CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I fell asleep on an overnight bus and woke up in the perfect town" Creepypasta

Episode Date: October 10, 2021

AUTHOR'S SUBREDDIT► https://www.reddit.com/r/ManiacSociety/CREEPYPASTA STORY►by TheCrookedBoy: 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...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-

My story was supposed to have a happy ending. The ones with terrible beginnings usually do. But I'm going to realize my hero's journey won't end with me smiting the beast and getting the girl. It's going to end here and now, with a plastic parasite wearing my bleeding skin. Calling the police isn't an option. It goes to their department and leaving Grinsville isn't either. Google Map shows me as a blue dot on a blank canvas, stranded on an end. empty plain with no roads, no mountains, no anything.

I know that's not true. The town is here. But this place, if this is a place, and not something far from it, isn't of our world. This perfect little town is just a nightmare in disguise. It started, days ago, I think. Time moves like liquid here. It bubbles through the cracks and turns everything into a refractive blur. The sun sets at hot hours and rises when it pleases.

Nothing moves like clockwork, or if it does, it moves like a broken clock, stuttering, stopping, and lurching onward in strange intervals. For me, it started the minute I turned 18. That was when I left the trailer park behind. I didn't have much, the clothes on my back, the overnight bag on my shoulder, the cigarette on my lip, and the mason jar of petty cash I'd save from summer jobs. but it was enough it was all I needed to get out of this abusive cesspool

to leave the tapestry of awful memories behind I had no idea where I was going to go but the place didn't matter all that mattered was putting this dead end in the rearview mirror I lived in a stretch of Ozarks that deserved its unofficial motto meth death and liquor breath it certainly described the man formerly known as my father the man I wished was dead

So, that was that. I was off to start my life, anywhere but here. I walked at the bus station and thought about things. Where I'd go when I got there, what I would make of myself. I didn't have any answers when I hit the bus station in the early evening, the wooden pillbox sitting on a desolate stretch of road hemmed by dense woods. The place was mostly empty. There was a scabby homeless guy crumpled out on a something high by the front door.

A few olds inside, and the attendant, a pimply girl who looked no older than I behind the counter. I set my back between my feet and scanned the departures. Where, too? she asked in a jaded, nasly voice. The rest of my life was at my fingertips, a bottomless well of possibilities, Los Angeles, New York, El Paso, Seattle, and a place called Grinsville. What the hell was Grinsville? It sounded like something had ever rejected Dr. Seussbuck. Where is that? I asked, indicating Grinsville on the board over the ticket window.

I don't have x-ray vision, she sighed. The overnight bus to Grinsville? The girl frowned. Don't know. When we'd look it up? I hesitated. There was a certain alert to a place called Grinsville. I could almost picture the manicured lawns, so startlingly green.

it hurt a stare. The baby blue sky dusted with clouds, the postcard perfect homes arranged in neat rows. It was a place I wanted to be, a place where people grinned at the neighbours and always waved hello. If it turned out to be some slimy smear of a town, I rather not know until I got there. Because not knowing meant it could be perfect. Not knowing meant I'd be able to stand at the bus ride, dreaming about what might be. No, I said, but that's why I'm going to. Going. One ticket to Grinsville. There's something strange and uncanny about an empty bus stop in the dead of night,

like it's a portal to another place, what lies between our world and beyond. And it's only by sheer luck you don't stagger over a crack in the facade. It was late, and I was getting nervous. Darkness had settled in, stealing away the light and the buses which have been sweeping through all day. I hadn't seen a car for at least an hour, and my bus was late. 30 minutes late

It was supposed to be here at 9.45 and Just then, headlights splashed down the road like two glowing eyes. A little ball of excitement manifested in my gut as the ancient bus, looking like a sad, abused dog, motored down the quiet road. I scroved out my cigarette

and grabbed my overnight bag as the bud sidled to a stop. The driver cranked open the door. He looked. Strange. No one thing I could pin my finger on, but it was like he was assembled in a mannequin factory. Perfect jet of black hair, starched uniform, porcelain skin, big toothy smile greeting me from behind the wheel. Going to Grinsville?

He asked in a voice that was high and squeaky, but not unpleasant. That's right, I said, as I boarded the bus and offered up my ticket. What's the runtime? He frowned like he didn't understand. How long's the ride? I clarified. His smile brightened. You just settle back and I'll get you where needs getting.

I started to turn away, hesitated. One thing, I said. Where is Grinsville? His smile widened, growing into a long grin. It's right where it needs to be, he said. Okay, weird. But I shrugged it off. Some people ride balls.

God knows I met plenty in the land of meth, death and liquor breath. I thanked him, scanned the bus for an empty seat, of which there were many. There were only two other passengers, one near the front of the bus, the other towards the middle. Both men in long coats with padoras shrugged low over the rise. If I had a hat, I might do the same. Instead, I stretched my Eisenhower jacket over my head, and I settled down into the back of the bus for the night ride to Grinsville. I blinked awake and found myself beneath an open sky. A deep, cool blue fluffed with clouds.

My head was pounding, slowly and rhythmically, beating against the walls of my skull like a terrible drum. I winced against the headache as I shifted up and took my bearings. Standing beside me in the shade of a bright green awning was a wooden bench. A bus stop. One that looked like something out of a 1950s catalogue. Unweathered, unblemished, unvandalized. In other words, it looked brand new.

And so did the patch of grass beneath me. The one splashed in sunlight and... Something was off. As I dug my fingers, I realised it was fake grass. It felt dead and grubby beneath my palms. I grimaced and pulled my hands away, like I grazed a hot griddle. I was all forgotten when I saw the postcard start sign, the one painted in garish colours that did.

depicted the town of my dreams. Perfect lawns, houses, smiling folks waving to one another, a place where the people didn't know the meaning of meth, death and liquor breath. It was a perfect little 1950s suburbia. The cars old and round, the women in dresses, the men in suits. That was what the sign promised anyhow. Arching letters read, Welcome to Grinsville. Smile like you mean it. I shaded my eyes and looked past it, bracing myself for disappointment, expecting some dying town as cracked and blistered as a boot heel, maybe some giant waste factory pumping oceans of gunk into the sky. But no.

No, of course it wasn't that. It was perfect. A movie set too delicate for this world. But it wasn't a set. It was real. It stood before me like the Emerald City. Streets paved in brick, suburban outcropping surrounded a cozy main. Street, a steeple church growing from a trimmed lawn.

All of it divided into neat little sectors that all seemed so right. And beyond the town. That was the thing. I couldn't see beyond the town. It was out of focus, hidden behind a strange, shivering haze like heat pouring off asphalt. But I didn't notice. All I saw was the small town of my nightmares. It was just as the sign had promised.

Old cars, perfect homes, a main street lined by soda bars, penny arcades, dress shops. But it was a ghost town. Nothing moved, nothing breathed. The wind sighed through me as I strolled into town with my bag on my back. I scanned for signs of life, a bird, a stray cat, a rat rooting through the trash. I saw nothing. Nothing but people. People in shops, behind the wheels of cars, at the counters of a diner, posed mid-meal, frozen forever in silent routine.

Because they weren't people at all. They were mannequins. The first thing that sprang to mind was Call of Duty Nootown. The second was the Sin Against film that was Indiana Jones Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. I thought about Indy staggering into a town just like this one, only to leave it in a lead-line refrigerator as the raging breath of an autonomic. Blast avowed everything in sight. I pulled out my phone,

expecting to find reception was a thing of the past. I had one bar. I typed in Grinsville and hoped for something, anything. Grinsville didn't exist on Google. Panic rooted itself in my gut. I punched 911 and got an answering machine, a plastic voice saying plastic words,

the sound of something imitating human manners and courtesy. It made my skin crawl, hearing it say, You reach Grinville's finest. We're out right now, but if you leave your name and... I killed the call and stood on the main street in the dead place. Everything felt awful, the freshly painted signs, the freshly paved roads. All of them felt so wrong.

My mind was white. Unease and confusion had turned my brain to static. Rational thoughts had abruptly fled, leaving me to flounder through my thoughts. for any plan of action. None came. What did come, dancing at the front of my brain and flashing red neon, was the realization that something was very, very wrong here. Then, something moved on the corner of my vision. My head snapped around. I found myself facing my own drawn expression in the diner window. It hadn't been my reflection moving. I was certain of that. It had it confirmed. It had come from inside the glass, inside the building whose doors held a sign reading,

Welcome, we're open. I moved closer, sunlight glared off the soaked glass, turning the inside of the eatery into a dark chasm where shapes did not exist. I copped my hand to the window and peered in. At first, I didn't realize what I was seen. A dreadful, slimy shiver crept up my spine. My gut curled with dread as I stared at the mannequins eating their plastic meals. Their heads had turned, and every single one of them was staring right at me.

I jumped back and did what my lizard brain told me. I ran. A blind, full tilt scrambled to somewhere, anywhere but here. The building shifted into a cul-vo scrawl as I felt the plastic men and women and their children turn their plastic heads to watch me go. I could feel their dead eyes pouring into my neck as I fell off the main street and into a quiet alley. I collapsed against a trash can, one that had never, I would never know the taste of garbage. I stuffed air into my lungs and wondered what I should... The bus stop.

Yes, I'll go back to the... Where was the bus stop? I peered out around the lip of the alley and looked both ways. Main Street pulled away from me and shifted into the suburban outcroppings, broken only by a few prominent buildings. The church, the courthouse, the bright red fire station. The town shrank away into a dull green pinprick, stretching as far as the eye could see. There was no bus stop.

There was nothing but... Grinsville. I stared at the perfect town, as still and lifeless as a painting. I found my hopes and dreams crumble like a city under siege. This was supposed to be my new life. It was... Hands grabbed me from behind and yanked me back into the alley. That was when I started to scream.

The man in the suit was covered in blood, drenched in it. I hardly recognized him. His face, a gory, mangled mess, hung in shredded strips and tangles from his bone-white skull. He had been on the bus to Grinsville. There had been two of them. Fedoras smoked over the rise, overcoats draped over their suits, and now this one. This nameless G-man was dying. He moved like an expiring animal, one of the being clipped by a semi.

He grits my shirt in bloody hands and tried to drag himself to his feet. I don't think he realized that both of his legs were gone, crudely shredded off above the knees. Nothing more than mangled spigots spilling his blood in hot buckets. Please, he groaned, voice rough with agony. He crumbled to the ground, a puppet with cut strings, and I heard a muffled thud from inside his jacket. I swallowed, wanting to bolt, and I wanted to touch the tatter suit still worn with his red life.

But I was from the land of meth, death and liquor breath, and I instantly knew what that sound was. Grimmissing, I gingerly peeled open his jacket to reveal the 38th special he kept snug in a shoulder holster. Beside it, tugged into the jacket pocket, was a badge. I pulled it out and flipped it open. The acronym C leapt out at me.

Supernatural Enforcement Agency. What the hell was that? I didn't care. I wanted the revolver. It would feel good in my hands. It would be a comfort. I unbuckle the holster and reach for the gun. Don't be cross, said a plastic voice. I looked up and saw the man's partner standing in the mouth of the alley. His face, blank and featureless,

instantly betrayed what he had become? One of them. Everyone here smiles, he said. It's our only rule. Then his face tore back and I realized he wasn't just a mannequin. He was something far, far worse. I snapped out the gun as the mannequin's face broke apart, splitting back as if on a hinge to reveal a mouth of jagged,

needle-sharp teeth. Teeth made a broken porcelain set into a mouth. of just that. Its eyes, black and lifeless, creased into slits, and spore huge, insectile appendages erupted from the sides of the plastic parasite. The grinning thing fell forward and caught itself, searching toward me on all fours like some nightmarish insect, one that operated like a hermit crab, using the mannequin's husk as a shell. It scuttled up the alley, a high, rattling shriek, issuing from the back of its throat. More shrieks called out reply. Tens, dozens. Scores of cries rang out from every house and street, every store and building in the Greater Grinsville Township.

All those fake people, with their fake lives and their fake clothes, were infested by something. Something which writhed and squirmed just behind the plastic smiles. It hit me like a freight train, a bolt of fear which swallowed my tiny, imperfect world like a black hole. The walls of the alley flew away. The revolver disappeared from my hands. Curtains to darkness fell over my vision as the plastic parasite pumped toward me. I had to move. I couldn't move.

Fear was all I felt. Raw, tingling. I saw it air through my lungs and bolted it into a roar. The revolver materialized in my hands, firm and sturdy. I levelled it and found the trigger. Bang, bang, bang! Three 38 caliber rounds tore through the creature. Sprays of plastic and blood erupted from its form,

as one insectile limb blew off of the joint, as half its face tore free and went tumbling to the ground. The world around me shot into clarity. I fought to my feet and ran like the wind. I found myself on the main street, facing down an army of mannequins. There were hundreds. Men, women, children, a sea of summer dresses and khakis and polo shirts and suits. A wall of smiling, plastic faces, barely masking what nested beneath. I had three bullets in the revolver which hung limply at my side.

I would need 3,000, and even still I wouldn't have a fighting chance. As if, to punctuate this point, the denizens of Grinsville changed. Their heads split back in unison, bare and jagged teeth. Intact arms forced their way out to plastic sides, tearing through clothes, testing the air. The army of picture-perfect people transformed. The plastic parasites had made themselves known. The air filled to the wall of rattling shrieks as I tried to run, turned to find myself surrounded as dozens of smiling things skittered down the sides of the buildings

around alleys and storefronts. This was the end. The end of a kid who wanted nothing more than an eraser, an eraser to scrub away the past and start anew. It was heartbreak, a crushing realization that, here and now, there was only one thing I could control. I stuck the revolver beneath my chin and, and saw the gutter set into the curb.

I didn't think. I planted my feet and lunged, lunged as the plastic parasites crushed in on all sides. Using the forward momentum, I kicked out my feet and dove, aiming for the narrow gutter, hoping I wouldn't bounce my skull off sharp concrete. The sky and all its like whisked away

as I dove in through the storm drain and tumbled into the darkness. The ground flew into my stomach and drilled out all the air. I weased and staggered to my feet, desperate to lose the bar of sunlight cutting into the gutter. Shapes wiped across the drain, shrieks overlapped. I fell forward through the gloom, wondering the maze of filth and slime hiding beneath the postcard perfect town. The streaks faded as I navigated grimy corridors and sludge-drenched catwalks.

I followed a river of thick, brown muck gurgling downstream. I hoped it would spit me out into sunlight someplace far, far away. but the only sunlight I saw was that which stole through the sewer grates. Sometimes I paused to look out on the town that was supposed to be my new beginning, the one filled with mannequin things now frozen in time, frozen until whatever lived beneath their plastic skin decided to wake up. It was that way for a while, a blur, a broken memory, my journey through the Grinswell sewer system.

A while later, I found the boiler room. Through a narrow corridor and down a spiral set of stairs, I found myself in a wide, cavernous space. It was drenched in strange subterranean light and wrapped in thick pipes and tanks, dials and levers. It was biblical, a huge living organism, hissing steam, belging smoke,

all of it throbbing with awful industry. The heat was unbearable and... My God, I whispered as a real... realized what lived behind the equipment. Thick pulls of flesh pulsed and throbbed through the spaces in between pipes and vats. As though something huge, some awful mound of hot meat was wearing the metal like a husk. I could smell its sour reek. It filled my throat and tunneled into my lungs.

I was agonizing. I couldn't take it. I shoved the revolver against my temple and pulled the trigger. The gun didn't fire. It didn't paint the floor in my chest. thoughts and feelings. It offered an imbitant click that made me feel like doubling over in a bout of insane laughter. When I had fallen into the sewer, I must have rolled the cylinder. That was an easy fix. I squeezed the trigger twice. Click. A stray bullet whizzed across the room and pinked off a

vat. An angry spray of steam hissed out in a boiling cloud and... An idea slapped me in the face. There's no one. a call. No one but... You. My nameless, faceless, co-conspirator. My phone is clung to life long enough for me to finish writing this. I'm down to 2% to tell you how it ends. When I started this, I wasn't sure how it would end. Now it's sealed, cast in blood and guts. It certainly isn't a happy ending.

Those stories, the best kind, usually don't grace people like me. my life was written from the moment it began I tried to rewrite the ending and look where it left me in the heat of a dying boiler room I spent the best part of an hour cranking every dial and lever I could find and now this place

the one concealing that massive flesh thing is brewing its guts into something powerful an explosion I'm hoping will banish this town once and for all every dial in sight is in the red zone its needle trembling fearfully, the steam sprays and heat rises. I don't know if that living flesh thing,

the one behind the pipes, is the town's mistress or its mother or its brain. But I do know, fire is the cure for wrongness. And, once I'm done, treating Grinsville, none of its plastic parasites will smile ever again.