CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "Chatroom.exe" Creepypasta

Episode Date: May 7, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Frequent-catCreepypastas 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...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 met my friend in a server dedicated to a sandbox survival game. It was a simple game, almost stupid in a way. But that's not important. We were both around the same age. Middle schoolers bored out of our minds during long evenings, and we clicked fast. Our chat started off with building tips, then turned into jokes, then slowly became something more steady. He always had new mods to show me, obscure YouTube channels, playlists filled with glitchy, ambient music.

His screen name was simple. A two-word combo followed by a number. He never changed it. And after a while, I stopped being curious about it. We never had voice chats, just text. But that didn't really bother me. In fact, I kind of liked that unique aspect of our friendship. But then, a few months in, he started to pull away.

He left servers, quick group chats, said everything was becoming too managed. That was the word he used. Managed. Said he hated feeling tracked and sorted. So, he messaged me and asked if I'd ever heard of the Deep Web. I told him I heard horror stories, stuff from YouTube or Reddit, but never looked into it. He told me most of that was fake,

sensational garbage for clicks. He said there were real communities out there, ones that hadn't been chewed up by algorithms or rules or sponsorships. Real internet. He said he'd found a forum and he wanted me to see it. What he sent looked more like a manual.

A plain text file filled with instructions written in the strange mix of casual language and paranoid detail. I sat to my desk in my mom's place, copying everything into a small notebook I used for passwords and game cheats. I wrote slowly, double-checking every line. Then I took the notebook into the front pocket of my backpack. I'd need it again. I had two computers, one in my mom's apartment and one at my dad's house.

Both set up for gaming, both with decent privacy, since they trusted me enough to give me some space. But nothing synced between them. If I wanted to access the forum, no matter where I was, I had to install everything twice. He never knew this, though. I never liked talking about my family situation. It was kind of embarrassing. I went back and forth every week. one full week at my mom's apartment

and one full week at my dad's house it was an even split when I was with my mom my dad had my stepbrother Jake and when I went to my dad's Jake would stay with my mom that was the rule they came up with after the divorce

it worked out fine both houses at fast internet my school was right between them and most of my stuff stayed packed in a duffel bag anyway. Jake and I were the same age, but we weren't close. I never hated him or anything. We just weren't built to get along. Neither of them, my parents, I mean, knew anything about the deep web stuff. They didn't even know I was still talking to the kid from the sandbox server. They thought I'd moved on. Most of my online life stayed folded up between bookmarks and private

browser tabs. They didn't check my screens, and I didn't give them reasons to. That week, I was at my mom's place, which meant the next week I'd be with my dad. I had everything ready. Both computers prepped. The forum URL split across two pieces of notebook paper, taped at the inside of each desk drawer. The forum was waiting. I waited. until late at night before trying it. I'd finished my homework early and told my mom I was going to bed. She never double-checked.

As long as my grades stayed decent, she figured I could be trusted to spend time online. I shut off the lights and pulled the blackout curtain across the window. My desk lamp was too bright, so I used the small USB one that clipped to the edge of my monitor. The room settled into a large of my monitor.

low, warm hum, filled with only the sound of my fans spinning low arcs. I opened tour, followed the checklist again step by step, then typed the long string of characters into the address bar. I double-checked it twice, each segment against my paper copy. My heart thumped a little as the page loaded. Part of me expected some kind of error, or maybe for nothing to happen at all. Instead, the screen flickered and filled with dark text over a flat grey background. Just a header, a login prompt, and a list of message threads rolling endlessly down the page. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of them, all stacked and shifting with activity.

Some had cryptic titles, some used weird code names or references, I didn't understand. Others were just nonsense strings, yet somehow had hundreds of comments inside. I typed in the temporary login my friend had given me earlier. It was a shared account used to register, something he said I should only use once. I would create a new one once I got inside.

The moment I entered, the forum exploded with life. It wasn't just a place to post. There were live threads that moved in real time, an even weird internal point system. Karma, I guess. It tracked who was respected and who wasn't. Some users had glowing names, some had icons next to their tags. Threads moved quickly, but patterns formed. Some posts were inside jokes, others were strange collaborative stories or challenges.

A few were darker. images, links to downloads, encrypted files with riddles instead of descriptions. I didn't touch those. Instead, I click through to a sub-forum with jokes, games, and weird memes that had no place on normal websites. That's where I found him again. His username popped out immediately. The same one he always used. unchanged from Discord.

He had calmer, a lot of it, more than I expected. I clicked on his name and saw his post history stretched back months. It made me wonder how long he'd really been here before telling me about it. I messaged him through the forum's private inbox, just said, Hey, I'm in. Last than a minute later, he replied. You made it. I've been watching your username.

I wasn't sure if you'd actually go through with it. He sent me a new invite link to a smaller subthread. It was slower, more focused. He said this one was safer, easier to start with. I joined it without question. From there, we picked up fast. We posted memes that wouldn't survive a second on any normal platform. We joked about stuff we never say at school.

Nothing illegal or evil. Just a little unhinged for our age. I made my own profile and started joining in. Some of my jokes hit hard. I got replies, inside references, private invites to new chats. My karma ticked up with every hour I spent there. One of my posts, just the weird thoughts I typed out during math class and say for later, blew up.

It hit the top of the humor thread by midnight. People quoted it. A few tried to remix it into edits and images. I was having more fun than I thought I would. Everyone seemed extremely friendly. He saw it too, my friend. He sent a short message after I hit the front page. Dang, man, I knew you'd like it here.

Friday came fast. The classroom buzzed with low chatter while the teacher passed out some extra credit worksheet that nobody asked for. I'd finished my test early and was pretending to review it. But really, I had my phone tucked low in my lap, screen dimmed almost a black.

I'd installed torn mobile behind a file locker app, buried under a fake calculator. I wasn't supposed to have it at school. but I checked the forum whenever I could. The connection was slow on the school Wi-Fi, but it opened. My inbox lit up with a single unread message from him. They're going to shut it down. Something's happening.

I don't want to stop talking to you though. That was all it said at first. I stared at the words, rereading them twice. Then another one came in. We need to talk off here. I don't do discord or anything anymore, but I live in your town. I had to reread that line too. I felt something weird blooming my stomach.

I hadn't told him where I lived. I never mentioned the state. We always kept things surface level. But then again, I hadn't asked him either. Maybe this was just a coincidence. He probably figured it out based on something I'd let slip at some point. Before I could respond, the bell rang. Everyone flooded into the halls.

I slipped my phone into my pocket and headed for my locker. My fingers itched to message him back. I wrote him during the bus ride. Wait, you're serious? A few minutes later, he confirmed it, told me which side of town he lived on. It wasn't even that far from my house. my dad's house. We joked about how we'd probably stood next to each other at a fast food place or cross paths at them all without knowing it. He said he didn't want to lose contact.

The forum was about to disappear. His words were vague about why. He just said something big was happening behind the scenes. Something about old admins getting scared, someone selling access logs. He didn't know if he could trust any sight after this one went dark. I tossed out a few ways the stain touch. He shut them all down. Then he suggested we just meet. It made my chest tighten. Not in a bad way. I felt wired, over-alert. The idea of finally seeing him in person of meeting someone I had only ever known through messages and glitchy memes and weird jokes. It felt unreal. Nevertheless, I said yes before I really thought it through.

I gave him my dad's address, told him to come by tomorrow afternoon, Saturday around two. I said we could hang out on the porch, maybe walked at the gas station or just chill in the yard. My dad was usually out running errands by that time. I didn't mention my mom. I didn't say I switched houses every week. I didn't think I needed to. That night, I stayed up late again, trying to think through everything. What he might look like, what I'd say, whether it would be awkward.

I imagined the walk down the street, the first handshake, a weird moment where two usernames tried to become people. people. Then, around midnight, my mom knocked softly on my door. I pulled off my headphones and turned around. She had that face she used when something annoying was about to happen, but she didn't want to start an argument. Hey, she said, leaning on the doorframe, you'll be staying here another week. I blinked. What? Why?

Jake and I butted heads. Trouble at school. I won't say more than that. She said. He is not happy with me right now, but it's something he needs to learn. He's taking some space, so we're keeping the schedule flipped until he cools off.

Her voice was calm, but my stomach flipped. I didn't even hear what she said next. Something about letting her know if I needed anything. I nodded. on autopilot. I sat there, frozen. Everything I'd planned, everything I'd told my friend, was wrong now. He'd be going to my dad's house tomorrow, but I wouldn't be there. The second my mom left the room, I spun back to my desk and turned on the computer. My hands was shaking as I typed the address. It had never failed to load before,

even when the connection was bad. I stared at the Tor browser's loading icon. Nothing. Just a blank grey screen and a slow spinning circle that meant it was trying but getting nowhere. I closed it, reopened it, checked the network bridges. Everything looked fine. I tried it again.

Still nothing. I pulled out my phone. already sweating. I typed the forum address carefully, trying to make sure there were no mistakes. Same result. Time out. I tried the backup URL from the guide.

The one my friend said worked, even if the main site ever went down. I pulled it from the notebook and double-checked every segment. That one failed too. I moved on to the third link, the one at the bottom of the instructions, the fallback mirror he had called it. That one didn't even try to load. Just a plain white error page that flashed once and vanished.

I sat back, my mouth dry. It was gone. There was no way for me to reach him. I didn't even know his real name. And now he was going to a house I wouldn't be at. I didn't sleep. I just lay there in bed, staring at the ceiling, going over every possible outcome. Maybe the sight would come back online in the morning.

Maybe he would knock and leave. Maybe be told to come back next week. Yeah, probably. As soon as the sun started creeping through the curtains, I got up and went to the kitchen. My mom was already there, sipping coffee and scrawls. rolling through her phone. I stood there for a second, then asked if I could go visit Dad.

She glanced up without much interest. You'll see him next week. I know, I said. I just forgot something over there. I want to grab it real quick. She raised her eyebrows. What did you forget? My charger and a hoodie.

I left them in my room. I lied. She shook her head. You can live without them for a few days. I'm not driving across town for a hoodie. And Jake said he wanted space. Let's give it to him. I open my mouth to argue.

But she cut me off with a pointed lock. Do your chores. I nodded, trying to keep my face neutral. Then I went to the sink, turned on the faucet, and started washing dishes with my fists clench beneath the soapy water. The morning dragged. I scrubbed the kitchen, vacuumed the living room, took out the trash, even helped fold laundry. Over and over, I pictured different versions of the meeting.

Some ended in confusion, some ended in laughter. By the time the clock hit four, I couldn't sit down. still anymore. I stood in the doorway of the kitchen, waiting for my mom to look up. She didn't. I'm going outside, I said. She nodded, distracted. I slipped on my shoes, grabbed my bike, and pedal down the street. I didn't head to the park. I turned straight towards my dad's neighborhood. The street looked the same as always. windows dimmed in the afternoon haze. As I turned onto our block,

I slowed my peddling and coasted toward the curb, scanning both ends of the road. No one was outside. I checked my watch and waited, just for a minute, to see if anyone might show up at the corner. I looked at my dad's house from across the street. Nothing stood out at first.

The curtains and the door. the front room were drawn, the porch light was off. But then I noticed the door. It was open. Not wide, just a few inches. Enough for the wind to move it a little. Enough for it to make that soft wooden creak it made when you didn't pull it all the way shut.

I stepped onto the porch, calling softly as I reached for the door. Dad? No answer. I hesitated, then knocked, the door wobbled a bit under my hand. It hadn't just been left ajar. The lock was loose, the deadbolt fully retracted. I pushed it open farther and stepped out into the entryway. Jake?

My voice echoed through the house. Nobody answered. The air inside was still and cool. The living room sat empty, TV off, coffee bar clear. A single sock laid crumpled on the floor near the hallway. I glanced toward the back of the house, heart hammering as I raised my voice again. Dad? The quiet pressed harder now.

I stepped farther in. The door drifted shut behind me. I smelled it before I saw it. something coppery, something thick in the back of my throat. It wasn't the scent of food or garbage or cleaning supplies. It was something older, damp, still. I moved through the hallway slowly, feet barely touching the tile. Each breath felt sharper, shorter, until I reached the edge of the kitchen.

My dad was sprawled across the front. floor, face down. A thick pool of blood had spread beneath his chest and leaked into the grout between the floor tiles. His back had torn fabric across it. His shirt shredded at the collar. One of his shoes was gone. I stood there, frozen. My thoughts blurred into a single throb behind my eyes. I just stared because my mind couldn't pull itself forward enough to accept what I was seeing. Then my lungs kicked back in. I turned and stumbled into the hallway, half-blind, running straight into the wall behind me. I stumbled, and finally, the impact of hitting the wall removed the weight from my legs. Whatever had locked me in place cracked, and I bolted through

the front door so fast I hit my shoulder on the frame. I didn't bother closing it behind me. I ran straight for my bike and jumped on and kicked off as hard as I could. My legs burned by the time I reached the intersection. I tore through it, dodging a car that honked long and hard, his tires skidding a little behind me. I barely noticed. I rode until the streets began to look familiar again. I almost dumped the bike on the curb when I reached our building. My hand missed the handle the first time.

then I pushed through the door and took the stairs three at a time. My voice cracked as I shouted from my mom. She stepped out the kitchen, startled. What? Dad! I choked out. He's dead. Jake's gone.

Her face dropped all at once. Color left her skin as she grabbed my shoulders trying to get me to sit down. I couldn't. I kept pace. I kept shaking. The words came out broken. She called the police. She had no reason to hesitate. I'd never and have never tried joking about something like this. They came in fast. First the squad car, then two detectives. I watched it all through the front window with my knees pressed to my chest. My mom kept a hand on my back. But she didn't speak.

much. Later that night, they sat me down with a recorder and asked me to explain everything. I didn't know what to tell them. So I told them about the forum. I told them about the friend. I explained how we planned to meet and how I gave the wrong address because I didn't know I'd be staying with my mom another week. I told them everything I remembered. The detectives didn't say much. of them kept a neutral face, but his pen tapped a little harder with each answer. The other just watched me closely, nodding every so often, his eyes unreadable. I knew how it sounded. A kid talking about secret websites and a mystery friend and an address mix-up. My voice cracked again at the end, but I made it through. The next morning, they brought me into the station.

I sat alone in a room with cameras on the ceiling and wires under the table. They asked to see my computer. I gave them both. My mom handed over the phones too. They copied everything. They didn't accuse me, but they asked questions slowly, over and over, looking for gaps in the timeline, looking for a sign that I was hiding something. I wasn't.

I gave them the guide I'd copied by hand, the printout my friend had sent me, the addresses I'd written down. I even gave them the username he used, though I told them it probably wouldn't mean much. When we finished, one of the detectives stepped outside to speak with my mom. I stayed seated.

My stomach twisted. I could hear their voices through the crack in the door. We think this was premeditated, the detective said. Your son gave out that address, but whoever did this probably didn't expect anyone else to be in the house. I closed my eyes. My hands curled into fists under the table. They released me that night. I didn't sleep.

The next morning, the headlines broke. A man found dead in his kitchen, his kid missing from the scene. Local police investigating what they called an intentional and targeted act. Jake's photo showed up on every street lamp within a day. He was in his school hoodie, arms crossed, staring off camera. His name was printed in bold under the word missing. I biked past those posters every morning, every afternoon. every night.

I couldn't stay in the apartment. For seven days, no one heard a thing. Some time would pass, cutting through the roadside trails off the old bypass, noticed something slumped at the edge of a drainage ditch. The water had dropped from the heat that week, revealing more than it should have. The report said he thought it was a discarded bag at first. Then, he saw the hand. They didn't show the pictures on television.

Police crouched near the concrete slope with their hands covering their mouths. It was Jake. I found out before my mom did. Someone from school messaged me the article. Local boy found dead. Blunt force trauma, defensive wounds, no identification on the body. But the hoodie was a match. It had our middle school's name stitched across the chest,

the one he wore during gym class when he forgot to bring a change. My mom saw me staring at the screen. She took the phone from my hands before I could stop her. Then she collapsed into the kitchen chair, hands shaking too hard to scroll. She loved me as much as she loved him, even though he wasn't hers. The next week blurred. News stations cycled through every detail they could dig up.

Interviews with former neighbours, speculations from people who didn't know anything. Eventually. They found him. My friend, Thomas Greenlee, 46 years old. Convicted once when he was in his early 20s. Move three states over. Change his name through legal filings twice. He had been running the forum from a close.

Climate controlled storage unit behind an abandoned mattress outlet. The place had no signage, no obvious entry. Inside, investigators found custom server racks, locked safes, discarded hard drives, burner phones, and at least four separate routers. There were posters taped to the walls, crude diagrams with usernames and passwords, scratched out in red ink. He had built every account on the forum. every profile, every user, every conversation.

There were no other real people in that forum. It had just been him. He crafted posts, reacted to them, built fake reputations. He messaged himself, then replied in character. He built arguments between sock puppets, row private messages with time delays to simulate conversation. He had an entire network of voices. All of them were him, the only outside IP ever recorded on the logs, aside from his.

Was mine, they said the site had been live for over a year. Every few months he changed the theme and wiped the posts, always under the pretense of an admin reset or a security breach. He'd start fresh each time Test new tricks Lure new kids Authorities couldn't recover Full threads or timestamps

But my copies My notebooks Gave them something to work with They called me a key witness Said I was lucky Said they were proud of how I handled it I didn't feel any of those things I felt emptied out

Thomas was caught near the state line, living out an old camper van. The inside looked like a basement. Every surface covered in cables and tools. More phones, a laptop welded shut at the hinge. He gave them a false name at first, then he asked for a lawyer. He never said anything after that. He never made it to trial.

Two months after his arrest, before the formal sentencing could begin, He slammed his head against the concrete wall of his holding cell. Once, then twice. He kept going until he died. He left nothing behind, just me.