Famous Creepypastas

The Caul

 He was born with a caul. That was all we knew, and that was all we needed to know. It was a hideous deformity, an extra layer of skin that covered at birth his face at birth and marked him for what he was. I never even learned his name, and I am not sure he had one. He was simply the boy with the caul.

In some places it was seen as a sign of good luck. People would say it predestined wealth, or ensured long life. Old cowls were sold to sailors to protect from downing. They were a blessing, outsiders would say.

But we knew better.

It was the sign of the devil. It was a sign of a creature so hideous, God himself would cover his face. His eyes would be sharp and mesmerizing, they would draw you in like magnets and hypnotize you. They would peer into your soul to see your secrets and possess you. His speech would be luring and tantalizing, it would demand your attention then bend words to trick and control you. His mind was clever, not with the wisdom of man but with the cunning of a fox, designed to outwit and trap you. A thousand times people like him had come into the world, and a thousand times they had used these traits to kill and destroy the lives of innocent people. And for these reasons our God had chosen to hide him from us, and mark him as evil.

When he was born they said he should be killed. The Pastor demanded it, calling the town to arms to take him into the forest and bury him alive. This, he said, was the only way to ensure he’d be taken back to Hell. Many agreed, and surrounded his parent’s house. They lit torches and shouted for the child, demanding he be handed over. They chanted and chanted, calling for his blood. They would not allow such a creature into their village, and would kill anyone who tried to get in their way. If need be, they would burn down the house with him inside then bury the ashes. The mother cried and cried, but knew it was what was best. They all did, and accepted that it must happen. The boy had to die.

…

For me the story began on a hot Sunday in August. Church had just ended, and most of the families had gathered for a small festival in the center of the village. The several dozen houses and buildings in the town formed a circle around a large field, separating the forest from where we were standing. The Church with its high steeple stood at one end, and the only road in or out was directly opposite of it. Along the road were the farms and lumber mills where the people nearby made their living.

The day in question was an annual celebration. Its date wasn’t set in stone, it just needed good weather and was always on a Sunday when strawberries would be fresh. Piles and piles of them were brought into the central field and shared among anyone who came by.

I was eleven at the time, and was eager to celebrate. I dressed in my best, a brown coat and matching pants, and was lead around by my mother’s hand. I already had a bag full of the berries attached to my belt, and I ate them slowly with my free hand. The red juice dripping down my face and hands, as we walked through the gathered crowds. I suppose there weren’t really that many people there, but to me it seemed like a huge event. I thought anyone who was anyone would be there.

However, when I was there I noticed something I hadn’t noticed before. By chance I had glanced toward a house at the edge of the village. It was a house I knew well, but had never gone in. It was the only one outside the circle, standing at the very edge of the forest and half consumed by it. Many times at night I had heard cries and moans coming from it, sounds that every child heard but every adult seemed to deny existed. I had never seen anyone enter or leave it in the eleven years I was alive.

Today was different. I looked at the highest window of the house. It was shuttered, but a crack in the shutter let me see into it. There I saw seen a face I had never seen before. It seemed to be the same age as me, with a thin face but thick, dark brown hair. It stared wishfully toward the celebration, a look of sadness and desire that comes from seeing something you desperately want but will never have.