31 Jul The Bloodsucker 5K (A Vinny Pastorelli Story)

Posted at 18:51h in Strange and Unexplained by CreepypastaStories.com 0 Comments

📅 Published on July 31, 2025

“The Bloodsucker 5K (A Vinny Pastorelli Story)”

Written by Craig Groshek
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 4 minutes

Rating: 10.00/10. From 3 votes.

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Ayy, listen up. You ever witness somethin’ so brain-dead, so cosmically moronic, you gotta pause mid-bite of your bacon egg ‘n cheese and wonder if maybe—just maybe—you accidentally mixed up your arthritis pills with your Uncle Tony’s “secret stash?”

Yeah? That was me last weekend at the Knickerbocker 5K Fun Run.

Now before we go any further, lemme set the stage. Picture a sea of lunatics—adults in neon spandex, stretchin’ like they’re warmin’ up for the freakin’ Olympics. There’s banners everywhere flappin’ in the wind like they’re tryin’ to make a statement. A DJ’s blastin’ some generic feel-good pop music—somethin’ with too much cowbell and not enough soul. The whole scene reeked of optimism and I hated it.

Now me? I ain’t run since 1998. Only reason I did that was ‘cause I told some guy at Sal’s Diner that his mother’s meatballs tasted like dog food. Turned out his mother was Sal. I’ll admit, it was not my finest moment.

But this time, I’m just there to support my cousin’s kid, Mikey. He’s into fitness now, God help him. I figured, ehh, show up, clap a little, grab a T-shirt, maybe hit the food tent and pretend to be supportive without breakin’ a sweat. Thought it’d be a walk in the park. Big mistake.

They blow the whistle, the race starts, and off they go. A herd of human gazelles joggin’ their way into shin splints. I ain’t movin’ an inch. I’m leanin’ against a cone, drinkin’ a nice hot cup of coffee, thinkin’ about what kinda sandwich I’m gonna order after Mikey finishes throwin’ up at the finish line.

Then? Outta nowhere—the freakin’ sky goes dark. Not “cloudy with a chance of meatballs” dark. I mean someone-pulled-the-plug-on-the-universe dark. The music dies mid-beat, like the DJ got electrocuted, and the wind picks up like nature itself just got a bad vibe.

People start lookin’ up, confused. One lady trips over her own feet like gravity suddenly got stronger. Some guy’s on his phone checkin’ the WeatherBug app like it’s gonna say, “Oh hey, heads up, biblical apocalypse inbound.”

And then—BAM! These things start fallin’ from the sky like expired frozen turkeys. Cloaks, pale skin, red eyes, fangs out. Real classic Nosferatu lookin’ creeps, like someone raided a Spirit Halloween with a vengeance.

They land on the pavement, dramatic as hell, all swirlin’ capes and jazz hands. One of ‘em, the head honcho I guess, steps forward with his collar up so high it’s basically a neck tent. Throws his arms out like he’s revealin’ a new model of Hyundai and shouts, “Behold! The feast is before us! Drain them all!”

I’m standin’ there with my coffee, starin’ at this like, what the actual hell did I just hear? And lemme tell ya, the runners? They panic. Of course they do. But the thing is—they already been runnin’ for two miles. Their tanks are empty. You got people tryin’ to sprint away and pullin’ hamstrings like their muscles just gave up on bein’ part of this whole life thing.

One poor guy in compression shorts makes it maybe ten feet before crumblin’ like a used napkin. A vampire glides up, real smooth-like, lifts him by the collar like he’s about to check if he’s ripe.

Now here’s where it gets personal. I got exactly one guy standin’ between me and Count Chokey, and that guy? He’s wearin’ a shirt that says “Blood Donors Are Heroes.”

Irony’s a cruel mistress, y’know.

So this vamp’s about to sink his chompers in, and I’m thinkin’ fast. What do I got? What do I got? Then I spot the snack table. I dive for it like it’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic and grab the first thing I see—a tray of garlic knots from Carmine’s, extra butter.

I hurl it like I’m pitchin’ in Game Seven of the World Series, and BAM! Direct hit to the face.

You ever seen a vampire hiss and stumble like he just walked in on his parents? Yeah, that’s what happened. Dude starts screamin’, eyes waterin’ like he bit into raw onion wrapped in regret.

So now I know—I got their kryptonite. I start grabbin’ everything within arm’s reach. Garlic bread. Garlic fries. Even a garlic bagel that was definitely dropped on the ground. Doesn’t matter. I’m chuckin’ carbs like I’m in a food fight in Hell’s kitchen.

I yell out, “HEY BLOODSUCKERS! YOU EVER HEARD OF ITALIAN CUISINE?!”

Suddenly, the whole damn crowd joins in. Old ladies are hurlin’ garlic bagels with the strength of generational trauma. Some guy from Jersey’s chuckin’ shrimp scampi like he’s in a seafood riot. Even the DJ, bless his sweaty heart, is lobbing garlic cloves like they’re fastballs.

And the vampires? They start screamin’, smokin’, flappin’ backwards like pigeons gettin’ hit with holy water. Within five minutes—POOF! They’re gone. Just evaporated into the sky like they had a hard stop on their group Uber.

What’s left? A bunch of dazed runners covered in breadcrumbs and trauma. Some dude’s cryin’ into a garlic knot. The race announcer, voice crackin’, gets back on the mic and goes, “Uhh… alright, runners! Water station’s still open at mile three?”

And that, my friend, is why you don’t go to 5Ks.

Moral of the story?

One: Never trust an event that advertises “fun” in the title.

Two: Always carry garlic knots, just in case.

Three? If you ever suspect you’re gonna have to run for your life, do everyone a favor and stretch first.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta finish my bagel before it gets cold. And don’t even think about askin’ me to sign up for next year’s Turkey Trot.