected and the wicked are punished. So listen to my words, little boy or little girl. Do what you are told.

Honor your mother and your father. Be on your best behavior. You don't want to end up like Ricky here now, do you? Take heed. For if you do not, there will come a night when you will hear tapping at your window. As the buzzing of a thousand wings fills your ear, you will hear the low voice of a woman asking you.

What's the matter, my child? 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. All stories told on this podcast can be found at CreepyPod on Twitter, Instagram. All stories told on this podcast can be found at CreepyPod. creepypasta wikiya.com and are protected by a Creative Commons license. Some rights reserved unless otherwise stated.