Creepypasta stories

The Bubak

Have you ever heard of Bubak?

"The Sack Man" as locals here refer to it. My family first arrived in Poland, or "Pshek Lane" as my father jokingly calls it, on a plane from Frankfurt, Germany. We arrived in a small town named Ustroń, where we settled in for the next few years of my life. I can still remember my childhood home. It was this wonderful red-brick hut at the end of the street near the woods.

The transfer to a new country was...well, difficult to say the least. But, with my grandmother holding my hand every step of the way, I managed. I can still remember her. Her toothy grin, that one mole on her nose. More than anything, though, she loved her garden. The one thing that could still give her joy, apart from us of course, was the massive garden hidden behind the house's lengthy exterior.

The garden had to be protected. That's why she had it. Sitting in the green shed, behind our bicycles and resting in between six large jars of jam, was a scarecrow. I can't exactly you what it was, but the thing always gave me an uneasy feeling. The aged straw it was made out of or the tattered clothes of children it wore really didn't bother me. It was its eyes. They were strained, human-like. And the color was completely sickening: a rotting, almost fleshy pink.

I always had a strange feeling about it. The way the eyes followed me. The way the thing's hands were always just too close to me. Still, I never actually broke down crying at the sight of it. But it was definitely strange. Then it started to get in my head.

I forgot this happened. Maybe when I was around four. I had a dream. A very, very, vivid dream. My little mind began racing. It's going to hurt her, I thought. It's going to kill Grandma and stuff her.

How such ridiculous things came over me? I don't know. The logic of my idea wasn't important at the time. All I knew was that I had to stop it. Destroy it, even.

In the middle of the night, around 11:30, I grabbed the hedge sheers from the basement and made my way towards the shed. On my way, I perched the door to Grandma's room open. She was still sound asleep.

Cautiously, I pushed into the shed door. A sudden jolt of energy and it opened. The lunge forward startled me. My elbow came crashing through one of the windows. I collapsed in pain, clenching my teeth and observing my arm. Multiple shards of glass were wedged into my skin.

The pain, for someone my age, was nearly unbearable. But I had to push forward. I had to save her. Our bicycles wear in direct view now. The blood from my hand now made a small trail on the floor. I unhooked the bicycles, one by one, and moved them aside. My eyes widened. The scarecrow was not in its usual spot between the jars of jam. A cold clamped down on my shoulder.

It was Grandma. Even though she was concealed in darkness, I could practically see her expression by the tone of her voice. She was angered, frightened even, and rightfully worried about me. Grandma dragged me inside the house.

"Bastard child," she muttered under her breath. I reached down to comfort her. I was not yet aware that I was the cause of her stress. Both of her hands came crashing down on my shoulders. She had me in a firm grasp.

"You listen to me," she whispered, her voice strained. "You will never go in there. Never." I nodded. My eyes began to swell up with tears. It was that exact moment that her anger wore away.

"Come. I will make you two parówki. Then you will go to bed."

After I ate, Grandpa offered to read me to sleep. She nurtured me with a mother's love. The kind of love I have never received. She was reading me a tale about a vicious spider who ties its victims in an unbreakable string to preserve their flesh and about the brave knight who ventured to slay it. The whole time she looked sick. Ghastly. I could see it in her eyes. So much so that she closed the book halfway through and wished me goodnight.