"Every evening, our family calmly locks Grandpa in his bedroom" Creepypasta

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Frequent-Cat:   / every_evening_our_family_calmly_locks_gran...  
Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. 
LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-
SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...
iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...
SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-
►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep web" ...  
►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher, and...  
►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creepypasta  
►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  
FOLLOW ME ON-
►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  
►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  
►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  
►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  

CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- 
►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪
►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪
►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪
►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪

This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:02):
I never really thought much about the locks on Grandpa's
door that'd been there as long as I could remember.
Brass brackets fitted neatly into the door frame, old polished
skeleton keys resting on a small dish by dad spot
at the dinner table. To me, it was just part
of our house, like the faded wallpaper in the hallway

(00:22):
or the humming radiator that never quite stopped rattling in winter.
Every evening after dinner, Grandpa would fold his napkin carefully,
place it beside his plate, and stand with a soft sigh.
He always thanked Mom for the meal, patted Dad's shoulder
as he passed, then paused at my chair to give
a gentle nod and a small smile. His eyes crankled

(00:46):
at the corners when he smiled, and for a moment
he looked younger than his thin, spotted hand suggested. Then
he'd shuffle down the short hallway to his room, slippers
scuffing the hardwood with a rhythm I could hear even
over the ticking kitchen clock. Dad would stand and follow him,
keys jingling in his palm. Once Grandpa stepped inside, Dad

(01:11):
would close the door and turn the lock twice until
it clicks solid. Sometimes he'd test the handle after giving
it a quick shake to make sure it held firm.
Then he'd sigh, tuck the keys back into his pocket,
and we carry on cleaning up the plates and wiping
down the counters. No one talked about it. I never

(01:36):
thought to ask why Grandpa's door he did a lock
from the outside, and they never offered an explanation. As
a kid, I assumed it was a safety thing, like
those plastic outlet covers or cabinet locks to keep toddlers
away from bleach bottles. Grandpa was frail, after all, He'd
been old for as long as I'd been alive. In

(01:58):
the mornings, he sat by the sliding door with his
library books, reading with thick glasses perched half way down
his nose, one hand stroking the cat curled in his lap.
In the afternoons, he walked slow laps around the little
garden beds, pulling up weeds or patting tomato cages that
checked their stability. At school, my friends asked why Grandpa

(02:20):
didn't live in a care home. I shrugged and said
he didn't need one. When they pushed further, asking about
the locks, heat rose in my cheeks and laughed off,
mumbling that it was just a family thing. Eventually they
stopped asking for me. It was normal. Grandpa had dinner

(02:44):
with us, Grandpa went to bed, Dad locked his door.
The world stayed simple because I never gave myself a
reason to question it. Dinner was chicken stew that night,
thick with potatoes and onions. Grandpa always ate slow, taking
tiny spoonfuls and chewing each bite carefully. He barely touched

(03:07):
his roll, tearing it into small pieces and piling them
neatly on the rim of his plate. Half Way through
the meal, he paused and pressed the napkin to his mouth.
His shoulders shook with a quiet cough, deeper than his
usual shallow clearing of the throat. When he pulled the
napkin away, I saw the dark red stain blooming across

(03:31):
the folded cotton. It was a much, just a faint splash,
but it sat heavy in my chest. He frowned down
at it for a moment, then folded the napkin over
again so only clean white showed. Mom and Dad both
saw it. I watched them exchanged a glance across the table,

(03:53):
a silent conversation passing between them. In the tightening of
their eyes and the set of their jaws, neither said
a word. Dad reached for the salt shaker, Mam, mast
if anyone wanted more bread. I kept eating, though my
stomach felt tight and hollow. Grandpa's hands trembled faintly as

(04:15):
he lifted his spoon. He still smiled at me when
her eyes met the corners of his mouth, pulling up
in that familiar, tired way. For a moment, I wondered
if he was scared, if he ever worried about getting old,
or if he'd lived so long that death just felt
like another room he'd eventually walk into. After dinner, he

(04:40):
stood carefully and pushed his chair back under the table.
He thanked Mam for the stew patted Dad's shoulder, and
gave me his usual small nod. There was an extra
pause before he turned away, a flicker of something clouding
his gaze. Then he shuffled down the hallway to his room.

(05:01):
Dad followed, keys jingling quietly in his pocket. I sat there,
staring at my half empty bawl, listening for the click
of the lock. It echoed faintly through the house, followed
by Dad's slow footsteps. Returning to the kitchen, he started
running the tap, rinsing dishes as if nothing had happened.

(05:26):
That night. Lying in bed, I couldn't sleep. The sound
of Grandpa's cough kept looping in my head. I'd always
thought of him as old but unbreakable, like a statue
weathered smooth by decades of rain. Now he seemed small,
frail in a way that scared me. What if he

(05:48):
needed help in the middle of the night, What if
he fell or couldn't breathe. The idea of him locked
alone behind that heavy door made my chest ache. For
the first time in my life, I realized I didn't
actually know why we locked him in. I never cared
enough to ask. But if something happened to him in

(06:10):
there and I did nothing, I wasn't sure I could
live with that. I lay awake long after the house
went quiet. The glow from my phone screen faded as
the battery died, leaving me in the faint orange wash
of the street light filtering through the blinds. I stared
at the ceiling, listening to the ticking of my alarm

(06:32):
clock and the gentle creaks of wood settling into the
cool air. My chest felt tight with worry, every shallow
breath scraping against it. I swung my legs over the
edge of the bed and stood, the carpet cool against
my feet. The hallway felt colder than my room. Shadows

(06:55):
lay in thick pools along the skirting boards, and the
faint hum of the fridge drifted down from the kitchen.
I walked slowly, placing each foot with care so the
floorboards wouldn't complain under my weight. Grandpa's door sat at
the end, painted the same pale yellow as the rest
of the walls, the heavy brass locks shining dully in

(07:17):
the low light. I pressed my ear against the wood.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence and my
own heart beating fast in my chest. Then I heard it,
a soft humming, quiet and tuneless. His voice sounded thin,

(07:37):
wavering at the ends of each note, but steady enough
to recognize as his. After a while, the humming faded
into whispers. I couldn't make out the words, only the
cadence of speech rising and falling in the dark. It
almost sounded like a prayer, though the rhythm felt wrong, unfamil.

(08:01):
My hand drifted to the doorknob. I wrapped my fingers
around the cold metal and turned it gently. It rattled
under my grip, locked firm. I held it there for
a moment, feeling the solid resistance between us. Something heavy

(08:22):
settled in my chest, a quiet certainty that I needed
to know what was behind this door. I let go
and stepped back, pressing my hand to the wall to
steady myself. Tomorrow, I told myself I would find the
spare key the next morning. I waited until Mom left

(08:46):
for the grocery store and Dad headed out to mow
the lawn. His footsteps crunched across the gravel drive, and
the whir of the mower drifted faintly through the kitchen window.
My hands trembled as I wiped down the breakfast play,
trying to keep busy while my thoughts spun circles in
my chest. When the mower engine roared to life outside,

(09:08):
I slipped down the hallway to my parents room. The
door creaked when I pushed it open, and for a
moment I froze, listening for any sign Dad had heard,
but the steady drone of the mower continued. Their room
smeled faintly of old perfume and clean linen. Sunlight filtered

(09:30):
through the thin curtains, casting bright stripes across the carpet.
I moved quickly to Dad's dresser and pulled open the
top drawer. Socks and folded handkerchiefs lay stacked in neat rows.
I ran my fingers along the back until they hit
a thin wooden panel. Pressing down gently, I felt it

(09:52):
shift under my touch, a false bottom. My heart thudded
against my ribs as I lifted it. All there, resting
in the hollow space lay an old brass skeleton key.
Its edges were worn smooth, the teeth darkened with age.

(10:12):
I held it in my palm, feeling its cold weight.
The urge to put it back nearly overwhelmed me. My
chest felt tight with guilt, as if taking it would
snap some invisible thread holding the house together. But the
memory of Grandpa's cough pressed against my mind, the way

(10:32):
his shoulders shook with the force of it, the way
he smiled at me despite the blood on his napkin.
I thought about how he always paused in my chair
after dinner to give me that slight nod, as if
to say he saw me, even when no one else did.
I thought about how his hands trembled when he held
his spoon, and how his feet dragged a little more

(10:54):
each day as he walked down the hall. He was
getting weaker, and I couldn't stand the thought of him
trapped behind that door, sick or scared or in pain,
with no one there to help him. Even if there
was some reason he had to be locked in, he
still deserved someone who cared enough to check on him.

(11:18):
I tucked the key into my pocket, lowered the false
bottom back into place, and closed the drawer. The mower's
hum continued outside unbroken. I stepped into the hallway, the
feel of the key burning cold against my thigh through
the denim. That evening, at dinner, Grandpa barely touched his food.

(11:41):
He sat hunched in his chair, eyes shadowed and distant.
When Mom offered him a second helping, he shook his
head with a tired smile. The silence of the table
felt thick enough the choke on. Finally, Grandpa set down
his fork and looked round at each of us, his
gaze settling on me last. Thank you, he said, softly,

(12:09):
thank you for taking care of me all these years.
Mom reached over and placed a hand on his squeezing
it gently. Dad gave him a small nod, his mouth tight,
eyes fixed on his plate. Neither of them spoke, A
calm acceptance made my stomach twist with confusion and dread.

(12:33):
After dinner, Grandpa stood and excused himself. Dad followed him
down the hall, keys jingling in his hand. I sat frozen,
listening for the quiet click of the lock as Grandpa's
door closed for the night. When darkness fell and the
house settled into its nighttime hush, I lay awake. The

(12:57):
brass key lay under my pillow, its weight dragging at
my thoughts. My heart thought it so loud, I could
feel it pulsing against the mattress. Worry coiled tighter with
each passing hour. I couldn't shake the image of Grandpa's
trembling smile and dark, tired eyes. I told myself I

(13:19):
was doing this for him, because he deserved more than
to be left alone behind a locked door he couldn't open.
Near midnight, I slid out of bed, careful to avoid
the groaning floorboard beside the dresser. The house lay in
silent darkness, thick with a soft hum of appliances and

(13:42):
the occasional tick of cooling pipes. I held the brass
key tight in my fist as I crept down the hallway,
the carpet rough under my bare feet. Grandpa's door loomed ahead,
pale yellow in the dim light spilling from the cracked
bedroom door behind me. My pulls hammered against my ribs,

(14:04):
each thud echoing louder in my ears. As I slipped
the key into the lock, the metal teeth caught and
resisted for a moment before turning with a soft click.
I paused, breath caught in my throat, listening for any
sound from inside. Nothing moved beyond the door. I eased

(14:27):
it open, just wide enough to slip through, press my
back against the wood. Once it closed behind me, the
room smiled of lavender powder and old mouthballs, a dry
sweetness undercout with something damp and metallic that set my
teeth on edge. Moonlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting

(14:48):
pale silver bars across the carpet and the edge of
Grandpa's bed. He sat upright, propped against the headboard, hands
folded neatly in his lap, his chin rested against his chest,
eyes closed for a moment I thought he might be asleep,

(15:08):
but his chest rose and fell in slow, labored breaths.
Each inhale rattled in his throat before shuddering out into
the quiet room. Grandpa, I whispered. My voice trembled in
the stale air, curling around the shadows clinging to the
corners of the room. His eyes opened. At first, I

(15:35):
thought the moonlight was playing tricks on me, But as
his eyes adjusted, I saw the pale, cloudy film covering
his pupils, a faint, milky sheen that caught in the
dim light. His gaze turned toward me, unfocused but aware.
He didn't blink. His mouth opened slightly, lips cracking at

(15:58):
the corners as he spoke. You shouldn't have come in,
he rasped. His voice scraped through the quiet, thin and
shaking with something deeper than weakness. I don't have much
time left to keep it down. A tremor ran through
his folded hands. The room felt smaller with each shallow breath.

(16:21):
I took the air, pressing in against my chest until
I couldn't draw it fully. Outside the window, the wind
rattled the warped glass, the sound sharp and sudden in
the thick silence. I wanted to speak, to ask what
he meant, but no words came out. Only the sound

(16:43):
of his ragged breathing filled the room, and the faint
quiver of moonlight trembling across the carpet between us. Grandpa's
breathing hitched, his chest expanded in shallow, ragged gasps. I
caught against something deeper inside him. His folded hands twitched
against his lap before curling into trembling fists. Slowly, his

(17:07):
head tipped back against the headboard, eyes rolling until only
the cloudy white showed beneath fluttering lids. Then his back arched.
At first, he looked as if he were stretching to
relieve a cramp, but his spine kept bending, vertebrae pushing
out under his thin cotton shirt until each bone jutted

(17:31):
sharply against the fabric. His jaw sagged open, trembling with effort.
A quiet pop echoed from his chin. Another crack deeper
in his throat followed, wet and sharp, and his mouth
dropped wider than it should have been able to the
skin of the corner split open in thin, tearing lines,

(17:52):
blood welling up, dark and quick. A wet, choking sound
poured from his chest, vibrating through the bed frame into
the stillness of the room. Then something slid out from
between his parted lips, forcing his mouth open even wider.
With a slick, sucking noise, pale flesh pushed forward in

(18:15):
twisting folds, slick with mucus and threaded with thin blue veins.
It uncurled across his chin and draped down his chest
before lifting into the air, writhing and pulsing as if
searching for something in the dark. My body jolted into
action before I could think. I turned and lunged for

(18:36):
the door, reaching for the knob with shaking hands. Something slapped,
wet and heavy around my ankles. The force pulled my
feet from under me, slamming my knees under the thin carpet.
Pain shot at my thighs as the fleshy tendrils tightened
its damp surface, clinging to my bare skin with a

(18:57):
sucking grip. The touch burned cold at first, then grew hot,
searing against my calves as he began to drag me
back across the room. Grandpa's head hung limp, mouth gaping wide,
as more of the pale vain flesh poured from his throat,
coiling and pulsing in the moonlight. His eyes fluttered open,

(19:20):
tears mixing with blood as they streamed down his cheeks.
The ropes of flesh vibrated with each ragged breath he took,
making his voice tremble when he spoke, I'm sorry, he whispered.
The words came out wet and garbled around the mass,
forcing its jaw open. Each syllable gurgled through the slick

(19:45):
mess spilling from his mouth. I tried to keep it
fed quietly. I tried so hard. His sobs shuddered through
the pulsing tendrils as they dragged me closer to the bed,
the smell of blood and rotting meat filling my nose.
With each ragged breath, I drew. The fleshy tendrils coiled

(20:07):
tighter around my ankles, dragging me inch by inch across
the carpet. My finger nails tore at the ruge's threads,
leaving faint, bloody crescents behind. Grandpa's mouth kept stretching, jaw
trembling under the mass, forcing it wider. Slick ropes of
pale tissue pulsing and curling through the air. The door

(20:30):
slammed open behind me so hard it cracked against the wall.
Dad charged into the room, his face pale with terror,
eyes wide and wild. He gripped an old iron crowbar
in both hands, rust flaking off the shaft where his
fingers tightened around it. Without hesitation, he swung the bar

(20:51):
down into the nearest coil, wrapping my leg. The impact
made the tendril shudder, jerking away with a wet, tearing
sound that sprayed my calf with dark mucus. Grandpa's mouth
led out a strangled groan as the mass recoiled into
his throat for a moment before surging back out twice

(21:12):
as thick more folds of vain flesh spilled down his
chest and coiled along the floor. Groping blindly across the carpet.
Dad swung again, this time striking one of the thicker
ropes still wrapped around my ankles. The four snugged my leg, free,
pain searing at my shins where the bar clipped bone.

(21:33):
I gasped and tried to crawl backward, tears blurring my vision.
The fleshy coils writhed and twisted towards me again, seeking
my bare skin with wet, sucking sounds. Get back, Dad shouted,
voice cracking with panic. He raised the crowbar again, but paused.

(21:54):
I starting from me to Grandpa. His breath came in short,
ragged burst as he watched the thing pulsing from Grandpa's mouth.
For a moment, hope flashed in his eyes, as if
he believed he could still save him. Then Grandpa's eyes
rolled back, his chest convulsed, a deep rattle shaking through

(22:17):
his ribs. The tendrils doubled their frantic movements, whipping and
slapping against the walls and floor. One struck dead across
the cheek, leaving a smear of blood and mucus down
to his jawline. He stumbled back, chest heaving the crowbar
trembling in his grip. Dad. I sobbed, reaching out to him.

(22:41):
My voice felt thin and useless in the chaos. His
gaze flicked to me, eyes brimming with something worse than fear, grief, finality. Slowly,
he raised the crowbar higher, gripping it until his knuckle
was bleached. With a strangled cry, he brought it down

(23:05):
hard under Grandpa's skull. The sound was wet and sharp,
a dull crack that echoed to the small room. Grandpa's
head snapped sideways against the headboard, his jaw still forced
wide around the pulsing mass. Another blow, another bone crunched

(23:27):
under iron. Blood splattered across the pillows and wall, mixing
with the dark mucus oozing from his mouth. The tendrils spazened,
flailing in wild arcs, before collapsing into limp coils on
the bed. Dad stepped back, chest heaving crowbar dripping with

(23:47):
blood and mucus. Grandpa slumped forward, the thing in his throat,
retreating in quivering jerks until it vanished into his mouth.
His jaw sagged open and one last time before closing
with a quiet, wet snap. Mom appeared in the doorway,

(24:08):
her silhouette framed by the dim hall light. She clutched
the heavy ceramic bowl against her chest, its rim caked
with dark herbs and strips of raw meat glistening in thick,
oily liquid. Her lips moved in a trembling whisper, chanting
words that sounded rough and broken in her throat. She

(24:29):
looked from Grandpa's body to Dad, then to me, crouched
on the floor, trembling and streaked with blood. Tears welled
in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks as she stepped closer,
the ball shaking in her hands. Dad lowered the crowbar,
staring at the broken body slumped against the head board.

(24:52):
His shoulders sagged with exhaustion and grief. Then he turned
to me. His eyes were red, rimmed with tears, empty
of anything except the hollow of defeet. Mom fell silent,
her chant dying in a throat. She set the ball

(25:13):
down at her feet, never taking her eyes off Grandpa.
There was a sadness there, deep and trembling, but something
about it felt wrong. The sorrow in a gaze seemed
to stretch beyond the grief for a lost father. There
was a tremor of fear behind the tears, and knowledge

(25:35):
of what came next that twisted a grief into something sharper.
Dad knelt beside me and pulled me into his chest,
his arms trembling around my shoulders. I pressed my face
into his shirt, breathing in sweat and iron and old
earth over his shoulder. Mom just stood there, staring at

(25:58):
the body on the bed, her tears dripping into the
bowl of blood and raw meat had her feet. Evening
settled over the kitchen, brushing the old lace curtains with
deep gold and violet. The sun dipped below the neighbor's rooftops,

(26:18):
leaving strips of fading light across the tile floors. I
sat at the table, fingers curled around a mug of
lukeworn tea. I hadn't touched. The chair to my right
sat empty. Grandpa's cushion, flattened where he used to sit
each night, with his chip ceramic bowl of stew humming
under his breath while he waited for Dad to pass

(26:40):
the bread. Dad sat across from me, elbows resting on
the table, face buried in his hands, his hair stuck
out in down clumps, still streaked with flecks of dried
blood he hadn't managed to wash away. Mom moved around
the kitchen in silence, rinsing dishes known as used, and

(27:01):
wiping down spotless counters again and again. Finally Dad raised
his head. His eyes were rimmed red, sunken with exhaustion.
He tried to smile with the corners of his mouth,
only twitched before sagging again. We should have told you,

(27:24):
he said, softly. This wasn't fair. To you. I stared
at him, words caught behind the tightness in my throat.
Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, but didn't fall.
I felt scraped out inside, hollow and trembling. Your grandfather,

(27:46):
he was host to something. Dad continued, voice were off
long before you were born, before I was born. Locking
him in at night was the only way to keep
it contained and feet while he sleeps. But it doesn't spread.
That's why weak. He paused mid sentence, frowning at the

(28:09):
clock above the sink. The number glowed seven fifty nine
in steady green digits. His shoulders slumped further as he
pushed back from the table chair, scraping across the faded
final floor. He stood and looked down at his hands,
flexing his fingers as if testing their strength. Mom moved

(28:31):
to his side, pressing a kiss to his temple. She
picked up the heavy brass key from the counter, holding
it in both hands as if it weighed more than
its sighs aloud, I'll bring you breakfast, she whispered. Dad
didn't reply. He walked down the hall, footsteps slow and dragging.

(28:55):
Mom followed him, pausing at the kitchen doorway to look
back at me. Her eyes were glassy with tears that
didn't spill over. There was a grief there, deep and raw,
but beneath it flickered something colder, an old acceptance that
made my skin tighten with dread. She closed Grandpa's door

(29:18):
behind him. I heard the lock turned with a solid,
final click. I sat alone in the kitchen, staring at
the empty chair beside me. The cushions still held the
faint indent of Grandpa's shape, the scent of his lavender
powder lingered on the fabric, blending with the aroma of

(29:39):
old wood and the evening air. My chest ached with
something I couldn't name, fear, loss, a knowledge that felt
older than my seventeen years. I realized I didn't need
them to explain the truth. Lay Quie and the pit

(30:00):
of my stomach heavy and certain. This thing, whatever it is,
didn't die with Grandpa. It passed along, settling itself into
the next willing body, the next family member. I wondered

(30:23):
how long I had until it was my turn.