How My Mother Lost Face During the Homeless Crisis (And How I Kept From Losing Mine)

📅 Published on October 15, 2021

“How My Mother Lost Face During the Homeless Crisis (And How I Kept From Losing Mine)”

Written by Raz T. Slasher
Edited by Craig Groshek and N.M. Brown
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

ESTIMATED READING TIME — 7 minutes

Rating: 10.00/10. From 1 vote.
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There was always a pretty big homeless problem where I grew up.  You’d see them with signs near off-ramps to the highway that asked for food or money, sometimes even in exchange for work.  They’d rove in small gangs downtown, picking through dumpsters, begging for change, and trying to wash your windows.  Sometimes you’d even catch them over at the mall, wandering the parking lots aimlessly in search of some kind of assistance or another.

They were sometimes aggressive, following you around or going off on you for not giving them anything, but more often than not, they were peaceful and grateful to those who helped them.  My mom would always tell me not to look at them as we rushed by them on one errand or another.  She never gave them anything or even really pretended that they existed.

Sometimes when she wasn’t looking, I’d drop all the change in my pocket.  I always hoped that if I were down on my luck like they seemed to be, that someone would lend me a hand, too.  Mom never caught me doing it; neither did my sister.  It had become a rush to get away with it like taboo things often did to children.

Things went on the way they were for another year before anyone started doing anything about it.  Everything started with a piece of legislation passing in our city, though we were barely big enough to be considered one, making panhandling illegal.  This didn’t exactly deter them, but you’d see fewer of them around for a little while despite the arrests being made.

Eventually, the law became a bit of a joke, and things resumed as they always had.  A year later, the city started installing floodlights beneath the bridges and overpasses, making it more difficult to sleep beneath them.  When the homeless found new places to sleep around the city, the city would start to tear defunct buildings down.

Over time, the homeless just slept wherever they could, shielding their eyes from the floodlights or even camping out in nearby woods.  Our little city’s next step was to install little metal spikes all over the city in places where the homeless would sleep.  A lot of people were against all these measures, but they were clearly in the minority.

At some point, all the homeless moved to these weird little encampments in the woods, setting up patchwork tents and building little hovels out of found materials.  The police would go in randomly and scare them off, but they always returned.  That’s around when some of the pets in my neighborhood went missing.

This sort of thing happened now and again, so it wasn’t all that big of a deal.  You’d see the little flyers around with pictures of the missing pet and rewards posted at the bottom.  Sometimes the owners would even go door to door to ask people if they had seen anything.  I always felt bad for them.  It was the only time I felt lucky that my parents had never let me have that dog I always wanted.

Within a few weeks, everyone started to notice the situation, as more and more pets came up missing.  It wasn’t just our neighborhood, either; it seemed like a good portion of the city was concerned about it.  My parents were very active in the community, and I can even still remember them dragging my sister and me to one of those town-hall-type meetings you always hear about.

The missing pet issue was the hot topic of concern now.  A lot of possible scenarios were thrown around, some crazier than others.  It ranged from the more likely wolves or coyotes to Mrs.  Burnstone’s insane Chupacabra theory.  By the end of the meeting, people were simply being urged to keep their pets indoors, or at the very least keep them in your line of sight if they had to go out.  The city increased police patrols, but with a limited budget, could only do so much.  Over time, the situation seemed to slow down a lot.  With all the increased paranoia, people rarely left their pets unattended.

A couple of weeks later, a kid went missing on his way home from school.  He was a freshman at the local high school where my sister attended.  He’d walked a few friends home, and that was the last anyone ever saw of him.  My family and I volunteered as part of the search party, but he was never found.

Within the month, eight people, ranging from children to the elderly, had also gone missing.  As winter started to set in, it got dark early, and a curfew had gone into place.  You’d see people scrambling to get home every day as the sun started to go down.

Town meetings were held every Saturday during the day to get to the bottom of the issue.  Every cop in the city was pulling staggered double shifts on patrol.  The state police were even brought in for extra assistance.  Every store in the city closed by five PM, and people just stopped leaving their houses altogether when it got dark out.

By the time the first snow had begun to fall, a new issue was plaguing the city.  Homes were being broken into, and entire families were never heard from again.  There was no pattern to when and where it would happen, so it was nearly impossible for law enforcement to get to everyone in time.  Every evening, the news would report the names and addresses of the families who had gone missing.  We’d sit around the television during those broadcasts, praying that we didn’t hear a name that we knew.

One afternoon, Mom had picked my sister and me up from school, and we were on our way back home.  We drove under the Patterson Bridge like we always did.  It was a long stretch of bridge above this section of the road, so it took a little while to travel.  It had always been my favorite part of the journey until that day.  About halfway under, we noticed a group of homeless people all huddled around something.

As we got closer, the whole scene seemed to unravel before our eyes.  Three people had been impaled on the spikes on the sides of the road, and the various assembled homeless people seemed to be eating them.  One of them must have still been alive because their screams and cries for help were echoing in every direction.  Mom rolled up the windows, and we plastered our faces against them to see better as she slammed her foot on the gas.

She called the police the second we got inside the house.  Later that evening, there was a report on the news that it had been the homeless people eating residents and their pets.  The very thing people like my mother and father had fought so hard against were revolting against us all.

As we were getting ready to leave for school the next morning, my sister pointed at the neighbor’s house and screamed for Mom.  I hopped back out of the car to see what was going on.  Their front door was open, and there were long trails of dark blood from the welcome mat all the way down to the sidewalk.

Mom made us get in the car and lock the doors before running back into our house to get Dad.  He came out holding a Louisville Slugger, with Mom behind them.  They disappeared into the neighbor’s house for a bit while my sister and I waited in a mix of fear and torturous anticipation.  Mom ran out first, puking all over Mrs. Nelson’s hydrangeas.  Dad followed after a few moments, and I noticed his face had gone noticeably pale.  We couldn’t hear what they were saying through the windows, but they were talking heatedly to one another.

When they were done, they motioned for us to leave the car’s safety and join them out on our front lawn.  I tried asking them what they’d seen in there, but they refused to answer any of my questions.  All they would say was that they were going to keep us home from school that day, and Dad was going to call in sick from work.  We were going to have a family day, something that hadn’t happened in our home for a few years.

Family Day consisted of board games like Life, Sorry, Yahtzee, and sometimes even Clue or Monopoly.  Mom would make all sorts of little finger foods and artisanal popcorn for us to munch on, and Dad would always make his famous nachos.  We played the entire day and into the evening.  We’d even laughed some despite what was going on in the world around us.

Mom and Dad wouldn’t let us listen to the news that night.  We all ended up in sleeping bags on the living room floor or on some piece of furniture or another.  Dad called it an indoor campout and even started a fire in our fireplace, which he hadn’t done in I can’t remember how long.  After singing songs, roasting some marshmallows, and reliving some of our past family vacations, my sister and I passed out one after the other.

I woke up in the middle of the night to my sister’s screams on the floor next to me.  I shook the haze from my vision and turned over to look at her.  There were several homeless people in the house.  They’d already killed my parents and seemed to be eating them in the dining room.

Before I could even move, one of them snapped my sister’s neck and dragged her farther into the house where I couldn’t see.  I zipped my sleeping bag up over my head and trembled.  I was still young enough to harbor the belief that it would keep me safe.  I could hear them laughing, talking, and eating, which made me shudder.

I did what any kid in that situation would do: I pissed myself.  I laid there, trapped inside that bag with the smell of my urine soaking through my clothes for what had to have been hours.  Now they were filing out, and by the sounds of it, dragging things behind them.  I took a deep breath as a set of footsteps thumped the ground next to my sleeping bag.

Before I knew it, my bag was being unzipped.  I was met with a ghastly sight.  One of them was leaning down to look me in the eyes, dripping all manner of blood and gore from his beard.  It was the face that terrified me the most; whoever stood there was wearing my mother’s face.  I begged and pleaded for them not to kill me, and I promised that I wouldn’t tell a soul.  The homeless person just chuckled and said, “Thanks for the change,” before leaving me there in that house alone, surrounded by what was left of my family.

Rating: 10.00/10. From 1 vote.
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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available


Written by Raz T. Slasher
Edited by Craig Groshek and N.M. Brown
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

🔔 More stories from author: Raz T. Slasher


Publisher's Notes: N/A

Author's Notes: N/A

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Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

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