A Painted Christmas
| Published on Creepypasta.com | September 2010 |
|---|---|
| Length | 1,049 words · about 5 minutes to read |
| Story level | Short |
| Reader rating | 4.9/10 from 224 votes |
| Category | Christmas and Holidays |
Patrick Finn arrived home from his Christmas conquests, beating out the snowstorm by mere miles, mere minutes. He felt not only the foreboding presence of a hazardous blizzard, but also that of something else. Something darker. It felt as if it resonated not only within his soul, but also within the souls of those around hi, within the very ground itself. Patrick had never bothered to check, but he was sure that beneath the grass and soil of Winter Harbor, Maine, therein hungered a gaping mouth or a chasm yearning for the flesh of the innocent, and anchored to the physical world only by a desire to seem normal. It had not yet been appeased because the residents of Winter Harbor were all but innocent.
Patrick had moved to Winter Harbor hoping to escape the despondency and despair he had felt in his hometown, Belmont, Maine. So far these feelings had only amplified, magnified, by both the wintry death that he felt tiptoeing in the town’s midst and the lingering scent of paint that seemed to permeate every building in the city. It was as if the town was constantly being repainted in some sort of halfhearted attempt to cover something up. Still, he felt it necessary to stay, so as not to make matters worse for his wife, whom he barely saw anymore, and his son, who always seemed so distant. He and his wife were going through a rife time in their marriage and their son was feeling its effects. It was akin to what one may feel after a tumultuous earthquake. Patrick felt that he had to make it up to his son, so he went out and bought him the most expensive and extravagant thing he could his hands on this late in the shopping season, a brand new video game system. He had assured his son that, evne though he had acted out often this year, Santa would bring him something good. Throughout these charades, Patrick felt empty at the prospect of shipping for a boy that he knew nothing about, a boy whose existence was forgotten every so often.
On the Even of Christmas, Patrick arrived home before the snowstorm and quickly crept into the garage to wrap the present and place it under the tree. It was in this garage that he often felt abrupt changes, as if within its small space, it contained secrets beyond human comprehension. The musky smell of the old holiday decorations coupled with the omnipresent scent of fresh paint, varnish, and gasoline all seemed to meld into one personified force, whispering sweet nothings to Patrick as he exited his car. This caused him to shudder heavily, as if beset by a fit of delirium tremens. He shrugged off the dull headache and dry mouth before quickly and sloppily wrapping the gift. Following this, he slipped it under the tree and began to creep upstairs. He couldn’t help but grimace at the thought that he was as far from Santa as humanly possible.
As he reached the top of the landing, Patrick glanced over at the clock. It read 11:49. He stood there, as if to wait for some fleeting childhood feeling that may accompany the arrival of Christmas. It did not come, as he soon found. Nor did cheery music, nor the scent of evergreens and cookies. Just deafening silence and that damnable scent of paint. It was everywhere, he couldn’t escape it. The arrival of yet another disappointing Christmas struck Patrick like a blow to the face. He fell to his knees then subsequently onto his stomach. He couldn’t tell if he had passed out or not.
Suddenly, a loud sound in his son’s room jarred Patrick awake. He quickly got up and stumbled into the room. The popping sound he had heard made him wonder what made it, and when he finally found out, he was confused even further. A large, black humanoid, adorned with goat horns and a tongue that writhed like a snake, stood before him, clutching his son. Patrick stood dumbfounded, seemingly incapable of recognizing not only the creature, but anything else before him.
“What do you want?” Patrick asked. Innately, he knew that the creature wanted something.
The creature smiled, licking his lips.
“Thine tender fruit, not spoiled by the worms of new but by the tree that bore it… ripened not into ambrosia but a rotten, hollow core…”
Patrick stared at the creature. Sweat began to collection on his brow. He felt as if his brain itself had been lit afire. He couldn’t breathe.
“I… I can’t say I understand…” Patrick stammered out.
The creature smiled again.
“Not by love of a dying star can a a planet be adorned, but by the eruption of its most sacred peaks? I desire the treasures from which you hope to find salvation. The gift to your boy. It is a gift for me, now.”
Patrick couldn’t understand why the creature would want the game system, but he felt it necessary to give it up. He quickly bolted downstairs, grabbing the box and, clutching it tight, he sprinted back up to his son’s room. The creature, upon his arrival, thrust Patrick’s son to the floor and held out one long, beckoning hand. As Patrick handed over the present, he couldn’t help but feel as if he were Faust himself, exchanging an eternity for one single moment of gratification. The creature licked his lips once more and disappeared in the time it took Patrick to blink.
When he was sure he as alone, Patrick fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around his son. He expected a “thank you,” an “I love you,” something. He heard nothing. He looked down. He found that his son was withering away, becoming the very shadows that inhabited the night around him. Patrick knew at that moment that he was entirely alone, swallowed finally by the chasm beneath his feet. He stumbled to the garage before sitting down, embracing his solitude and his communion with the musky smell of paint that seemed to beckon invitingly.
Credit: Anonymous
This story was submitted to Creepypasta.com by a fellow reader. To submit your own creepypasta tale for consideration and publication to this site, visit our submissions page today.
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Read NowCopyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.
Okay, so the thing sounds like Stephenie Meyer.
Now that I’ve read the story, I’m just going to assume you were drunk.
I haven’t even finished read it yet, but seriously, were you drunk when you typed this? These spelling mistakes bother me.
i lol’d so hard
wtfbbq
wtf did I just read…?
I hellaaaaaa didn’t even read this whole thing. Judging by the comments, I’m pretty glad that I didn’t.
this pasta is so bad it made me a little bit sad. For the love of crap Lern 2 English!
The only connection I made for the ending, and the one i’m assuming was write, is thus:
He had bought the game system for his son for christmas, in an attempt to win back his love. In giving away the game system, he essentially gave away the only chance he had at regaining the affection and adoration of his son, and thus the demon took him away.
But I could be wrong. Who knows?
You guys are not only ignorant, but fucking retarded. Lemme help you out:
The Paint: The paint was a symbol for the mans relationship with his son. He tried to cover up his sons hurts and pains of how his parents acted by buying him an expensive gift ( like buying love.) He could smell the paint all the time because he was always trying to cover up his mistakes.
The Game Console: The Demon( his inner demon) wanted the console to show the man he couldnt buy his childs love, he had to work for it.
The Demon: It was is conscience, in a way, showing him what he did wrong.
The Boy: He didnt see his son “wither away” at that moment, the boy had been withering away for years because his parents are to busy fighting to pay attention to him. The man realizes what he has done to his son, and how distant that are.
This story was shit for sense.
I found that its writing was not easy to understand and confusing in all the misused words and grammar that adorned the screen.
Seriously, WTF??
This story made no sense. I could see the potential until it went and killed itself.
I thought it was good, It was a creepy and something to read for FREE. I think people expect too much of this site and other sites like it. This is why I do not post anything I have written, because everyone is too quick to tear you down here.
Mind screw, total mind screw.
Was that supposed to be Black Peter? For those not as obsessed with folklore as I am ‘The Anti-Clause’ is a good way to describe that character; he steals bad children away from their holmes during the holiday season. Though the spelling and grammar were atrocious, this was an absorbing read.
After the explanation from the OP this isn’t quite so bad. At least he didn’t write it just now and think it was good enough to be read. I bet it did a good job of impressing the English teacher. They like BS like this. ;)
I was waiting for some sort of connection between the paint and the creature. A city that smells like paint definitely needs an explanation, even a crude one at that.
The build-up was boring, like watching paint dry. (yeah, I just made the connection between the story and my boredom), and then some random creature showing up in the son’s bedroom wanting the video game console did not make sense to me. If the creature had placed a curse on the console, and the son played on it, then that would be mildly interesting. But why a video game console? Does the creature have something against video games? Or are you one of those westboro baptist church bozos writing out your anger towards young teenagers playing video games? I’m sure their stupidity will soon move on to avid video game players.
that was the most retared pasta i have ever read in my whole life.
That was horrible it wasn’t even scary or creepy! and it made no sense what so ever. 0/10
Look everyone, it’s a weird Satan-like goat thing that tries to speak Old English but fails miserably!
The scariest part of this story was your writing. Do you have any idea how many words you misused? Flowery writing isn’t always good writing.
@OC: I read The Stand recently, and I get the reference to Randall Flagg (he is Legion, the biblical demon, this thing is obviously some equivalent), but other than that, it doesn’t remind me of Stephen King.
Boring. I nearly fell asleep reading this.
0/10
Wow. This is beyond shit. A rife time in their marriage? Does whoever wrote this even know what that means? Shit story and the writing was horrendous. Utter fucking bollocks.
@Flash37 Yeah. So close, yet so far. Stephen King this was not!
P.S. Winter Harbor, Maine is not a creepy place. Nor is Belmont. Trust me; I’ve been there.
Buddah, things affect different people in different ways. There have been stories that I posted because they were popular and constantly searched for, but that I personally felt nothing from.
Basically, if I don’t like a story and don’t post it and it’s gotten even a smidgeon of steam on /x/ or the forums, I get bitched at; if I post said story or one that I like even a little, I get bitched at. I am not going to make every one of you happy with every single post, learn to deal with it.
If you miss the old Creepypastas, write some more, because apparently nobody else is doing so to your standards. Contribute rather than just complain, maybe?
It’s not even that it was so poorly written, and no offense, but why was this allowed again? I’m sorry, but a vague feeling that bugs you isn’t a good idea to post something. I get random urges and things that bug me all the time. If I dealt with them I’d probably be dead right now. I miss the old Creepypastas. The ones that really just fucked your night up before you went to bed.
Hey guys, I’m the one who wrote the story. I just found out that it was submitted and I just read through the comments, I wanted to clear a few things up.
I wrote this quite some time ago in a high school creative writing class and found it again while going through some old papers and decided, “what the hell, I’ll submit it and see what anyone has to say.” I was actually very surprised that it ended up getting accepted, even I knew that it was pretty lame for the most part.
Yes, I was very obsessed with Stephen King at the time (hence the Maine reference, along with the creature in the story – he’s supposed to be sort of like Krampus, if anyone knows what that was, and I was also taking influence from the antagonist from The Stand, who I can barely remember now). The spelling errors are due to me typing the story up quickly while reading off of the original printed copy.
I had to look up what “purple prose” is, but I’ll agree with anyone who said it then. I was trying hard to impress my teacher at the time with such flowery diction, and also because I think I recall some of King’s novels being written like that (I haven’t read anything of his in forever). I was a little embarrassed to read through this again, but I figured that it would be fun to try it and see what people had to say.
I’m glad that at least a few people got some enjoyment out of it; to those who said that they got a vague feeling from it, I felt sort of vague and uncomfortable while writing it. The paint in the story was a reference to huffing paint, and while I never actually did that, I did have some drug problems at the time so it was sort of a way to vent things out.
Also, to anyone who provided criticism – thank you for that, I’ve come to realize a lot of the faults I had in this story on my own, but a few of the comments have also helped me to realize what else I need to work out.
Cheers.
Um…what? D:
What is this I don\’t even.
Purple prose is painfully purple.
L2 modern English
Good, but I really don\’t get it…?
SIR.
YOU ARE TRYING TO REPLICATE STEPHEN KING.
YOU HAVE PLACED THE MAIN CHARACTER IN MAINE.
YOU ARE TRYING TO TYPE ELOQUENTLY.
YOU ARE TRYING TO MAKE DEMONS.
YOU ARE TRYING TO MAKE TWISTS.
YOU ARE, IN MY MIND, FAILING MISERABLY.
Plot sucks. To go with the Stephen King line, this seems like a combination of the first few chapters of Cell, Storm of the Century, and Pet Sematary. Too many long words that make the writer seem like a dumbass trying to look cool cause he has a dictionary beside him. A demon wants an Xbox. The kid dies without any explanation. Patrick’s evidently gonna go huff paint until he dies from the fumes.
This is a disgustingly bad pasta and horribly written. -7/10.
Also:
“On the Even of Christmas,”
“Sweat began to collection on his brow.”
Spellchecking=Wonderful.
What the hell happened here? I have to say I don’t get it.