CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "20 years ago, I was held hostage by my upstairs neighbor" Creepypasta

Episode Date: August 18, 2020

The party upstairs was keeping me up all night. But, when I asked them to quiet down, all I found was a man sitting alone in an empty room.CREEPYPASTA STORY- by OutsideYourWindow_: ►https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm...►https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm...►https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm...Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►Harry Dafereras: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/9e...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

I was fourteen when I met the man in the room. It was the summer my mom and I moved from our farm upstate to New York City. After the divorce, my dad fought to keep his house, so we had to move into the spare bedroom of my grandma's apartment. It was a musky building tucked into a neighbourhood at the northern tip of Manhattan, somewhere between Harlem and Washington Heights. It was a hundred floor of bodies, piled on bodies, of dark spaces and strange sounds. On the night after we moved in, there was one particular sound that really bothered me. It sounded like a party, people laughing and yelling, having a great time.

My mom was asleep in the twin bed we shared, so I was laying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. After two months of a horrible divorce and two days of moving boxes, all I wanted was the sleep, but I couldn't. The sound seemed to get louder throughout the night. When it hit midnight, I'd had enough. As I walked up the stairs, it quickly became clear that the sounds were coming from the apartment at the end of the hallway.

I could see a faint light spill out from under the crack, all the other apartments were dark, asleep. I don't know how the other neighbours didn't complain. As I walked closer, the sound grew louder and louder, like everyone's voice was running through a megaphone directly into my head. When I knocked, I could hear the sounds cut out one by one, as if they had been pulled from the atmosphere. As the laughter dwindled down to silence, I heard footsteps walking up to the door.

As the doorknob turned, a feeling of regret sank deep into my stomach. What was I going to say? What right did the new guy in the building have to stop a party? But when the door opened, my feeling of regret turned into something warmer, a kind of nausea. The man who opened the door was older, my grandmother's age.

He had big puffs of hair that came out of his temples like bales of hay. He looked directly at me, his eyes like a vortex. He didn't speak. He just stared, his lips moving but not making a sound, like a question was swimming around his tongue.

He had big, vainy hands that clung onto the door frame. He tapped his fingers against the wood, creating a sound like spiders crawling down the walls. I peered behind him, but all I saw was a dark room. I don't know where the people had gone, but they weren't in the living room. I knew there weren't too many places to hide. I'm sorry, I finally said, stepping back into the hallway. I thought there was a party up here.

I couldn't sleep. "'A party?' he asked. His voice was quiet, a scratchy whisper. It was like his vocal cords were made out of strips of paper. "'Yeah, but it's fine,' I said, turning back down the hallway. "'Sorry to bother you.' As I started walking, I could hear him step into the hallway behind me. "'No, please,' he said.

"'Come in and meet my friends. We're doing a little performance.' I stopped walking and turned around. Outside of his apartment, I could get a clearer picture of the man. He was wearing a white tank top, which wrinkled down around his protruding belly and into his blue jeans. His posture was caved like a crashing wave, his shoulders fat and hairy. In a way, he reminded me of my dad. A performance? I asked.

Yes, he said, rubbing his hands together. there's a lot of people from the building here they would love to meet you maybe if my mom was a stranger danger type of parent I wouldn't have walked inside but in fact she wasn't much of any kind of parent my dad was a narcissist a word only uncovered for me after years of therapy

the world was his stage so my mom never had much of a voice she never warned me about bad people because she never warned me about anything It wasn't until I walked inside the man's apartment and heard something click behind me that I realised people weren't always good. The apartment was dark, the only light coming from the streetlights and passing cars below. He didn't have furniture or pictures on the walls, only a dozen or so folding chairs and an

equal amount of mirrors. The walls were stained with watermarks and, sitting on the floor beneath him, there was a series of small machines. They looked like old answering machines my grandmother still kept from the time before cell phones. I started to get a bad feeling, the same feeling I got when my parents were fighting. I knew I needed to leave. But when I turned around, the man was standing in front of the door, a metal rod in his hands. It looked more like a microphone than a weapon. He placed the tip of it against his lips and smiled two rows of crooked yellow teeth.

Thank you for coming out tonight, he said, looking out across the room of machines. I hope there wasn't too much traffic. The man's voice sounded like the old comedians my grandmother watched, the ones with a swoopy hair. His voice had a certain swinging quality to it, like each word was dancing with the one before it. I should probably go, I said, stepping toward the door. My mom is expecting... I know a lot about traffic, he continued, moving towards me. His eyes grew wider, revealing thick red lines that ran into his pupils.

I once waited in an hour of traffic. The officer said I should get there quick, but they blocked off the highway. What's that about? I stepped to the side to get a look at the door. There were a dozen locks along the doorframe, all with different shapes and sizes and patterns. I could see a ring of keys hanging off the man's bell. But I waited and waited and waited. Then when I finally got there, all I could see was the car flipped on his roof.

When I got out and ran over, all that was left of my wife were her fingers. I saw them reaching out from under the metal. It looked like she wanted a high five. As he said it, he pulled out a small remote from his pocket and pressed into it. All of a sudden, the party roared back to life. I grabbed my ears, the laughter piercing my eardrums. It was a different kind of laughter though. It wasn't sitcom laughter, it was high-pitched, almost pain-sounding.

I spun around to look for the people emerging from their unknown source, but no one was there. All that remained were the chairs and mirrors and machines. And my boy, he continued, looking at me. Well, it was about your rage. He was flat as a flapjack in the back seat, his guts like a strawberry compote, his saliva phoned up like whipped cream. With each line, the sounds grew louder, as if new people were entering the dark room. Please stop, I said, but my voice was too dry to make sound. Besides, as much as I tried, I could never be louder than those voices.

They were deafening. I said the same thing. the man said, pacing in a small circle. Please stop, please stop. I was on my knees in the middle of the highway. My arms raised to the sky like God was going to drop a new family on me. And the pain, can you imagine? All I wanted was for God to stop the pain,

for him to reach down a big, goofy hand and swipe me from the earth. It felt like every nerve is getting pricked from my body. As the sounds grew louder, his voice grew more angry. It kept the sing-songy rhythm, the game show host swing, the happy-go-lucky vibrato. As he moved toward me,

I walked backwards, my hands in front of me, in a weak defence. I should have looked at where I was walking, but I was too focused on what he would do if I turned around. In my clumsy backpedal, I stumbled onto one of the folding chairs,

my butt landing hard on the metal. That's when he pounced. The man leapt forward, tossing his makeshift microphone onto the hardwood and reaching for my hands. I tried to pull away, to collapse onto the floor and enter a fetal position, but the man was surprisingly fast. He wrapped his big, hairy hands around my wrists and pulled them behind me. Within a second, I felt a zip tie go around my wrists. The man, as if he had tripped on stage, grabbed the microphone off the ground and straightened his posture. Sorry about that, folks, he said.

Anyway, I didn't even go to the funeral. Instead, I spent my nights scaring the streets, looking for little bodies, bodies that look like them, but weaker, more attainable. Bodies I could hold forever, voices that would never leave. He began to sing in an unknown melody. Make you mine, make you mine, little loves, I'll make you mine. Laugh with me, sing with me, won't you please come back to me? I looked around, searching for some sort of lifeline, but all I could see was the mirrors.

Each one was perfectly positioned to hold my reflection, turning the empty room into a full house of my terror-stricken face. I tried to scream, but my voice was no use against the others. As I sat and struggled with the hand-eyes, I noticed where the laughter was coming from. It was pulsing out of the small answering machines. as if it had been pre-recorded, and as I listened closely, I noticed something else.

Altogether, the sounds formed a symphony of joy, of jeer and comedy. But individually, they weren't laughing at all. Each and every voice. What was screaming? I looked around at the man's machines spread out over the apartment.

Although my head was aching from the noise, I was able to focus on one of the sounds. The voice was caught in a sort of loop, the words repeating every ten seconds or so. I won't tell anyone, please, just let me go. I swear I weren't. I felt the sick feeling throughout my body. I imagined the old farmhouse,

my grandma knitting in a favorite chair, the Mets playing on her old TV. I didn't know if I'd see any of them again. I looked up at the man. He was pacing around the apartment. The microphone still to his lips. He wasn't speaking, though, just mouthing words. He didn't look scared or angry or upset.

He looked focused, as if working through the next step of his plan. That plan wasn't important to me, though. I knew my plan. I was going to leave this room alive. And, even at 14, leaving places was a talent of mine. I remember a lot about the last. Last night I spent with my father, but what sticks out the most was the way the whiskey felt my eyes. I tried to rub it out.

I tried to open my eyes and let the cold Catskills air soothe the sensation, but it only got worse, much like everything else between me and my dad. We were sitting on the porch of our farmhouse. I was drinking Dr. Pepper and my dad was on his fifth glass of whiskey. His drinking followed a familiar pattern. One was friendly, two was curious, three was sleepy, four was aggravated, and five was mean. Although, according to him, each glass made him funnier. On this particular night though, he got mean at four and a half classes. The rest of the fifth glass went right up into my eyes.

Wake up, he said, tossing the whiskey at my face. Want to hear a joke? I tried to turn away before it hit, but I wasn't fast enough. My body still ached from moving boxes all afternoon. You could still see the U-Haul from the front porch. Mom insisted I spent the nights leading up to the move out here with him. She said having a father was an important thing and that I should cherish these moments,

even though she was the one divorcing him. How do you know if a woman's a slut? He asked me. The words blowing together. I didn't respond. I knew the punchline. ever since my mom mentioned the divorce my dad had made the same joke each and every night

huh he said shoving me hard up with his palm how i said if more people came inside of her than came out of her he said with a laugh there was more spite than humour and since you're an only child he continued on i guess you know the answer for your mother

i didn't respond i kept my focus on the mountains the way they whispered in the dark, their trees all rubbing together. Our house was big and falling apart, sitting right in the mountains valley, hidden from the other people. I think my dad liked it that way. Laugh, he yelled, throwing me out of my trance. No, I said, standing up from the rocking chair. He stood up too, his big shoulders blocking the front door.

Laugh, he said again, walking toward me. His eyes showed no signs of life, just reactions. He was a big room of eggshells. I just had to make it to the other side. I just want to go to bed, I said. Before I could react, he lunged at me, his hands landing hard into my shoulders. I stumbled back a few steps before the porch left from under my feet. As I tumbled through the night and toward the grass,

I caught a glimpse of my dad standing there, his chapped lips turned. into a smile, his wild eyes, his chest pumping laughter like an overworked smokestack. I saw his face still when I closed my eyes, the automated laughter closing in on me. The man in the room was off in the corner now, searching his drawers for something. I pulled at the zip ties, but they only seemed to get tighter. My hands were starting to lose feeling. I clawed at the plastic, but I knew I was only making myself more tired. When the man found what he was looking for, he walked back toward me.

He had one of those answering machines in his hands. He placed it on my lap, then stood behind me. We've got a full house tonight, he said, looking at the mirrors that surrounded me. To think, all these people just want to hear what I have to say? Quite amazing. In the reflection, I could see him bringing the metal rod to his lips. good thing I have some new material tonight he said I just love to hear your laughter

he tapped the metal rod on the back of my head he sent a trimmer down my back here's a good one he said what did the lonely man steal from the funeral home he leaned over my shoulder matching my eyes with his through the mirrors I shook my head I could see my tears forming before I felt them

My whole face was numb like it had been dipped in hot wax. Huh? The comedian asked, tapping the metal rod harder against my head. What? I mustered. He stole what was rightfully his. He said, his voice booming into a yell. Because everyone wants the steal. Did you know that?

The government steals, the police steals, the funeral home steal. Our country wants to take what isn't theirs. Did you know that? Huh? Man is entitled to very little in this world, not even his own family. I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. It reeked of old meat, like ground beef was stuffed between all of his teeth. If you want something, he screamed, You need to steal it.

I didn't know what he meant about stealing. I had only ever been the thing stolen. The boy, taken from his father, watching him walk. watch me from the porch as I drove away. I needed to understand what the man meant. The man walked away from me and paced in small circles

in the middle of the room, as if in prayer. As he did, I looked around, searching for clues. What did he mean by stealing? There wasn't anything he could have stolen. All he had was the chairs and mirror and machines. No furniture, no pictures

on the walls, nothing of value. Then I noticed something strange. Painted on the walls were rectangles. Their outlines almost faded into the white paint. They were tall, almost human height, and spaced apart like graves. As the man continued, I counted the shapes. 12.

Then I counted the items, the machines, the mirrors, the chairs. 13 of each. I could feel my stomach flip. The sweat fell faster down my neck. Although it was barely winter, the room was terribly cold, like a giant refrigerator. Still, somehow, I managed the sweat. The drops feeling cold and achy as they drip down my back. Please, I said to the man, his eyes fixed on the floorboards.

I won't tell anyone. Just let me go. The man stopped circling and looked at me. As he walked closer, his voice seemed to grow deeper. All I need is laugh. The man said, looking down at the machine on my lap. Then, you can go. I looked down at the machine.

There was red dot blinking. I could feel my words sink into the rolling tape like it was extracting my soul. I wanted to believe a laugh would set me free. but I knew it wouldn't. What about the voices in those other machines? Were they just allowed to leave? As I sorted through my options, the man walked behind me. His scent now caught to my throat.

He lowered his chin onto my shoulder. It's easy, he said. Ha, ha, ha. I could feel my heart like a ticking bomb. I just needed to laugh. Then I could go. Easy. Just laugh.

Ha ha, I mustered, my voice like sand. Listening to the others, the man whispered in my ear. Listen to how much fun they're having. Laugh. Ha ha ha. Ha ha. I said. I wanted to vomit.

His smell was inside of me, rotting my organs and filling my stomach with acid. No, no, no, he said, shaking his head. He grabbed into my shoulders, shaking me with each hair. His fingers dug into me like talent. Ha ha ha ha. His voice stabbed my eardrum. I tried to breathe, but each breath felt further away. I reading myself to laugh.

How hard could it be? Laugh, I thought. Just laugh. It's easy. It'll bring you back to your grandmother's apartment with the vanilla candles and big trays of lasagna. Ha ha, I chirped. But when I saw the man's eyes, I knew it wasn't good enough.

In a swift motion, he grabbed the machine from my lap and slammed it into my mouth. It's hard to describe the feeling of your teeth breaking. On the very rare occasion, I tell this story to people. I describe it like drowning in an ocean of rocks. The initial punch lit my face with bright numbness. But no amount of shock could have saved me from the sensation of my teeth entering my esophagus. They fell through my chest like fingernails.

Every breath was met with a sharp, burning sensation. That's when I started to scream. It was as if the last 20 minutes of trauma erupted from me, pulsing and punching every feeling of panic into the freezing air. I tried to make words, but all I could generate was the animal sound of near death of the world's eyelids closing in on my small, meager existence. That's when I saw the comedian smile.

Good crowd tonight, he said, regaining his posture on the imaginary stage. He moved away from me and the mirrors and walked towards the lines of the walls. I continued to scream, to yell, to exert every ounce of life into the air, but all my sounds fed right into the machine. I tried to spit it out, but it stretched my jaw to the point of contraction, locking me in an embrace. with a taste of plastic and dirt. Sometimes, late at night, I can still hear the sound of my voice

made on that night. It's a firework exploding in the belly of hell. It plays in a loop in the dark of my terrible apartment, circling with a passing car lights and distant gunshots. If I don't bore myself out, I can spend entire days back with a comedian. But then I remember the silver lining. Even as I huffed and spit into the machine, even as my soul got pulled to the place with the others, my brain was ahead of itself.

As I saw myself in the mirror, I got an idea. I never understood the concept of freedom. People will brag about their freedom, about their independence, how they can do whatever they'd like, when they like. But that's a lie. No one is truly free. Yeah, we are free to explore, free to curse, free to make our own decisions. But the thing about freedom is that all of us, in one way or another, are trapped somewhere. We all have relationships we can't leave, jobs we're stuck in, houses we're forced to pay off.

We all have memories on loop. We all have a door with fingernail scratches inside of it, whether real or imagined. Even today, 20 years later, I still find myself in that. man's apartment. Even though I found a way out, I still feel like a piece of me is there. As I got my brilliant escape plan, I was fumbling with his hip ties. The man was walking toward the markings on the wall. Sweat was running down his neck, leaving big yellow stains on his tank top. He was muttering something out of ear shot. I tried to convince myself that there weren't bodies behind those outlines on the wall. I tried not to imagine them like graves.

But my imagination was impossible to control. The man mentioned stealing. He said he stole something from the funeral home. Were his wife and son behind that wall? Who else was with them? The man stood in front of a blank section of dry wall for a moment. He was swaying side to side, as if caught in some trance. Then, in a quick motion, he wound back his arms and thrust his metal rod into the wall.

It made a quick pop sound, but was more. marveled against the looping machine laughter. As he repeated the motion, I could see the shape start to form. It was the same rectangle that repeated twelve other times. I knew he was going to stuff me in that hole, shoulder the shoulder with the other bodies, the ones that held the voices trapped in the machines. My heart felt like a drum roll. I felt sick.

I imagined the feeling of insulation all around me, climbing into my mouth and stuffing me with warmth. For a moment, lost in my fear, I forgot about the pain in my mouth from the machine. It felt like I was eating a campfire. Every tooth had its own unique pain. My throat was still clogged with teeth. When I tried to breathe, I would get a single, wispy breath before choking on blood. I knew I needed to act fast. As the man tore away drywall, I used my feet to shimmer closer to the mirrors. They were propped up a few feet away from me, but with a loud sound of the machine laughter, you couldn't hear the chair scratch across the floor. I dug my shoes into the hardwood, I kicked at the ground, I used every muscle in my legs. I felt

like a sprinter in the last moment of a race, pumping away from that moment of escape, a elation. When I got within a leg's length of the mirror, I saw my foot and connected with it, as it fell to the ground, I leapt of my chair toward it. I caught my reflection in the glass before it shattered. My mouth was stuffed with the machine, my jaw wide and broken-looking. My eyes were that of an animal,

wide and consumed by something, a feeling beyond reason or thought. I was a train barreling toward the end, whatever that end might be. This time, the sound of my escape was louder than the laughter. The shattering filled the room. The man whipped around,

round, his hair wild and nice beady. He looked at me with a look of betrayal, like I had broken our promise. As he walked toward me, I scrambled on my back in the broken glass. I fumbled through the shards, searching for one of the right size. I could feel the edges stabbed me. They poked holes in my hands and back, slicing me to bit. Still, it did nothing compared to the pain in my mouth. Don't you want to join the party? He asked, a few steps away. I could see something behind his stretched smile. It was a kind of sadness, an undercurrent.

It only showed through his eyes. My boys are here. My wife, the girl from down the hall, the delivery boy. You'll be a perfect addition. As I moved from piece to piece of the mirror, I found one that felt just right. It was a triangle, perfect fit for my grip. You'll never be lonely.

He continued, leaning down to pick me up. As his hands grabbed my shoulders, I felt the same, sick feeling run through me. We could keep each other company. While he pulled my body off the floor, I twisted my wrist and felt the tension of my zip tie give way. The blood rushed back to my hands, making me aware of every little cut in my arm.

I could feel the sharp edges of the glass in my palm, holding the shard hurt, but it also filled me with another. feeling. Power. For the first time in forever, I had a secret weapon. I could take control of the situation. I looked into the man's darting eyes. I didn't want to see what I saw, but I couldn't help it. Here was my dad's eyes, watching me from the bedroom he used to share with my mom. They were big and angry, but overflowing with sadness. Like his head, was a water balloon.

The man, the comedian, the kidnapper. He had the same eyes. It were the eyes of a man watching his life leave, falling through his hands like sand, impossible to hold. The man reached the wall of my face and ripped out the machine. As the cold air hit my exposed gums, I felt the rush of a faint.

I almost passed out right there. The pain made me feel like I was pinned to the machine. the ocean floor. It's a party in here, son, he said. Take care of me and I'll take care of you. You'll be happy forever. The moment happened without my knowledge. Suddenly I was standing a few feet away from the man, my hand covering my mouth.

I could taste the warm, sickly blood on my palm. I pulled it away to look at it. All I saw was red. The shard of glass was gone. I looked over at the man, and that's when I saw it. The piece of mirror was lodged in his neck. The man tried to keep his composure, waving his arms like he was walking a plank, but it was only a few seconds before he was on the ground.

He sat there like a kid at a school assembly, his legs crossed, his expression vacant, yet concentrating. He was looking slightly behind me. half-smile starting to fill with blood. Don't go, he said. His voice was on the edge of laughter, his eyes equally as amused. He collapsed on his back, his focus now on the wall behind him. He was looking at the twelve outlines, the half-finished 13th one beside them.

It was his audience, his full house, his upright graveyard. It was a reminder of the things lost, of things. he couldn't quite hold. The machine laughter looped as the blood pulled around his neck, soaking his grey hair. As I watched him twist and turn, I felt that laughter closing in.

It was descending on him. For a moment, I almost felt sad. Then, like a fever-breaking, the feeling went away. I was left with a dark power, an anger brimming and intense joy. I wouldn't be the boy.

who laughed. I was the boy who left. The next hour moved by me like I was watching it, a movie playing in the background. I grabbed the ring of keys from the man's belt and puzzled to the doorlocks. I collapsed into my grandmother's dark apartment, my voice letting off a single scream before I passed out. When I opened my eyes again, the room was bright and filled with paramedics. I didn't pay attention to the news over the next few days. My grandma would play in the background while I tried to sleep, but I was too focused

and just closing my eyes. Every time I tried, they'd shoot open again. My jaw was wired and my head was a garbage heap of painkillers. All the while, through my bedroom wall, I could hear the newscasters talk about the victims. There were

a dozen bodies, each one plucked out of the wall. On one of those nights, I heard my grandma's door open. I recognised the intruder's voice right away. When my dad opened the bedroom door and saw me, he ran over and wrapped me in a hug. As he pulled away, I could see that twinkle in his eye.

He wanted to make a joke, I was sure of it. But like a fog dispersing, that twinkle went away. As he looked at me, I saw his darkness. It poured out of him like a ton of wet concrete. It was a version of my dad I hadn't seen in years, like he had finally exiled. As he grabbed me in another hug, I could feel his tears on my neck. You're my boy, he whispered. For a moment I wanted to pull away.

I wanted to kick, to scream, to drive something through his neck too. I didn't want to be anyone's anything anymore. But that feeling slowly left the room. I felt my arms tighten around his back. pulling him closer. He had a strange love, an aggressive love, a desperate love. But it was still love. Sitting in my apartment now, putting this out for the world to see,

I feel a bit of relief. But there are some things I was never able to go back to. I don't go outside much anymore. I like to keep the blinds drawn, the lights off. I don't like music or television or any real sound. I like silence and the dark. I never really speak. I spend most nights on Reddit.

I like to stick with no sleep. Anything dark, really. When I come across a meme, I try not to laugh. But on the off chance I do. I always wait a few seconds. I listen in the darkness. I listen for an echo for another laugh or two or three or twelve. Once I'm sure I'm alone, I tilt my head back and exhale.

I remind myself that I got out. I know I did. I left the party upstairs and regained my life. I know I did. Didn't I?