CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "Don't Click This If You Like Sleeping" Creepypasta

Episode Date: August 13, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Frequent-Cat:   / a_girl_in_a_bright_yellow_raincoat_watches_me  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...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep web" ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher, and...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creepypasta  ►"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

It started with nostalgia. I hadn't read horror in years, not the internet kind at least. No sleep, creepy bastard, that whole era. I was deep into it in my late teens. Something about the stripped down storytelling, the way people wrote with urgency instead of polish, hit different back then. They felt human like a friend telling you about this strange week.

I used to read them in bed, ear buds in, lights off. Not because I wanted to be scared, but because it felt good. Like being unsettled was part of some weird ritual before sleep. A few weeks ago, I decided to chase that feeling again. It was late. I was bored and feeling nostalgic,

so I figured it would be harmless to revisit some of the old classics. There was something oddly comforting about it. The stories had aged, sure, but enough time had passed that most of them felt new again. I remember just enough to feel familiar, but not enough to spoil anything. I tore through the big hitters. Ben drowned, the Russian sleep experiment pen pal. I even found old screenshots from defunct forums of some of the classics, pasted into blog spot pages by digital hoarders.

Stories before the time of named authors, when people posted anonymously to create an air of authenticity. That comfort didn't last long. Once I ran out of the old stuff, I dipped back into R-slash-no-sleep to see what people were writing now. I wish I hadn't. Everything felt off. The tone was too smooth, too neat.

You could tell half the stories were written to hit a certain word count, or hit trending, or just the water-distance. down version of a popular horror movie. They were either ultra-formulaic or bizarrely disjointed, all rhythm and no voice. AI stories, I muttered at my screen, staring at the end dashes and robotic tone of the latest posts. I searched for the authors I remembered, the Stephen Kings of Reddit. However, their activity had dwindled. I looked up what they had done recently and saw a barrage of stories.

removed on the subreddit for arbitrary reasons, reasons that would have had the great classics removed if the rules were about then. Even the comments were neutered. Every other post was some flavour of, Great story, O.P., or, you should expand this into a series. Nobody talked about how it made them feel anymore. Nobody argued whether it was real. That used to be half the fun.

So, I went looking. Not in the main channels. I knew better than that. I dug through old blogs, weird side forums, abandoned link trees, anything that looked dusty and unmoderated. A lot of it was trash. Stories written in all lowercase, pasted from wordpad, half of them ending with, and then I woke up. Haunted dolls, glitching mirror.

as forest disappearances, plenty of recycled garbage. But every now and then, one of them hit. Not because it was written well, or because it was scary. Just because it felt off in the right way. Like it hadn't been written to entertain, but to unload something. There was that sincerity to the tone that made this subgenre a special. That's what kept me going. Then, I found it, in a forum that looked wholly unmoderated.

A thread with a title, Don't read this if you like sleeping. It was wedged between two stories about haunted TV static and an abandoned zoo. The username just said, deleted, and the timestamp was from over a year ago. A dead thread with no comments, no upvotes, no tags. I remember hovering over. it, thinking it was probably another throwaway. But then again, some part of me, the part that used to fall asleep with creepy audio echoing

through my headphones, wanted it to be real, just for a moment. So I clicked. The page loaded in plain text. No formatting, just a slab of words stacked in an unbroken block. The tone was cold, detached. Not trying to impress or scare, just reporting. It told the story of a man who stumbled onto a strange piece of internet folklore. A girl in a yellow raincoat.

She would appear have to read about her. First in the corner of your room watching, motionless, her face hidden beneath the hood, eyes never visible. But you could feel them on you. She never spoke, she never blinked. She just stood there, dripping wet.

The story didn't build tension. There were no jump scares, no deaths, no payoff. It simply explained that the girl showed up once you knew about her and that she would keep showing up. Each night she came closer. The fear fed her. And when she's gotten her fill of fear,

she gets you. However, there were no. No accounts of what she did, as no one who has gotten that far survived. The more you fear her, the wetter she gets, the text said. That line made me roll my eyes. The final line stuck out, only because it was bolded. If you reach 3.41 a.m. and she's at the foot of your bed, it's already too late. I snorted.

It felt like one of those chain emails from the early 2000s, the kind that said, you die in seven days unless you sent it to ten people. It was so tonally flat, it had to be ironic. I backed out of the thread and closed the browser. That was enough for the night. I was hoping to end on a good one, but it was already getting late.

That night, at 2 a.m., I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth, when I heard something behind the door. A soft knock just once. I froze, the toothbrush hummed between my teeth. I turned off the tap, waited. Nothing, just the creak of the ceiling vent. I opened the door, the hallway was empty. I was halfway back to the sink when I noticed the carpet by the threshold.

damp. I stared at it for a while, then shrugged it off. I figured I must have spilled something while brushing, or maybe I'd tracked in rain from earlier. I couldn't remember. I shut the bathroom light and went to bed. I woke up to the sound of my own pulse. No noise in the room, no nightmare to shake off, but my heart was pounding like I'd been running. I didn't move at first, just stared at the ceiling and waited for the feeling to pass. Eventually, I glanced at the clock. 3.41 a.m. A weird chill ran through my chest. What were the odds? If a million people read that story, at least one was bound to wake up and see that time, and I just happened to be that one. That was the only way I could explain the coincidence.

I sat up slowly, eyes adjusting to the dark. The room was still. No creaks, no humming electronics, no cars outside. Just silence. But I felt watched. Not scared exactly. More unsettled. The kind of uncomfort you felt when someone's reading over your shoulder.

I didn't see anything out to place. The window blinds were shut. The door was cracked open. Nothing stood in the corner. But the carpet by the door was wet. Again. I got up and checked it, running my hand across the fibers. Damp, no question.

Not enough for a leak, just enough to feel wrong. Back in bed, I pulled my laptop over and opened the browser. The forum was still up, still ugly, still ancient. I went to the thread. It was there, still titled, Don't read this if you like sleeping. No comments, no upvotes, nothing added since I clicked it.

I checked the user profile. Deleted. No way to send a message. I checked the mud list, but there was only one listed and there hadn't been on about as long as the dead thread I had read. Still, I made an account

and posted a report. apply to the thread. Was this a joke? Anyone else read this? A few minutes passed with nothing. I refreshed once, twice. On the third refresh,

I gave up hope. The forum was barely active as is. To get an instant reply would be unlikely, let alone from an old thread that wasn't noticed. At some point, I drifted off.

I don't know how long I was asleep, but something pulled me out of it. Her feeling, sharp and immediate. My eyes opened and went straight to the corner of the room. She was standing there, small, motionless. The yellow raincoat clung to her in wet folds. Her hood was up. I couldn't see her face, just the shape of it tucked deep in the shadow. Her head was tilted slightly. Not naturally, just enough to feel wrong. She didn't move. I screamed and snapped the light on.

The corner was empty. Just an impression on the carpet, a dark shape in the fibers where water had soaked through. The next few nights were a blur of broken sleep and mounting dread. She always came at the edge of waking in that space where the room feels too still. The first night after the scream, she stayed by the door. Same place, yellow raincoat, soaked sleeves, hood pulled low, no face visible.

The next night she stood in the corner, closer, still silent, still unmoving. I kept the lights on, slept in shifts, slept during the day. But each time I opened my eyes, she was a little nearer. I stopped screaming, but adrenaline kicked in each time. By the third night, she waited in front of my closet. This time, I could see more of her. Her raincoat was old, still whole but weathered in a way that felt impossible from normal use. The plastic was bubbled and misshaping in places,

stained with dirt and streaks of something black. Her arms hung stiff at her sides, fingers barely visible beneath the cuffs. The water pooled under a bare feet now, even though the hardwood should have soaked it up. She never moved while I was looking at her, and she never showed up on camera. I tried to catch her with phone recordings, laptop webcam,

and even an old handheld I found in storage. Nothing. The footage was clean every time, but reflections. That was different. I first noticed it in the bathroom. There was nothing behind me when I turned, but in the mirror, her figure filled the hallway,

skirting the edge of the bathroom light. I backed out slowly, never turning my head. After that, the mirrors stayed covered. I stopped trying to reason through it and started researching. If this was a curse, I wanted to know how, deep it went. If it wasn't, I needed to know the rules. The forum was a dead end, but I dug deeper. Archived blogs, dead web rings, screenshot compilations from old horror spaces. I started pulling from sites that hadn't been touched in over a decade, Usenet threads,

live journal entries, MySpace bulletins, even BBS message dumps. She was there. Always the same pattern. A story, a sighting. Then nothing from the poster ever again. Most were deleted, missing context, or scrubbed clean by spam bots. But one entry stood out. Dated 2006, a usernameed Lockjaw Mile had written a short post titled Narrative Leach. It said,

She is a parasite that spreads through narrative. Once you learn her, she learns you back. She feeds on the fear she creates. Your thoughts give a shape. I read it three times. It didn't make sense. And yet, it explained everything. I stopped sleeping, not just from fear, but my body simply rejected it.

Every time I started to drift off, I jolted awake, heart-pounding, lungs empty. The girl was always there, waiting in the static behind my eyes. I boarded up the windows, because I couldn't stand seeing her in the reflection of the glass. I stripped the apartment bare, mirrors, screens, anything that could show her during the day, gone. But this did little to save me from the night. The light stayed on around the clock. Every ball I had. When one burned out, I replaced it instantly.

My friends thought I was losing it. I stopped answering calls, ignored text. One of them came by and knocked for 20 minutes. I didn't move. I heard them mutter something about a wellness check, but no one followed through. I didn't care if they saw me like this. can miss, but I worried about them learning about her, cursing them to this fate.

It didn't matter what I did, though. She kept coming. I never saw a move, but she always got closer. Each night it shaved inches from the space between us, first across the room, then almost at the foot of my bed, then beside it, the hem of a soaked raincoat was dripping inches. from my mattress. The water spread with a cold, heavy, wrong. It warped the floorboards,

lifted them at the edges, not in a way that looked rotten, but in a way that made me think the building itself was trying to reject her. Reality pushed back. But she always won. I kept searching, obsessively. I had to believe there were others,

someone else who had seen her, named her, fought her, survived. I dove through dead subreddits, password-locked blog backups, and defunct link hubs. Every horror story felt close for a moment. A ghost in the hallway, a drowned girl, a warning about mirrors. But none of them lined up. None of them ended with anything but silence. Too many copycats, too much noise. creepy past the clones layered on top of each other for 20 years.

I started thinking, maybe that was the trick. Maybe she built herself out of all of it. A single fear stitched from thousands of half-remembered posts. I was losing time. Whole days vanished in front of screens. My body ached. My eyes stayed bloodshot.

Sleep was a trap now anyway. a slow roll toward my demise. And then, without warning, a message appeared. Same forum, an icon at the top showing a private message was received. I stared at it for a long time, dreading what it would say.

The username was a string of numbers, no profile, no history. The message read, I was the one who originally posted the story. She came to me after reading about her, same as you. But I survived. For the first time, hope dripped into my heart. I read on, hoping for a way out.

Based on when you left your comment, you don't have long left. I wrote the story and the forum moderator must have read it. He deleted my account, thinking I was the story. thinking I was the one haunting him, but he got it wrong. It wasn't me. It was the story. She is fiction incarnate.

Write her story and pass her on. The implication was daunting. I messaged back instantly, begging for more information, hoping there was another way. To pass on what I was going through sounding like a cardinal sin, murder with intent.

but was quietly dying a better alternative. No activity afterward. Just the message sitting there waiting to be believed. I sat back from my screen. For the first time in weeks, I wasn't just reacting. I was thinking. Not just about what she was. About what I could do.

This wasn't about surviving the night. Not anymore. This was about ending it. The decision sat on my chest heavy than any nightmare she ever brought. I had the message, I had the rules, I knew what had to happen. Still, I hesitated. If I posted this, if I wrote it clearly, if I told her story right, someone would read it, someone would think about her, imagine her.

Imagine her. Picture the yellow raincoat, the water, the way she stands so still with a face tucked deep into the dark. And that would be enough. They wouldn't mean to invite her in. They'd just be reading a scary story before bed, chasing the same rush I once loved. But she'd come, and I'd be free. I sat at the desk for hours, the apartment around. me was silent, lights dimmed to a soft amber glow. My body was shaking, but not from fear, from the weight of the decision. I had written every word carefully. The thread was ready. Every detail was here. The sightings, the rules, the message, the choice. Everything someone would need to understand her. And maybe, just maybe.

escape But the truth was sharp Someone else would suffer That was the cast That was the shape of her hunger A curse not lifted But passed to another One sleepless mind

traded for the next I kept telling myself I wasn't damning them I was giving them the same chance I was given More even I put in the information to get out If they were strong, maybe stronger than me, maybe they'd find a way to end this.

Maybe they'd be the last. But the guilt didn't fade. The cursor blinked over the word post. My finger hovered above the mouse. Behind me, the air changed. The temperature dropped. My skin prickled. I didn't turn around.

I didn't need to. I saw her in the monitor's reflection, distorted slightly in the black glass, a wet smear of yellow standing inches from the back of my chair. Her hands twitched at her sides, dripping onto the floor. The smell of stagnant water flooded my nose. I glanced at the clock. 3.41 a.m. I clicked. Post. Thank you.