Creepypasta, Horror stories, and more

Creppypasta #4

KELPIE

I wasn’t very old when I first saw it. Maybe about five or six or so. It was a long time ago. But I remember it well.

For what feels like the longest time, the whole experience of it felt like…a dream. Like it never really happened, just a little image in my head. A half-forgotten memory.Maybe it didn’t. I can’t remember exactly where the place was, just what it looked like. As the same with the people there. No face or name I could say now. Maybe they weren’t even there. Just additions by time to the memory. Slowly changing the devils in the details. But they don’t matter much. They never did. What did matter, was the Kelpie.

It was summer. I was playing near the bayou not far from my grandmother’s house. I had been sent there to spend the duration of the warm season. My mother thought it was good to breathe fresh, humid air instead of the city smog. My summer that year was spent with my grandmother down south. She was a fierce old lady, second generation from Scotland. Often she would tell wonderful tales of the lochs and forests from her parent’s homeland. About all the creatures that lived within the waters, and all the ones that lived in the trees. One of my favorites was the Selkie. Beautiful seal-women who could change shape at will as they sunned on the rocks or swam in the sea. Another was the Each-Uisge, a more ferocious beast, but also quite interesting to me. My grandmother said that they could take the form of a singing woman, where they would lure sailors into the ocean, and drown them in the salt water when they got close, like sirens. The one I loved most though, was the Unicorn. Such a majestic, mysterious creature. I liked how pure it was told to be. I had always had a desire to see one. To touch its pure, white, coat. But I knew they weren’t real. Just stories. Just tales. But I liked to pretend.

One day I went down to the bayou to catch a fish. I was very proud of myself, having made a pole from a stick and some string. My grandmother laughed and said if I caught a fish, she would cook it for me. I became very determined to the task. I told her I would be back before sundown.

I waited at the banks of the water, legs crossed and pole in hand. There was a small bit of uncooked bacon on the end of the line. I knew I was going to catch a fish. I just knew it. My train of thought and concentration was broken, by music. Someone was playing a fiddle. The sound was enchanting. I looked around for the source. Not finding one, I tried to follow the sound. Abandoning the pole on the bank with the line still in the water, I quietly crept along the bank, walking until I found the source of the music. I found who was playing the fiddle. It was a young man, sitting on a branch of a large tree. The limb hung just above the water, and the young man lay against it, suspended over the mirror-like surface, playing a tune to his wooden fiddle. The white strings seemed to glow in the faint morning light. He stopped when he saw me, and smiled. No words came between us, but he beckoned for me with his hand to take a seat on the mossy bank and he continued to play. The music was wonderful. When the song ended, I asked for him to play another. He nodded, but only if I went into the water. My grandmother had been very keen with me to keep out of the water. I could not swim at the time, and she made me promise to stay on the bank. So I removed my shoes and let my legs dangle in the cool, calm, water. He played another song. When he finished, he beckoned with hand again for me to come closer, deeper into the water. Like he was going to tell me a secret and whisper it in my ear. I shook my head. I had made a promise. The young fiddler seemed sad. Dissapointed. I can’t quite remember the details of his face, but I can just remember his frown. He sighed and rolled off the branch and into the dark water without a splash. Just a few small ripples came from where he entered the bayou. He never came out of the water. After that, I went back to the house as my grandmother called my name. First, I ran to get my pole. A tiny minnow was at the end of the paper clip hook.

I almost told my grandmother about the young fiddler. But I didn’t. She would just think it strange and say it was nonsense.

The next day, I went again back to the bayou banks, fishing pole in hand. I said to my grandmother I would catch a bigger fish. I told her I would be back before sundown. I went back to my spot and sat cross legged, pole in hand. There was a small cut of deer on the hook. I sat, and waited for a fish to bite, my thoughts trailing off about my grandmother’s stories. They were stopped by the sound of laughter. It was a girlish laughter, light and soft. I was curious. Usually the bayou was so lonely, just the call of far away birds and the hum of cicadas. But the laughter broke though it. Right into my head. I followed the sound, leaving my pole on the bank and the line in the water. Moving silently, I walked along the bank. In the same place with the low hanging tree limb was where I found the source of the laughter. That small, watery grove seemed just a little different. A large grey rock sat in the middle of the water, emerging from the deep. I hadn’t noticed it before. Possibly I just hadn’t remember it from when I met the young fiddler. Sitting on the rocks, were three young girls. They looked a few years older than me. All of them had long, dark, hair that swayed around them like thousands of waved silk strings. Hearing them laugh made me…happy. I don’t really know why. I got closer and sat on the bank to watch them. The girls were as beautiful as the Selkies in the tales my grandmother told me. They all had fair skin seemed to glow in the dimmed bayou light. One of them met her dark eyes with mine. She beckoned with a finger towards me. She wanted me to come and play. I wanted to, they seemed as though they were having so much fun up on the rock there! I took off my shoes and rolled up my pant legs. I waded in up to my knees and my feet sunk slightly in the silty mud, but, looking down into the water, I remembered. I couldn’t swim. I sadly stood there, sorrowful that I could not join these new friends. One by one they slid effortlessly into the water and swam towards me, only their eyes visible above the water with their hair flowing behind them. They swum around my legs, barely disturbing the water. One pulled gently at my leg, another at my hand. A shook my head. I couldn’t. Disappointed, they sighed dismally and let go of my hand and left, slipping away like the water they swam in. Their sighs were almost musical, as melodic as they were. I didn’t want them to go. I almost swam in after them. But I heard my grandmother call my name. I went to get my pole. A small fry was at the end of my line.