CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I found a VHS tape of a man threatening to burn the world" Creepypasta

Episode Date: July 6, 2022

WHAT DOES THE TAPE MEAN?► https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2v5MO...CREEPYPASTA STORY►by MikeJesus: 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-

I studied the VHS tape. It was one of those popping shells, the ones that have an open slot in the center, where you can throw in a camera cartridge and watch your home movies without having to process them at a film store. It was exactly what I was looking for. Any idea where this came from? I asked. No, the man replied, wiping away about a quarter of sweat that had gathered in his beard. The rest of it kept dripping on the remainder of his strange wares. He watched me with utter disdain, but I gave it another shot.

Really? Where did you find it? Like, come on, a little bit of background would be nice. It's not a boutique buddy. You're at a flea market. You either buy it or you can get lost. It's too hard to deal with this detective nonsense, he said. But then, probably because I was the only customer at his stall, his tone softened. Got it from a storage unit auction. That's all I can tell you. I don't keep track of this stuff, I just sell it. That's all the information I needed. I paid the man and took my mysterious prize home.

Back in the early 2000s, I consumed YouTube vlogs like there were fine caviar and I was a Russian oligarch. There was just something about being able to kick back and become an invisible observer in someone else's existence that really got to me. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't some desperate basement dweller. I still had a functioning life of my own. But when evening came and all of my responsibilities were checked off, I'd jump behind my computer desk and take a break from reality. I'd sit back and watch hours upon hours of other people's lives. I watched a lonely man beat cancer,

a promising student struggling with pills, a teen mother who cracked under the pressure of a new responsibilities. I watched people overcome and spiral and regress. I watched slices of raw humanity from all across the globe from the comfort of my own home. I got to get a taste of fate I never would have considered otherwise. A bunch of people speaking to inanimate objects reminded me that the world outside was faster than I could ever conceive. Then, the internet money rolled in and ruined it all. As soon as the people bearing their soul into the camera lens realized that they could get paid.

All of the honesty seeped out of their videos. They built up the drama to get more views. They started hiring editors to make them look good. They started to advertise products that no one really needed. Whatever bond I felt are the lives that I have observed for so many years. It was broken. That rawness of human stories that I craved was gone. But I still craved it.

That's when I started going to flea markets and buying abandoned home movies. What I found on those assorted VHS tapes and unlabel DVDs was much better than anything I could hope for with YouTube. These people acted completely natural, the awkward pauses, the obvious annoyances, the grumpy people who didn't want to be on tape. It all made it so much easier to imagine that I was there. fact that they didn't know I was watching made all the difference. Voyeurism, I know.

That's what my girlfriend called it. She's my wife now, and she still calls it that. But what is marriage, if not a dissent, into accepting your partner's quirks? She treats the dog like she's our daughter, and unless she starts breastfeeding, you won't hear me complain. My flea market bargain trips usually get an eye roll out of her, but there was never any yelling involved. As I pulled up the driveway, however, Laura was waving her arms around, yelling. Three hours? Are you serious, Ryan? Three hours out of the city for some stupid tapes.

Betty obediently stood by her, gazing up at her as if she was some Greek goddess. A little sausage tail wagging a bit when she saw me walk up the porch. But after a quick glance, she shook her head and looked back up at my wife. I was just the background character in that dog's life I could have told Laura that all the markets around the city limits were taped out that any unmarked tapes I could find around town usually ended up being recordings of movies from television with the advertisements still kept in

but I didn't this wasn't about the tapes what's wrong I asked there's something broken in Betty's neck I need to take it to the vet and my husband husband decides to drive out to some cornfield and look for some strange tapes. Laura hissed. The dog shook her head again and again.

They aren't strange. They're... Echoes of the therapists we stopped going to bounced around my school. This was not the time nor place for that argument. Something else wrong? I can't find a passport. Every other bit of documentation I have. But I've looked all around the house and I can't find a passport.

Laura's anger gave way to fear. The dog shook its head again. See, look, there's something wrong with a neck. I was going to ask her why the hell she thought she needed the dog's passport for a vet check. But I didn't. I just shrugged. I haven't seen it. Well, I hope they'd take us without it, she said,

as if the chance for Betty's neck getting checked out without the travel documents was slimmed and on. I'll call you when I know what's wrong. Can you do the laundry? left the whites by the machine, just need to put him in. Laura made a way to the car with a dog. Betty shook her head again. God, I hope you're okay, Laura whispered to a pet. I'll need a glass of wine when we come back, she said to me.

My wife and the dog drove off. I was just about to close the washing machine when I noticed a pair of my red boxes peeking out from the pile of whites. When I took them out, I noticed Laura's blue, university t-shirt. In my haste to get my mysterious tape, I didn't check if the laundry was sorted. It wasn't. The sorting couldn't have taken longer than two minutes, and for 30 seconds I tried,

but my eyes kept quickly drifting to the television in the corner of the basement. The prospect of sorting through my dirty laundry instead of indulging in someone else's seemed like torture. I turn on the tape just to get a glimpse of what I was getting into. Then I'd go and do that thing my wife told me to do. Within seconds of turning on the VCR, I knew I wasn't going anywhere. The tape was exactly what I was craving. The timestamp in the low right corner read June 14, 1994.

We were inside of a fancy house, nice marble staircases and all paintings of mildly-embred aristocrats filled the screen as the camera shook and bobbed around the, the wedding reception. Whoever was behind the lens had no idea what they were doing. The zoom and shake of the video made it barely watchable. It was perfect. I could imagine standing there among the fancily dressed guests, watching someone swinging around a hulking piece of Sony in utter confusion. A group of children wearing miniature suits and dresses ran by the camera.

The boy made faces and giggled. one girl in a yellow dress waved to the lens Jesus Jessica where were you I've been looking for you A hushed female whisper cut through the hobb of the reception I jumped from my remote to turn up the volume I'm just recording stuff Mary said she wanted a video of today

Jessica replied as she zoomed in on a very old man staring out into the ether Well there's a problem The other voice hissed What's wrong The crowd walked around the old man Like he didn't exist Jessica swung the camera at a particularly

Uninteresting part of the carpet Merise X is here He's freaking out of the gate demanding they let him in Is it Tad Jessica pronounced the word Tad With the same intonation one would pronounce terminal cancer I think so The other voice whispered

Damn For a split second I saw a pair of nervously clasped hands against the bright blue dress, but then the video cut out. Complete darkness. My phone dinged. They took us without the passport, thank God. I ignored it and stared at the screen, hoping that another part of the story would flicker

into existence. After a couple ways of static, it did. A courtyard with a view of a stunning mountain range. In it, a bride and groom. The woman, a Venus of the 90s, a man had chiseled jawline with too much gel in his hair. They were smiling at each other, but the camera was too far off to tell whether those smiles were genuine. In front of the possibly happy couple was an array of wooden chairs seating the guests of the wedding. Beneath their feet, a sea of sparkling calm gently swayed.

A layer of crystal glass divided the family and friends from the pool below them. A man next to the camera kept on coughing. Someone next to him whispered something, but that didn't stop the coughs. The couple kept on looking at each other. Then the video cut out. The darkness of the screen dragged on. For a split second, I even considered getting the laundry out of the way. But just as I was about to reach into the washing machine,

with Laura's orange stocking. Another image crackled to life on the screen. We were back in the courtyard, but he was in a considerably worse state. Cigarette stubs peaked out of the once impressive stone floor. Empty and sometimes broken bottles were all over the place, and where there was once a sea of calm, there was now a shell of a pool filled with broken furniture. Even smashed up with rough axe cuts,

the dresser and chairs still looked expensive. It was evening, August 19th, 2002, and the groom from eight years ago was wearing a dirty pink bathrobe. The man aged a couple of decades. His hair was gathered around his shoulders in thick, greasy clumps. A patchy beard of graying hair now covered his chiseled jawline. You really hurt me, he said. A cigarette hissed in his mouth and a controlled madness burned in his eyes.

You changed me. I used to like people. I used to want to do some good in this world. I could have done some good in this world. The man bent down and produced a bottle off the floor. But you hurt me. You hurt me so bad. I just want to see everything burn.

The man continued ranting and raving. But as he walked away from the camera, his words fell to a static-filled whisper. I turned up the volume as loud as it would go. but the only thing I could hear was the chirping of cricket, intercut by a steady bassy tone. Out in the mountains beyond the courtyard, there was a grouping of little tents. A man was going quietly insane in a fancy house as people across the valley indulged in cheery techno music. I was watching someone go insane on a summer evening.

The tape was better than anything I could have hoped for. The man in the bathrobe took a pull from the bottle recoiled and then smashed the thing against the mountain of furniture stacked in his pool. He screamed. I heard that part. You ever talk about the fire with Todd?

You ever talk about how much you wouldn't want to burn alive? The man was back in front of the camera now. He was swaying from side to side, clearly off balance from whatever was in that bottle. Of course you don't. all you two talk about is vapid nonsense. All you do is waste his stupid lives, stuck in meanness gossip that doesn't matter.

But you know what? You know what? The man paused. A gentle gust of wind blew his filthy bathrobe apart, revealing far too much of his malnourished body. For a second, he tried to pull the flimsy bit of pink cloth back around his jagged rib cage. But, with a frustrated sigh,

he gave up on his drunken hands. Memories of wasted night in high school filled my head. I remember how the world spun, how impossibly bright and quick all the headlights were as I stumbled my way back home, how difficult it was to stand upright with my blood full of booze. Once the body is so far off in the deep end of the whiskey pool, there's only one way to momentarily regain balance.

The man on the television squished, his face into an effort-filled wink. For a blink, I was standing there, in his ratty flip-flops, watching the triple vision of the world focus into a singular, blurry image. I love you, he mumbled to himself. He tore his eyes away from the camera and stared down at his dying cigarette. I love you, but I won't love you for long. No, I won't, because I'll be the same.

dead, and you'll be dead, and he'll be dead. The world will burn. The man reached behind the camera and produced another cigarette, but he didn't light it. He studied the stick of tobacco for a bit, and then put it behind his ear. How much do you know about fire? He asked, reaching down. You don't know nothing about fire, he hissed as he re-emerged off-screen with a gerry can. I've been reading my great-uncle's books. They say old Vernigig was mad. But could a madman build all of this? Could a madman create an empire out of nothing?

Could a madman... He spilled a bit of the gasoline out of the can as he waved around his arms. This calmed it down somewhat. The madman's voice dropped to a whisper. The music across the valley slowed down to a steady, low heartbeat. I've been reading Vernisig's books and I know more about fire than your feeble mind ever could, he started.

The words that the man spoke came out in a controlled whisper, but the ideas that lingered in his monologue flickered with madness. Fire was not a tool that humanity discovered. It was a portal to another realm that our primitive ancestors had stumbled upon and were too simple to comprehend. He spoke of flames as if there were hands, as if the flashes of chemical energy that burst out of a bonfire were fingers from a different world

that were desperately trying to claw themselves into our realm. My uncle warned of the power that exists in the fire. He spoke of Alexandria, of Pestigo, of Bois to Cozier, of fires that ravaged humanity. But he spoke of them as if there were mistakes, as if we were lucky that the flames were put out. He was wrong. The man was a genius, but in this one essential thing, he faltered.

Each time that the burning god emerged, humanity was given a chance of becoming pure, and they spit out the embers of freedom. Every time that the burning god's arrival was postponed, it was a tragedy, but even that tragedy can be brought to rest. He went over to the pool and started pouring gasoline on the broken down furniture As he poured, he spoke, but he was far too away from the camera's microphone. The music across the valley started to grow in tempo. The man started to punctuate his inaudible rant with manic shouts.

I will summon him, he shouted. With the techno music playing in the background, he sounded like a misguided DJ, trying to hype up a tired dive bar. After the can ran dry, he produced another one, and resumed pouring and rambling. The man might have emptied out his pool and filled it with chopped up furniture, but he was far off in the deep end.

Less than a year and a half after I got out of university, I also got out on my first real relationship. Five years of raw connection in the trash and unemployment to boot. I was desperate for any form of affirmation in my life. I bought dozens of Pickup Artist books that offer the teach me the secret to making women want to sleep with me.

Watching that broken man pour gasoline all over the antique furniture, a part of me felt his pain. It's not that difficult to fall for a cult when your heart is broken. My phone dinged again. There's something in Betty's ear. Doctor say he's not serious. She's such a trooper. Laundry done?

I barely looked away from the television. The man in the bathrobe was done with the pouring. He was back in front of the camera now, a cigarette dangled from his lips. He was thinking, fear broke through the mania in his eyes. He turned around and looked at the festival across the valley. The sun had set by then, but bright flashing lights flashed across the darkening sky from the music-filled tents. The man let out a desperate groan.

For a second, it looked as if he would walk away from the fire to be. as if he would give up on whatever ritual he was trying to perform. But before he could give up, his right hand flew through the air. He slapped himself, dropping his cigarette. After he picked it up, he slapped himself again. I will summon him, he screamed at the camera as he lit up his smoke. And he will burn the world. He took one long puff of his cigarette and threw it into the pool.

For a moment he simply stood there, a man in a filthy bathrobe with dark mountains stretched out before him. He looked at peace. Woosh! Boom! He screamed in a way that I didn't think was possible for a growing man to scream. He screamed and ran through the courtyard, burning. He spun in place like a wounded animal shedding his bathrobe, but as the flames behind him started

consumed the furniture, his body propelled him away from the inferno. Screeching and limping, the man ran towards the camera. He knocked it over in his escape, but he kept recording. The fire soon drowned out his agonising cries. Only his burning bathrobe remained. Out across the valley, the tents lit up with another colour, a flashing of blue and red. For a couple beats of the far-off techno, I could see the siren lights traveling down the mountain road, but the flames quickly cut off my line of sight. My phone dinged again. I didn't look at it. I was so enthralled in the video that I had started chewing on my shirt collar.

Haven't done that since I was eight. The flames reached out into the night sky like clawed fingers. They grasped at oxygen, growing, roaring, demanding more. The fire spread throughout the screen. I tilted my head sideways to see better. The inferno beckoned to me. I was on my feet staring into the television. It was as if the fire was calling for me, pulling me in,

demanding that I joined it in that crackling universe of energy. In the cool air of my basement, I felt warmth. I reached out for the television. You should have seen. seen the size of the thing they pulled out of her ear. We need to be careful when we let her run in the... Ryan? Ryan, what are you doing?

Laura stood on the stairs. Betty squeezed herself past and gave my calf a lick before jumping on the couch. I was... My eyes shifted towards the open washing machine. Her gaze followed mine. You didn't do the laundry. Great, absolutely great.

Come on, Ryan, we talked about this. I don't ask for a lot. I just want... It took me a second to realize she stopped talking. As she spoke, my eyes drifted back towards the screen. Out in that burning hellscape, I could see something move. I could see a beak.

Two orbs of blue flames stared back at me. I tore my attention away from the Eldridge God and back towards my wife. Sorry, what are you watching? She walked down the last couple of steps with a controlled anger that cracked as soon as she saw what was on the television. Jesus, Ryan, what the hell are you watching? It's a... Some guy who was going through a bad divorce, I think, so he tried to sit the world on fire,

burn himself in the progress, and now there's... As hot as the inferno on the screen was, her icy stare cut through me. She inhaled sharply, turning her words into cold steel. That miss belongs in an evidence locker, not in our house. Laura stomped away up the stairs, with Betty barely making it past the door before she slammed it. I turn my attention back towards the screen. Whatever presence I saw hiding in that fire was now gone. The flames still tore through the sky with animalistic fervor, but the beast's eyes were gone.

The fire roared on for a couple of minutes until its thunderous quills. pride turned into a hiss. A burst of water was softening the flames. Soon enough, firefighters were talking about how they wished they could have stayed at the festival. As they sprayed water over the gasoline-filled pool, one of them proceeded to give a five-paragraph essays worth a description of a red-head bartender he once saw in the 90s. I thought about rewining the tape, about going back to that moment when I saw those burning balls of light hiding in a

storm of bristling energy. But I decided against it. Upstairs, I could hear a court get angrily pulled out of a wine bottle. I sorted through the washer machine, turned it on, and went to get a wine glass.

I'm sorry, I said. She was on the porch, puffing on a cigarette with one hand and scratching Betty behind the ear with another. She didn't look at me as she spoke. You can't keep doing this, Ryan.

This isn't about the laundry. This is about you not being reliable. You can't just drop everything to indulge in your voyeurism. I try to remember all three parts of the three-part apology thing that our therapist kept on rambling about back in the day. I'm sorry for not being reliable, and sometimes acting like a child. I'll try to do better next time.

Her lack of yelling made me reconsider therapy for a spit second. So, Betty okay now? The dog wagged a tail at the mention of her name. Oh yeah, she was a real trooper, held still for the dock, shook a bit but didn't move ahead at all. Everyone in the lobby kept on saying how cute she is. Asking about Betty, we'd always get Laura talking. We finished off the bottle of wine, watched some terrible reality TV show, made love, and now Laura is sleeping on my chest.

Betty's curled up by her feet and seems to be having a dream that involves a lot of biting and running. There's a nice summer breeze outside. I should be sleeping. The thought of going back to the basement and rewining the tape was there as soon as we finished the wine. But Laura wanted to watch some scripted reality TV show about hot people looking for love on a beach and I figured I'd be a good partner and indulge with her. The question of the sentient inferno disappeared during our little fiery bout of passion

But now that we're in post-coital and cuddled up I can't let go of the memory Of those hungry claws She's a light sleeper So if I move she'll wake up and be disappointed And I don't want to disappoint her She might have a weird relationship with a dog And a horrible taste in entertainment

But I'd probably be burning fear furniture without her. Maybe she's right. Maybe the video does belong in some evidence locker instead of our basement. All of this is bouncing around my head and I can't get any sleep. So I figured I come to this little insomniac corner of the internet and vent for a bit. I'm torn between the mystery of what that desperate man brought into our world and being a decent husband. My wife just mumbled something about how I should go to sleep.

I think the light from my phone is keeping her up. I think I should just go to sleep.