Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I think this Creepypasta story IS REAL | Scary Stories

Episode Date: August 17, 2024

This story is ACTUALLY REAL  Scary Story exclusively written for the channel by Ryan Peacock More of the author’s stories at r/HeadOfSpectre  Cover Art from Miklós Ligeti More of the artist’s works at Miklós Ligeti                 Original YouTube link: I think this Creepypasta story IS REAL   Merch: lighthousehorror.shop  For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech Darren Curtis Music - YouTube  Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

What do you do when a monster finds you? You pray. Does anyone remember what the old creepypasa forums were like? Most of the stories there, they're pretty much gone now. But there's one story that's been stuck in my head lately. I need to know if anybody else remembers it. Because I think that this one may be real. This is how it went.

In 1982, the small town of Walden, Texas was haunted by a strange series of events that would eventually lead to the residents abandoning the town for good. To this day, no one knows what caused these events. The official county report says that a fire at a local factory led to chemicals leaking into the soil. Federal agents evacuated the town and just never allowed anyone to come back. However, there's no evidence that supports this theory.

There are no records of any federal agency ordering an evacuation. The County Fire Bureau was never told about a massive fire in Walden, and the few survivors of the incidents each gave different reasons for why Walden was suddenly abandoned. One thing that everyone agreed on, though, is that the first incident happened on the evening of October 7. A woman out walking her dog discovered the remains of five students behind the Walden Public High School. Four of the students, whose names were never revealed, had been found nailed to inverted crucifixes. The crucifixes had been arranged in a circle facing inwards. The fifth student was found at the center of the circle, his torso cut.

open. On his chest were carved the words, Father Flies. The subsequent police investigations into these deaths determined that all five deaths were self-inflicted. The crucified students didn't show any signs of struggle as they were nailed to the crosses. And the fifth student, well, was found to have mutilated himself on his own. This discreet It left the police dumbfounded. They couldn't find any reason why these five young men had chosen to die in such a horrific manner. Other townsfolk started accusing the deceased students of being part of a cult, although no proof of this was ever found. The police would not have the chance to further investigate these deaths. because the week following the discovery of the bodies, a certain madness seemed to suffocate the small town.

It started small at first. Officers on patrol were called in to deal with more bar brawls or domestic disturbances than usual. But things quickly escalated. One of the officers who was willing to speak out years later described an incident he'd been called to, A fight at a local pool hall had escalated into an all-out brawl that involved almost everyone inside. He would later testify that he'd gone in expecting the usual. A couple of shiners, some broken bottles, maybe a few arrests, nothing a night in the drunk tank or the ER couldn't fix. However, the pool hall was dead silent when he arrived.

no music, no crowd outside, not even a light on. He parked his car out front and made his way for the door, watching for movement through the windows. All he could see were flies clinging to the glass. He'd begun to suspect that there was nothing but the flies inside. He would have thought that the call was some sort of prank, but seeing the pool hall, this empty at night was unusual all on its own. He thought he should at least check in on the owner. As he walked through the door, he noticed a lone man sitting at the bar. He would describe the man as drinking a beer as if he didn't have a care in the world. There were flies

swarming around him and a kitchen knife sticking out of his back. According to the officer on scene, the man had turned to look at him, flashing a chilling smile. And it was at that point, the officer finally saw the rest of the pool hall. He would describe it as a war zone. Tables were broken. Decorations had been knocked off the walls. And the bodies? They were all beaten, bloody, torn apart, and scattered across the floor. Each one of them grinning from ear to ear as if they enjoyed every minute of their horrible deaths. Their corpses were already covered in maggots, with buzzing flies crawling across their blood-spattered skin. The sight of the carnage made the officer freeze.

The man at the bar simply raised his glass to a toast and chugged down the last of his beer. When he finally found his voice, he ordered the sole survivor to get down on the ground, but the man ignored him. Instead, the man simply stood up and grabbed the nearest pool queue, and then, still grinning from ear to ear, he rushed at the officer. It took seven bullets to stop the man, but by then, he'd already caused enough damage. to put the officer in the hospital. The officer would later say that he didn't think any man could have taken seven rounds

and kept on coming. But he swore up and down that the man simply didn't stop until his arms were near torn off by the rounds. He also insisted that the man at the bar had not been the only other person at the scene. Later, the local police were never able to verify the presence of any other survivors at the pool hall,

but the officer insisted that he'd seen another man standing by the back of the bar. He'd said he didn't get a good look at him. He described the other man as tall. He was dressed in all black with a white collar, like a priest. The officer claimed that he'd only seen the stranger for a second, before he just disappeared. But he would not be the last to see this mysterious figure. Following the incident at the pool hall,

the violence in Walden continued to escalate. The death toll continued to rise. More people came forward with stories about this tall, dark figure. Another Walden survivor reported seeing a priest in the crowd after a police standoff that ended in eight deaths, a young woman had taken her husband's gun and gone on a killing spree, shooting him, her in-laws,

and one of the neighbors who'd come to investigate. The local police had arrived unseen to try and defuse the situation, but the woman simply started screaming nonsense. The witness can only make out a single phrase, Father flies is hungry. She took down two officers before they were forced to open fire. The witness would describe seeing a figure in the crowd in the aftermath of the shooting,

a figure he did not recognize, who towered over everyone else. He described him as dressed like a priest, and yet, wrong. he was too pale, with large black flies crawling all over his face. He almost looked like a walking corpse. According to the witness, the figure just disappeared. In the coming days, sightings of this figure continue to grow. Survivors of Walden often described a similar figure, dressed like a pattern. dressed like a pastor, bearing witness to the acts of violence that were quickly consuming

the town. No man fitting his description had been sent in town before the violence started. None of the survivors have identified him as a local. On October 19th, a fire started at the local police station. People think it was arson. Traces of gasoline were found in one of the holding cells. It was the cell that held Sean Walters, who'd been booked a few hours ago for aggravated assault. He'd been involved in two violent altercations during the week prior to his arrest.

But it's unclear if Walters himself started the fire, or if the fire was started by one of the officers at the station, possibly with the intention of murdering Walters. Walters had a relatively negative reputation in town. known as a womanizer and a drunk. Either way, the fire quickly engulfed the police station. Many eyewitnesses heard gunfire inside. It was the gunfire that prevented firefighters from getting too close to the burning building. When the officers inside spilled out, many of them were shooting at each other. There was little the firefighters could do to prevent the fire from spreading to the rest of town. No one knew why the police had started to attack each other,

and when the police began shooting at the firefighters and civilians, the survivors fled. And again, witnesses would report seeing the mysterious priest in the middle of all the chaos. None of the survivors can say how the incident ended, although a later investigation concluded that no one who had remained at the scene of the fire had survived. Less than a week later, the town itself was completely abandoned. In the decades since, only one effort has been made to try and resettle there. In 1997, a parish in the same county wanted to turn some old properties around the town into affordable housing. However, the project was abandoned after less than two weeks. weeks. When asked why he'd chosen not to continue with his plans for Walden, the pastor simply stated,

that is his land, not gods. Within less than a month, the pastor was found dead on the highway outside of Walden. He was covered in flies. The town has sat abandoned since then. So I got into creepypastas just when it started to boom. A lot of people were posting their own stories, or building up the lore behind some of the more popular characters. So you may have heard of Walden before. I was the one who wrote it. About 13 years ago. But I don't remember the exact name of the forum I posted it to.

Honestly, I doubt I could even find the original post if I tried. It was shared around a lot back then, but I don't really hear much about it these days. No one remembers the story about Walden, Texas, and Father Flies. And to be honest, that's kind of intentional. You see, some people got really into that story. I don't know how, but eventually some people found my email address. It did creep me out, but the first few emails were pretty hard. harmless, some weird fan art of Father Flies, or some people asking for a more backstory about him.

I'm going to be honest, I was just happy for the attention. But then it got really messed up. Someone started sending me pictures of rotting food crawling with maggots. Another sent a long, rambling message about them dedicating a church to Father Flies out in Ohio. Another weirdo just sent news articles of the most violent tragedies they could find. The worst, though, was when someone sent me a video. Looked like it was recorded on a camp quarter. The first few seconds was nothing but static that made a loud buzzing noise. and then the screen clears up to show a crying woman.

She's sitting outside eating dirt. She was shoveling handfuls of the stuff in her mouth. And then the video zooms out, showing her sobbing in front of an open grave as her hands picked up more dirt. That's when I decided it needed to stop. I deleted that email address and I nuked all my forum accounts. But not before I wrote a second story. This one was a lot shorter than the original. The gist of it was some new priest came along and exercised Father Flies.

I made sure to kill him off permanently. Well, that second story got torn to shreds. People hated it. And that was kind of the point. People were supposed to hate it. I didn't want whatever sort of messed up fame came with being a creepypasta writer. Soon after, people stopped talking about father flies and my story. My 15 minutes of obscure internet fame just fizzled out.

I did try and write some other stories that weren't so freaky, but none of them really picked up any steam. After a few months, I stopped writing entirely, and while I never really looked back, at least not until recently. I would have been more than happy to forget about the whole thing, but I guess someone else had other ideas. It started a couple of weeks ago, with an email I received. It read, Martin, you may run, you may hide. But remember, Father Flies. It'd been years since I'd even thought about that story.

I almost didn't recognize the name at first, and then it just all came back to me. So I deleted the email, and I blocked the sender. I figured it was some former fan who'd somehow found my email. Maybe they were trying to mess with me, or they think I'd be flattered by the attention, I don't know. Either way, I wasn't going to waste my time on it. Not after what happened last time. Even when I got the second email, I just shrugged it off. I kept on trekking along.

I figured it was from the same person, you know, just using another address. I blocked him again and deleted the email. I did the same with the next email. And the next? And the next. By this point, I wasn't really even reading them anymore. I would see the subject line, then just delete and move on. It was a little annoying, sure.

But there was a really easy fix to that. I just put a filter on my emails to send any email with a word, Father Flies, directly to the trash. Easy, peasy, lemon squeezy. Once I had the filter on, I was able to forget about the thing relatively quickly. I figured that'd be the last of it. At least? Until someone broke into my house.

I wasn't home when it happened. Gene and Frankie were some buddies of mine from work. They wanted to go out for drinks that night, and I figured why the hell not? I told myself I was only going to stay for a few beers. but I ended up losing track of time. Looking back, that might have been the best mistake I have ever made. At around 1 a.m., I finally called it a night.

I got a cab to take me home, and I tried not to doze off on the ride back to my apartment. I was losing the battle when the cab turned onto my street. I was immediately struck by the flashing red and blue lights. I sat up, winning at the cars parked outside my apartment. These were police cars. I stared at them, wondering what the hell was going on.

I settled up with a cab driver before stumbling out to try and make it to the door. One of the officers stopped me. Whoa, sorry, sir. Afraid I can't let anyone in right now, he said. Why not? Why not? Why not? Ron, I slurred. I'm not at liberty to discuss that right now, sir.

You're a resident of this building? He asked. Yeah, I am. Okay, can I ask what your apartment number is? Four, four-twenty-one, I live there alone. I got my keys and everything, I said, fumbling around in my pocket. Four-twenty-one? He asked.

Are you, you Martin Sawyer? Yeah, I replied. Huh, well, I'm Sergeant Miller. One of your neighbors called us a few hours ago. Are you aware of the fact that there's a man in your apartment right now? One of your neighbors noticed an unidentified man trying to break the door to your apartment down. We're in the process of getting them out. although he is fairly aggressive, he said.

I couldn't help but glance toward the building. I could see the lights were on in my apartment. My heart began to race faster. Someone had broken in my apartment? Who the hell is it? I demanded. Well, we'll be able to question him later. Right now we're just trying to get him out, Miller said. Our officers on the scene mentioned he was on,

And so we are proceeding with caution. Suddenly, I saw several officers leading a man through the front door of the building. This man, he didn't look like anyone else I'd ever seen before. He was sort of scrawny, with messy brown hair and sunken eyes. The moment he saw me, though, he fought harder against the two officers holding him. He strained against his handcuffs as his wife. wild eyes stared at me. His body jerked, and he

bared his teeth like a caged dog. For a moment, he was almost able to break free and make a run at me, but two other cops came on to restrain the guy. They were almost dog piling on him, forcing him to the ground as he screamed at me. You! He wanted to be.

You! Sergeant Miller and I watched as one of his officers tased the man. He screamed in agony, his body writhing in pain before going limp. As far as I could tell, he was still conscious. But he stopped fighting long enough for the cops to drag him over to a squad car. His eyes remained fixed on me as they moved him. Father flies is hungry. His eyes were still fixed on me as they finally loaded him into the back of a car.

Friend of yours? Miller asked. No, I murmured. I don't know him. Well, clearly he knows you. Tell you what, let me just collect a quick statement. statement from you, then we're just going to take a look around your place. I'd like you to look with us. Is that okay, Mr. Sawyer? You'll let us know if anything's been stolen or vandalized. I nodded absentmindedly. My attention shifted back up toward the window of my apartment. And as I looked up, I felt a sinking feeling. I saw another man up there.

staring down at me. And then he disappeared. It had to be one of the police, right? I mean, there still had to be cops up there, right? I tried not to think about it, but the memory of my old story about Father Flies, it echoed in my mind. The next few hours drifted by in a haze.

I think the alcohol contributed to that. I remember giving my statement to the sergeant. I told him about the emails and promised I'd bring him some printed out copies the next morning. After that, I went through my apartment with the police, making note of any damages. Surprisingly, there weren't a lot. Nothing had been stolen. Aside from breaking down the door, the intruder hadn't done much. But I knew I couldn't sleep there.

I didn't feel safe in my own bed, not after what happened. So I packed as many things as I could fit in a backpack, and I called myself another cab. There were a few hotels down by the highway. Sure, probably wasn't that much safer than my apartment had been, but made me feel a little better. I booked the cheapest room I could, and when I got there, I didn't even bother unpacking. I just crawled under the sheets and passed out. I had a nightmare. I don't know what it was about.

I just remember the words, Remember Father Flies. When I woke up, I was bundled under the sheets of the hotel bed. I lay there for a bit, stuck between waking and sleeping. I was hung over and unsure what time it was. and for a moment. I thought I saw something standing by my bed. I sat up quickly, but there was nothing.

I was alone. I checked my phone. Almost 5 p.m. My mind wandered back to the emails I'd gotten a few weeks back. I checked my trash folder to see if I could find them. Sure enough, there were plenty in there. from plenty of burner email addresses. The ramblings were always different,

but the more recent emails were a lot more violent. These newer ones, they talked about sacrifice of my bones being snapped and my flesh being shared. If I'd read these ones before I'd put up the filter, I probably would have called the police, whoever had written these emails was clearly disturbed.

Sending me all this over a story I'd written what a decade ago? Breaking into my home over it? I didn't even think anyone even remembered the story of Walden, Texas. I ended up searching for it online, just to see if it had grown some sort of new following over the years. It hadn't. It took me a while to even find a re-upload of the original story, and there wasn't much traction on it. Most of the modern creepypasta community had all but forgotten about it, and the re-upload

that I found only had around four comments on it. Two of them were negative, one of them was nostalgic, and the fourth. The fourth was just weird. It asked if the story, was written by one of the actual survivors from Walden. Apparently, the commenter's dad had grown up there. Wait a minute. I read over that comment a couple of times. Someone's dad had grown up in Walden? Ha, was this a joke?

A bot? Or just some dude online trying to role play. I decided to do some research. I typed in Walden, Texas on the search bar. It wasn't long before I actually found something. And what I found, it turned my blood to ice. There weren't a lot of articles on it, but there were enough. Enough to tell me that Walden was real,

and that in 1982, it really had been abandoned after a huge fire destroyed most of it. It was hard to find much information beyond that. But the confirmation that Walden was real left me sitting in stunned silence. The town in my story was real. The fire was real. I scrolled through the search results a bit more.

If the fire was real, What else about the story was true? There were a few more results about Walden, mostly old news articles, and a few blog posts about the abandoned town. But as I kept scrolling, the results started getting weird. I started seeing articles for a town called Sky in North Carolina.

Nothing about it should be connected. to Walden. But when I clicked on one of the links, it showed me a news article that told a story that was disturbingly similar to Walden's, the sudden outbreaks of violence, and a fire that scorched the town. Only, this wasn't some creepypasta someone had written. This was a news article from 1964. I went back to the search results and kept scrolling. Beneath the article about Sky

was one about a town called Bear Creek, Montana. A town that had been ravaged by violence in 1941, before a fire burned everything down. The timing

wasn't exact, but it was close enough. 20 years before Sky, 40 years before Walden. Sixty years before I wrote my story. I clicked back into the search results. I'd seen enough. I didn't know what to make of any of this, but I couldn't look at it anymore. I click the exit window, but the window didn't close. I clicked it again. Still nothing. I tried to move the mouse. It didn't move.

Instead, the screen started scrolling down, showing me more search results. A fire in West End, Nebraska, 1922. A violent riot in Horseshoe Falls, Ohio back in 1905. A killing spree in Nestview, Oklahoma. in 1886. It just kept going. A girl who'd slaughtered her parents and neighbors with Hatchet back in 2010. A man who'd burned down a hospital that same year.

A mass stabbing at old folks' home done by members of the staff. Also in 2010. 2010, the year I'd posted that story. I couldn't close out the screen on my computer. I couldn't stop it from scrolling. It kept showing me more and more. The screen was scrolling faster now, and in between the articles, pictures started appearing.

Crime scene photos, mugshots, funerals, fires, morgues, and then a figure, a priest in the middle of the flames, smiling next to a car crash. He was standing behind a man with a rifle, his hands forcing the man's eyes open as flies covered his lips. I slammed the laptop shut, hard enough. to crack the screen and I sat there in silence trying to calm myself. I tried to rack my brain and come up with a logical explanation for all of this, but there was none. Something. Call it Father Flies or call it something else. It was reaching out to me. There was a sudden knock

at the door. Mr. Sawyer, you in there? A voice asked. I paused. Sergeant Miller? He pounded on the door again. Mr. Sawyer, I'm sorry to bother you, but there's been a development. We need you to come down to the station, the voice said. I opened the door just a crack to look out at him.

Sergeant Miller, I asked. He tried to push the door open, but I had. I stopped them. What's going on? I'll explain in the car, he said. Let's just get you out of here, okay? Pack your things, please. Yeah, yeah, sure.

Give me a sec, okay? I replied. He nodded as I closed the door again. I never told anyone where I was staying. How the hell did Sergeant Mee? Miller find me here. Something about this felt wrong. I couldn't put my finger on it, but it felt off.

Miller pounded on the door again. Will you hurry it up, Soya? He snapped. I looked back. Miller was pounding on the door more aggressively now. The door was shaking. Hang on, I said. I'm packing.

No, more time, Sawyer, open this door," he said. The door shook as he rammed his whole body into it. I could hear the wood starting to splinter. There were cracks opening in the door. I threw my weight against it to hold them off. I'm tired of the game, Sawyer. I don't know what the hell you're talking about, I said.

Of course you know. He's hungry, Sawyer. He's hungry for you. He's going to rip you apart, son. He's going to feed you to the maggots, and they're going to chew through your tender flesh. It won't stop even when you die. It keeps going forever and ever,

and ever, because That's what he is. That's what's waiting for you. You gonna wish you could just die. The first gunshot blew through the door, just inches from my head. I dropped to the ground as Miller blew four more holes through the door. The mirror above the desk shattered as one of the stray bullets headed. behind the door. I could hear Miller cackling. That laughter, it sounded nothing like the man

I'd met the other night. It sounded like something else entirely. I crawled along the floor. I scrambled from the only cover I could find, the bed. Going under it wasn't an option. I wouldn't fit. But I could go behind it. I heard Miller kicking at the door again, and this time it dropped off its hinges completely, hitting the ground with a thud. Where are you? Miller hummed as he stepped into the room. My heart was racing. He was getting closer, and he still had the gun. He was going to kill me.

From where I was hiding, I saw one of the shards of the broken mirror beside me. I grabbed it, feeling the sharp edges cut into my palm. I didn't know what I was planning, but I figured it'd be better to die fighting. Miller had almost reached the bed now. There you are, he said. But as he rounded the corner, I lunged at him. I heard the gun go off. I felt a white-hot sting in my shoulder as the bullet grazed me.

but I didn't die, and that's all that mattered at that moment. I drove my shard of broken Mierre into his stomach as I tackled him into the wall. The two of us went to the ground together, grappling like wild animals. He tried to point the gun at my head, but I grabbed him by the wrist to keep it away. With my other hand, I seized the shard of broken glass I'd eat. embedded in his stomach. I could feel it cutting into my hand as I pulled it free. Miller's eyes were locked on mine. He pushed back against me with all his remaining strength pinning me to the ground. He grabbed me by the throat, and he aimed the gun at my head.

Without thinking, I shoved the broken glass into his eye. Miller let out a pained cry, and I threw him off me. And in a frenzy, I climbed back onto him. I could see him panic as I drove my shard of glass into his chest over and over again. Miller's one good eye rolled back in its socket. His body twitched before going limp. But I kept on stabbing until the shard broke, leaving half of it in his chest. I collapsed beside him, panting, and shaking. But I could still hear laughter. Laughter that sounded like what was coming out of Miller earlier.

Only now it seemed to be coming from the radio. I stared down at it, listening to the distorted cackle of the thing on the other side. All done. A gentle voice crooned through the radio. There was a loud, buzzing static in the background, but I could still hear the voice clearly. It made my skin crawl. I just stared at the radio,

trying to figure out my next move. A shame you chose to insult me last time. You were a wonderful. host, before you chose to drag my name through the mud. The voice chuckled again. Only, that chuckle didn't seem to be coming from the radio anymore. I looked up, and for a moment, I saw a figure by the door. Their back was turned to me.

I couldn't see their face, but they were tall, dressed like a priest. Maggots crawled over its thin hair and flies surrounded it like a fuzzy halo. The figure briefly turned its head, revealing empty eye sockets where the flies crawled out from. What the hell are you? I asked. For a moment, I saw him grin. an impossible knowing grin that stretched far too wide. The voice on the radio spoke again.

I am what returns you back to the dust from whence you came. I looked back at Sergeant Miller and I could already see the maggots claiming him. And I saw before my eyes the maggots transform into flies in seconds, spreading themselves all over the corpse and making their way over to me. I felt them on my skin biting into me, and that was what made me finally move.

I hissed in pain, and I swatted them off me. I looked around, and the figure was gone. I scrambled to grab what I could, and I bolted out of the room. I drove onto the open highway, and I didn't look back. That was over a week ago. I've heard there's been an uptick of violent crimes in my hometown since then. Apparently, Sergeant Miller had already put a bullet and several other officers before he paid me a visit. But he's not the only one.

Gene's dead. Apparently he and Frankie got him. into a brawl. Frankie won. Someone put my mother in the hospital the other day, and I've heard rumors of other incidents in the town. And me, I'm still moving. I've had to kill three other people over the past few days.

All strangers. All of them attacked me first. All of them, they had that same. same wild look in their eyes and maggots in their hair. And when I'd finish doing what I had to do, I saw him afterwards, just watching in the shadows. I hope he's enjoying the show. Because one of these days, it's going to be him. I don't know how I'm going to do it. I'm not entirely sure I can do it. But if he wants to create a new story with me, that's fine, but I'll decide how it ends.