CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "A new color appeared in the spectrum. It's driving people insane." Creepypasta

Episode Date: February 16, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►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►SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creep...  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  CREEPYPASTA 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 worked as a research associate at the Eisenloid Perception Lab, a mid-tier government-funded facility that specialized in human cognition and the mechanics of visual processing. If that sounds complicated, it really wasn't. The goal of our work was simple, to understand how humans interpret reality, what our brains notice, what they ignore, what they fill in. It was all supposed to be theoretical. It wasn't supposed to be dangerous. I'd been there for almost five years. I was never the smartest in the room, but I was careful, methodical,

and that made me valuable. Where the other researchers were eager to push boundaries, I was the one always pumping the brakes. I had spent my entire career arguing against unethical human trials, shutting down projects that went too far. I thought that was enough to keep us out of trouble. The project started with an anomaly. A stray frequency picked up by one of our spectral imaging scanners,

something just outside the normal range of perception. At first, no one took it seriously. Probably a glitch or a sensor error. But when the same frequency appeared in multiple data, sets, the lead researchers got interested. They started running tests, simulating the frequency into artificial visual patterns, tweaking the light spectrum until... It appeared.

The colour had no name at first. It wasn't something you could just describe because our brains had never processed anything like it before. It wasn't blue or red or green. It wasn't between colours. It was outside of them. One of the researchers, Dr. Mira Lang, jokingly called it Hyperion, after the Greek Titan of Light. The name stuck.

I was skeptical from the beginning, not because I believed in the supernatural or anything. I just didn't trust something that shouldn't exist. It wasn't like discovering a new species of bird. This was a fundamental change to our understanding of light itself. self. That should have been a red flag. But the others were fascinated. When they ran simulations of Hyperion, they saw things. The color would move in strange ways, triggering after images that lasted too long, shapes that seemed to exist in the corner of your vision before vanishing when you tried to focus. It was like the color affected the way humans perceived reality. I told them, we need

to slow down, study it more before exposing human subjects. They ignored me. We started with rats. The results were inconsistent. Some rats stayed at Hyperion for hours, motionless, as if they were in a trance. Others mutilated themselves. One chewed through its own leg in under 15 minutes, gnawing all the way to the bone. The reports framed it as a a neurological over-stimulation response. I called it what it was. A really bad idea. I took my concerns to Dr. Lang.

She was the one who had been the most excited about Hyperion, and I thought if I could get her to listen, I could get the project shut down before it escalated. She wasn't interested in my concerns. It's just a color, she had said, exasperated. It's not doing anything. The animals just don't know how to process it.

We'll see different results with higher cognitive functions. She meant humans. I argued. She overruled me. The trial was already scheduled. They would be exposing volunteers to Hyperion within the week. I should have walked away. Should have quit.

Should have gone public. should have done anything than to sit there and watch. But I stayed. The human trials started small. Ten volunteers, all local students from the nearby university, all paid to sit in a room and stare at a screen. We ran the test like any other perception study. Show them Hyperion for a few minutes, monitor their brain activity,

take notes on any after effects. At first it seemed harmless. The subjects all had different reactions, but nothing extreme. Some called the color beautiful. Some said it was unnerving. One participant, an art major, stared for almost three minutes before breaking into tears. When we asked why, she just kept shaking her head whispering, It's everything.

It's always been everything. We should have slowed everything down then and there, been more measured at the very least, took more precautions. But Lang was ecstatic. She insisted we expand the trial, longer exposure, more volunteers, wider demographic testing. She wanted data, wanted to quantify what made Hyperion so different. That was when the real problem started. After the first full day of exposure, some of the volunteers started experiencing lingering after images. They described it as an overlay in their vision, like the colour was still present in the corners of their eyes, even after they left the lab. Some couldn't stop seeing it. One subject, a physics student named Elliot, called us at 2 in the morning, crying, telling us that Hyperion was still there.

there, even with his eyes closed. We told him to come in for further testing. He never showed up. Campa's security found him the next night, standing in the middle of the street, staring up at the sky. His retinas had burned out. The paramedics took him away, but the look on his face haunted me. He hadn't screamed.

He hadn't fought them. He had just stood there, his expression blank and unfocused. Hyperion wasn't just an anomaly. I tried pulling the plug on the experiment. Lang refused. We don't even know if it was Hyperion, she argued. It could be unrelated. It's not, I snapped.

You saw his eyes, Lang. This is wrong. We need to stop. She sighed, rubbing her temples. We don't even know what it is yet. We need more data. I lost my temper. Jeez, Mira, this isn't just data.

It's doing something to them. It's affecting them. She looked at me and just shrugged me off, made a dismissive hand gesture, effectively telling me to leave. And I did. I just had a feeling this wasn't going to stop. Not after Elliot,

not after everything. I don't think she was malicious I don't think she was trying to hurt anyone she was just like everyone else in that room eager to understand that's what scared me she didn't look disturbed by what had happened she looked fascinated

she kept talking about the need for more data kept insisting Elliot's breakdown could have been an unrelated psychotic episode. The worst part. She was so calm, so logical about it, that I started second-guessing myself. Maybe I had imagined the way his voice sounded over the phone. Maybe I'd misinterpreted the look on his face.

Maybe I was being too emotional and paranoid. Then she told me what they were planning next. A final experiment. I didn't go home that night. I sat in my office, lights off, the soft hum of the service filling the silence. My notes were spread out in front of me, dozens of reports detailing every exposure, every reaction, every irregularity. The pieces weren't forming a complete picture, but there was a pattern, something we weren't seeing. I could feel it, just out of reach, like a word sitting at the tip of my tongue.

Lang had already made her decision. The final trial would move forward no matter what I said, no matter what arguments I threw at her. She just wanted to understand. Maybe she was afraid of not being able to do so. And I would be lying if I said I didn't feel the same way. The colour had changed something, unlocked something in their minds, and she wasn't willing to walk away from that discovery, no matter the cost. I thought about walking away myself, thought about packing up, quitting, leaving the research

behind. I even reached from my phone once, considered calling someone, the university, and ethics board, hell, even the press. But I didn't. Not because I was afraid, but because I still wanted to know. That was the worst part. I wanted to see what would happen. The final experiment began at exactly 8 a.m. in the morning.

The observation room was packed. Everyone gathered around the monitors in heavy silence. There was no idle chatter, no nervous excitement. Everyone knew what we were doing was dangerous, even if they refused to say it out loud. I stood at the back of the room, arms crossed, watching the screens flicker to life as the test chamber powered on.

The subjects were sealed in four identical chairs, each one fitted with a biometric sensor and hugged up to fMRI scanners. James Walker, Julia Henley, and two others I didn't recognize. Their names were in the file, but I hadn't bothered to read them. It didn't matter anymore.

Lang sat at the control panel, expression unreadable, fingers hovering over the interface. We're beginning now, she said, voice steady. She pressed the button, and the screen in the test chamber filled with Hyperion. I didn't look. I kept my eyes locked on the brain activity readouts, waiting for something, anything that would justify shutting the whole thing down. For the first few minutes, nothing seemed down.

out of place. The vitals remained stable, their brain patterns fluctuated, but stayed within normal ranges. If I hadn't known what I was looking at, I would have thought they were just staring at a blank screen. Then James's fingers twitched. Just once, a subtle jerk of movement, then nothing. The others followed. Julius' breathing became shallow, one of the other subjects hand spasmed, like they were reaching for something that wasn't there. At a 10-minute mark, their motor functions began to slow. James had stopped blinking, Julia's chest barely moved with each breath. The other two were completely still. The pupils had contracted to pinpricks, barely visible against the whites of their eyes. At 15 minutes, their vitals remained normal,

but their brain activity spiked, not erratic or chaotic, but irregular. The readout was incomprehensible. The neural pathways weren't following standard cognitive function anymore. They weren't reacting the way any normal human should have. I felt my pulse hammering in my throat, the same sick weight in my stomach I'd felt when Elliot had called me, begging for help. At 20 minutes, the first subject collapsed.

His body went limp, head lolling to one side, vitals flatlining almost instantly. The alarms blared across the control panel, but he was already gone. A second later, the subject next to him followed. I felt my stomach drop. Lang was shouting orders, security rushed into the chamber, dragging the remaining two subjects away from the screen, shutting the system down.

But James and Julia were still breathing. Their hearts were still beating. Their eyes were still open. And yet, they didn't move. Not once. The following day, the decision was made for us. They came in without warning. Government officials, security personnel,

people I had never seen before in my five years at Eisenloid. They cleared out the offices, boxed up the equipment, wiped the research servers clean. No explanations, no discussions. We were handed non-disclosure agreements, told in no uncertain terms that the work we had done never existed, that Eisenloid would be repurposed for a different project, that none of us would ever speak of Hyperion again. and we didn't not because we weren't allowed to

but because nobody wanted to Lang stopped returning calls Mason quit research altogether a few people from the team took new jobs at other labs but most just disappeared into different careers different lives we scattered like survivors of a shipwreck

pretending that if we just stayed quiet if we just moved on then what happened that Eisenloid wouldn't follow us, but it did. At first I told myself I was fine. I found a new job, consulting for a startup in optical processing, something safe, something far removed from the mess that we had left behind. I convinced myself that maybe, somehow, we had shut it down in time. But the guilt didn't go away.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw James and Julia sitting motionless in their chairs, their minds still firing, still active, still locked in something we couldn't understand. I thought about Elliot, the way he had been when we found him in the street, staring into the sky with eyes that no longer worked. I tried to push it down, to move on. And then one night, Lang called me. Lang called me. It was late, two, maybe three in the morning.

I was awake, but barely, caught in that fog between dreaming and reality. And at first, I almost ignored it. When I saw that the phone call was from Lang, the jolt of adrenaline shot through me, like my body already knew before my mind caught up. I answered on the fourth ring. Lang? There was silence, not even breathing, just dead air.

I sat up, running a hand through my hair. Lang, what the hell? It's the middle of the night. More silence. Then, finally, I heard her inhale sharply, like she had been holding her breath. I need to see you, she said. Her voice was low, almost the whisper. I frowned.

Now? Yes. Now. Something in my gut twisted. Why? What's going on? I can't talk about it over the phone, she said. I exhaled through my nose, already annoyed.

You realize how suspicious that sounds right? Christ, Lang, if this is about Hyperion, it's over. We lost. We got shut down. We did everything we could. She didn't respond right away, and for a moment I thought she had hung up. Then she said, voice quiet and unsteady. I don't think it's over.

That made me go still. She exhaled shakily, and for the first time I realized how afraid she sounded. I've been running tests. She admitted, so softly, I almost didn't hear her. My grip on the phone tightened. You for what? There was a pause. Not officially, off the record, just following up.

Geez, Lang, I snapped. You're telling me you kept working on this? After everything? After? I had to. She cut me off, her voice rising slightly, desperate. You don't understand. something is still happening.

I let out a humorless laugh. Yeah, clearly. You ran trials on something that cooked people's brains. What did you expect that it would just stop? She didn't react to my anger. Lang never backed down from a fight. She was always the first to argue, the first to push back. But now, she just let the silence stretch.

And when she finally spoke again, It was a whisper. I don't think we discovered Hyperion, she said. I think it discovered us. I swallowed hard. What the hell does that mean? A longer pause this time. Then finally, just come over.

Almost didn't go. I sat in my car for a long time turning the key, staring at my hands. gripping the wheel, debating whether or not I should just throw my phone into the river and drive in the opposite direction. But I went. Lang lived in a small apartment downtown, a small and out-of-the-way place, not fit for someone making as much money as she did. I'd been there a few times before, back when we were still at Eisenloid, back when we still talked about our work. I knocked once, and the door unlocked almost immediately. Lang looked like she hadn't slept in days. Her hair was unkempt, dark circles bruised beneath her eyes, and her hands trembled

as she stepped back, motioning for me to come inside. I hesitated. Lang, just look. She said, already moving toward a desk. She flipped open a laptop and pulled up a series of images. At first, they didn't make sense. Just a mess of lines, paragraphs and data points. But then she pointed at one specific chart, tapping the screen with a fingernail. This is a brain scan from one of our last test subjects. Taken three days ago.

My stomach lurched. You're still tracking the screen. them? Not officially, she said, but I've been monitoring the scans. I stared at the screen. The patterns in the chart were wrong. They weren't random bursts of electrical activity. They were deliberate, repeating. Okay, I said slowly. What am I looking at? Leng clicked to another slide, pulling up a star map. my blood ran cold

the patterns in the scan they matched not randomly not approximately exactly I looked at her throat dry what the hell is this Lange didn't answer

she clicked again pulling up another image I took a slow step back that's important impossible. Lang was pale. I thought so too. I ran a hand through my hair, my pulse hammering in my ears. So, what are you saying? That Hyperion is, what, some kind of... I don't know, she admitted. Her voice barely above a whisper. We stared at the screen, the glow of the data reflecting off the walls, casting the room in cold light. I could hear my own.

heartbeat, too loud in my ears. I could feel my skin crawling as I looked at the images again, trying to make sense of something that wasn't meant to be understood. Lang sat in front of a laptop, staring at the screen, fingers resting on the keyboard, but not typing. The blue glow washed over a face, hollowing out her already exhausted features, making a look almost skeletal. I was standing in the doorway, trying to process what I had just seen. None of it made sense, but the look in her eyes told me she wasn't done yet. I exhaled through my nose, rubbing a hand over my face, trying to steady myself. That's not why you called me here, I finally said, is it? She didn't answer at first.

Her fingers twitched like she was considering what to say. I saw her swallow hard, shoulders tensing before she spoke. No, she admitted. That's not why I called you. I waited for her to continue, but she didn't. She just sat there, staring at the screen like she was afraid to say it out loud. Lange? I took a step forward.

my pulse starting to climb. Tell me what's going on. She reached for a mouse, scrolling through something I couldn't see yet. I think it got out, she said, voice barely above a whisper. The words hit me like a cold slap to the face. My hands clenched at my sides. What? She nailed sharply, exhaling slowly, forcing herself to the face.

to stay calm. I found the file circulating online, she said. At first, I thought it was a hoax, someone trying to recreate it, theorize about it. But then I checked. She motioned toward a screen, lips pressing into a thin line. It's real. The actual sequence. Someone leaked it.

I felt my breath catch. How long? ago. She hesitated. Twelve hours, maybe less. The floor felt unsteady beneath me. Lang's jaw clenched. She opened another file, clicking through a series of news reports, but she wasn't looking at the screen. She was looking at me, watching my reaction. I stepped closer. The first article was from this morning. Police investigating reports of multiple self-inflicted deaths in an apartment complex, three individuals found deceased in their rooms, no sign of struggle, no known connection between them.

I scroll down. Authorities in Tokyo responding to a surge of unexplained suicides, locals report seeing people walking into the streets into oncoming traffic, seemingly unaware of their surroundings. Another one. Coastal towns reporting an increase in drownings. Witnesses describe victims walking into the water, ignoring bystanders, disappearing beneath the waves without resistance. I felt my stomach drop. My voice came out tight, like my throat was closing up. This can't be real. Lang clicked on a live stream. It was some security camera feed. Grainy and low quality.

A man stood on top of a parking garage, motionless in front of a laptop screen. He wasn't blinking. His hands were relaxed at his sides, his face completely neutral. Then, without hesitation, he turned and walked straight off the edge. He didn't scream, didn't react, didn't flinch. The feed cut to black. Lange exhaled, leaning forward, hands covering her face. It's happening.

I was shaking. It hasn't even been a day. I know, she whispered. It happened faster than anyone could have imagined. The leak spread through some coding forums, obscure research boards, private archives. Someone had cracked the format, posted the raw sequence, and people curious, stupid people had opened it without thinking.

They saw Hyperion and never looked away. We watched it unfold in real time. Video clips surfaced, people standing still in front of screens, eyes wide, bodies are moving for minutes, hours before finally turning and walking away. Some were found later, dead in their homes,

sitting peacefully in front of their monitors, bodies untouched, unmarked. Others vanished entirely, no notes, no last words. The worst part was how quiet it was. No panic, no violent outbursts, no struggle, just a stillness. And then they left. They walked into the ocean, into forests, into caves and abandoned places. anywhere that swallowed them whole. They went down subway tunnels and never emerged.

They walked into traffic without so much as a scream. Lang and I tried everything to stop it. We contacted people in government, tried to get service shut down, tried to warn anyone who would listen. By the time the world even realized what was happening. It was already too late. It was inevitable. and it wasn't slowing down.

Lang gave it her all. She still believed there was a way to contain it to stop it from consuming everything. She spent every waking moment chasing solutions, theories, some scientific explanation that could fix what we had done. But even she knew the truth. One day I called her. She didn't pick up.

When I got to her apartment, the door was on. unlocked, laptops still running, data still open. She had walked out somewhere in the middle of the night. No sign of a struggle, no note, no goodbyes. Just gone. There's nowhere left to run. The world is going quiet.

More people disappear every day. No one knows how many are left. No one is counting anymore. I've been sitting in my apartment for hours, staring. at the gun on my table. I don't want to go the way they did. I don't want to walk into something. I don't want to see it again. I keep hearing Lang's voice. I hear the echoes of every subject we tested, every person who vanished. It's everything. It's always been everything. I'm sorry. I should have stopped this before it started.