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.
You Might Also Like
Toys in the Attic
Christmas has always been a hard time for me. Childhood memories of bickering relatives, drunken tirades, and hostile…
Read Now
The Night I Met Santa Claus
It has been said that you should never meet your idols. It was the Christmas of 2005 that…
Read Now
Better Watch Out, Better Not Cry
My parents own a Santa animatronic. I think it tried to kill us. Now, I know what you…
Read NowThe Advent Calendar
It was the Christmas of 1965, before man had landed on the moon, before the wall had fallen,…
Read Now
Pretty Paper
One contrary wheel wobbled erratically as Thomas Moon pushed against the weighted shopping cart. He looked down at…
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.
I’ve been reading a LOT of creepy pasta’s
and I have to say, this is by far not even comparable to the others, as one of the other commentor said, I had to tilt my head to the side to TRY and understand a lick of this story.
The plot was horrible, I meant c’mon, a sudden anonymous sound in the son’s room, finding some monster asking for a game console, trying to be all cryptic (which the writer fulfilled, it was too horribly done though.) and then the son suddenly “Died”?
The ending was just the same, horribly done and caused even more confusion for me.
This pasta conjured a mighty helluva pounding headache for me,
that just explains how much this story doesnt make a hint of sense,
not to mention the atrocious grammar and misspellings (which can be overlooked in some cases.)
This has got to be one of the most horrid pasta’s I have ever had the misfortune to encounter.
Wait….what??
So, let me see if I understand what the author tried to convey. The creature wanted to take the narrator’s son away from him, as the creature is something like the Krampus and that’s what it does with spoiled children. (I’m assuming the child counts as spoiled as the parent’s are described as buying him a game system even though he’s acted out.)
The creature sees the narrator can’t wrap his mind around this and offers to take the game system instead, which the narrator was hoping would patch things up with his son. The creature takes the system, and the son withdraws into himself or is physically withered. I’m leaning more towards the former, and that the withering is more a mental break down than a loss of physical form.
The narrator, realizing his son is lost to him, stumbles into the garage and potentially suffocates on paint fumes.
I’m uncertain if this is anywhere near what was actually meant, but it is what I gleaned from it. I’d appreciate a confirmation or denial of this from the original author.
Story didn’t even make sense, spelling/grammar errors made it hard to read, and when I was done all I could think was..
what the fuck did I just read?!
Ok- “Come, mine child of darkest ichor! That we may descend into the inky depths where we might score sweet frags and pwn multitudes of n00bs!” – Made me laugh pretty hard. Well said, A Passerby!
And I’ve written some VERY bad stuff. High school wasn’t a good time for most people with brains, so all of you STFU and leave this kid alone.
I’ll give a 7.5/10. Potential, a clever idea, but a poor execution. You got an extra point for the realization that it needs work, and for defending yourself.
The rest of you- Write something yourself and post it. THEN you can be this tough on other writers.
Test.
Eh? Test.
The moment I started reading this I thought “Wow…this is unnecessarily deep and dark” Then turned to complete nonsense :3 Made absolutely no sense but I liked it.
That was so cool
Wow, I feel sorry for the writer… I mean yeah this was pretty bad but he said he wrote it in highschool “some time ago.” Implying he no longer is in high school which means it was at least a year ago, likely more. He agreed it was purple, he agreed it was pretty much nonsensical, he said he just posted it on a whim.
I came into the comments checking to see if I’d missed a nuance like a few early posters suspected, instead I find ~80 people taking gasoline to a bug and making a huge fuss over what is certainly not the worst creepypasta I’ve ever read. Yeah it was bad but there is seriously just no need do something as drastic as comparing it to Space Mutiny.
Give the guy a break. Besides, if I know English teachers – which I unfortunately do – I know he got at least a B for this. There was only one spelling mistake I caught, the rest were misused words, and they would have been balanced out by vague drug abuse metaphors which are worth at least 60% on their own.
… soooo… Satan wants an Xbox then?
This pasta was pretty awful, by and large. It fails to be verbose, despite obviously trying so hard, and is filled with dangling threads that could have lead to something half-interesting, but are never resolved. Just as I was honestly getting invested in the main character, and his problems, the story cuts off without explaining anything. Probably the most disappointing pasta ever.
Oh, also, THEN WHO WAS GAME CONSOLE!?
lol this is fucking hilarious…i am stoned as balls tho teehee
If people are going to submit to “CREEPYPASTA” they need to make stuff that is actually creepy. and whoever the hell selects these submissions needs to tighten up.
I… think I get it.The passing of the gift to the demon signified… something? And the heavy smell of paint at the end hints at the inevitable suicide of an extremely lonely, possibly depressed man? Points for effort I geuss. 5/10
mike,
you must have been the geek in english class lol. i agree with your explanation but comparing this story with the other pastas on this site.. this one just didnt work. its not like super shitty, but just really confusing for people looking for creepy stories.
but the author probably got an A for this. haha. english teachers love this crap (with the connections, emotions, comparisons, etc.)
I just read Mike’s comment.
Something tells me you’re just making connections. I honestly don’t think OC was thinking about any of that when he wrote this. I think he was just trying to impress his teacher (like he said), and hell, he even said he was on drugs. Maybe it was all random for him and you (Mike) are just trying to make sense out of nothing.
Or I’m wrong and that’s exactly what OC was thinking. Although if that was the case, I think he would have said so in his previous comment. Who knows lol
Huh? I mean, okay, I get you were trying to impress your teacher.. but I think any one of my high school teachers would have laughed their asses off if they read a story like this. It doesn’t make sense. At all.
Flowery.. come on.. it still needs to make SENSE. Plus as others pointed out, you misused a lot of words and also mispelled a lot. Shrug.
I’d like to see you write a new story. I wonder if your techniques have matured.
Well I’m glad I ran into Mike’s comment. I realize the writing is way too flowerly, but I was beginning to feel like I was the only one who got anything out of this story on a thematic level.
@acJohnson, the author never said this was BS per se. And yes, the author may not be a skilled author, but who are you to say that the hidden symbols and meanings aren’t intended?
‘sides, I say, ignoring the possible of intention, many of what Mike wrote is what I thought coming out of the story…and it ‘fits’. That’s sufficient when looking at the themes of a literary work.
so uhm a tad confusing, the demon is extremely hard to understand. But I think the reason he wanted the childs present was to steal time so he could devour the childs soul? I dunno, it was ok. The paint doesn’t really help me understand anything-unless it’s mentioned to show that people move there and leave alot, maybe the creature stays with that house and thts why the ppl move…i dunno.
I agree with Mike.
There was clearly an original concept in mind when it was written, despite the author\’s familiarity with the English language in highschool. Truly, some of the most creative stories are those that are not biased by standards of storytelling.
Regardless of how frustrating the vagueness of this story is, OC was likely intending for it to be exactly that vague — knowing that if you simply \"go out of your way to say something directly, then it becomes boring\" to quote Kurt Cobain. Not a matured creepypasta, or author, but definitely a memorable one.
This is poorly written I’m afraid. The story was jumbled everywhere not making any sense, and the “Climax” of the story was rather pathetic. Let’s not forget the lack of grammar.
Personally I think you were trying just way too hard, and you didn’t check the spelling or even re-read the story before posting.
I’m sure the concept itself could do really well (Because it has before), but you just sort of butchered it to the point where nobody even wants to acknowledge it.
this was written so poorly that i stopped reading it. i mean, really?
We get it, darling. You own a thesaurus. You know, most people actually KNOW the words they’re using in their stories. I bet you coudn’t even tell me the difference between the ‘they’re’ and ‘their’ in my last sentence.
This is a piece of shit. Enough said.
Sarah, give up the website.
Okay, I have to comment on this one it’s bad in the most delightful way possible: Like Puma Man, or Space Mutiny. I have taken some of the juicier samples of this work and will delight in tearing them to pieces:
>>”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.”
Okay, here’s your first, and biggest problem: Your prose is fucking schizophrenic, you’re trying to be all Lovecraftian but keep lapsing back into talking all casual like all willy-nilly. Ya gotta commit yourself to one tone for the narrative and stick to it. Some suggested rewrites:
Full Lovecraft; “Though he’d never seen such a thing, Patrick had become convinced that a gaping maw lay deep below the soil of Winter Harbor, ever poised to swallow the entire town”
Full casual: “Patrick feared that, underneath the concrete and clay of the city, there was some sort of giant mouth waiting to swallow him whole”
Sophisticated as hell: “Patrick was plagued by visions of a horrible subterranean beast devouring the entire town from beneath, like a fatty choking down a five dollar footlong on a string.”
>>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.
Damn Son! Them’s commas, not condiments! Quite sprinkling them all over everything!
>>He and his wife were going through a rife time in their marriage and their son was feeling its effects.
Uh, I don’t think “rife” means what you think it means, cause that sentence makes no sense.
>>A large, black humanoid, adorned with goat horns and a tongue that writhed like a snake, stood before him, clutching his son.
Lord, those are some epic comma splices. Men will sing about it in legend. Crazed sailors will chase after them with harpoons; trying to reclaim the legs stolen by the great literary leviathans.
>>“What do you want?” Patrick asked. Innately, he knew that the creature wanted something.
Patrick is a very observant fellow, deducing that the demonic entity currently cradling his son in its arms wants SOMETHING.
>>The creature smiled, licking his lips.
Oop, time to hear from the monster, let’s see what he has to say:
>>“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…”
Oh shit! Pat’s kid is being molested by Galadriel the Ren Fair LARPer!
Seriously man, you’d have made the demon sound less ridiculous if you had him say “S’up, brah”
>>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.
So the demon took the dude’s son AND the X-Box? Sweet deal. I can just imagine the aftermath of this, the demon carrying the kid’s soul off into the night and saying to him:
“Come, mine child of darkest ichor! That we may descend into the inky depths where we might score sweet frags and pwn multitudes of n00bs!”
Oh lordy, most ridiculous pasta on here in a long while.
No, Emma, it wasn’t that bad, calm down. Don’t insult the poor kid like that.
@Mike: I really hope that you\’re joking. The author already told us that it was BS for an English assignment. You are looking for symbols that aren\’t there. Yes, it\’s true that most skilled authors incorporate symbols and hidden meanings, but not in this particular case.
A word of advice: read the comments so you don\’t look like such a dumb ass.
whatthefuckamireading.png
Someone earlier commented about the paint smellpossibly being used to cover up blood that came from sacrifices. Sacrifices would make sense if this creature was apart of the Pagan Patheon. Well, the creature itself is not some rip – off of The Devil. It\’s a Krumpus. Black Peter. The Anti-Claus, if you will. The creature that takes the naughty children of the world at Christmas time and punishes them. Although, it could also be said that he wasn\’t so much punishing the child, as he was the man.
Thank you! some one knows who the krampus is!