CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I grow skin for a living" Creepypasta

Episode Date: September 16, 2021

AUTHOR'S SUBREDDIT► https://www.reddit.com/r/goatvalleyca...CREEPYPASTA STORY►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...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►by Chris Callahan: https://twitter.com/rgb_alpha/status/...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-

It's not an honest living, but it's a living. It's a lot better than what we had before, which was a brewery. Well, I suppose we shouldn't use we. It was my husband's idea, him and a friend. They wanted to run a brewery, small scale, just a few beer varieties. It went okay for a little bit, but then his friend split, and he was struggling to keep things going on his own. Turns out he liked the idea of running a brewery more than actually learning how to brew beer

At one point he even wanted me to quit my job and come help him get his products on the shelves of local groceries Ha! Like I was going to quit my job while he was barely staying solvent with a brewery To say nothing I've been able to afford things like Oh, our mortgage payments Not to mention that our marriage is already struggling Sometimes I thought the fact

we got at least eight hours apart from each other every workday was the only thing holding it together. Well, he's gone now, and I'm the sole person running the business. I did end up quitting my day job for it. It's tough, doing this by myself, but it's not like I can hire extra help. But I was doing quite well for myself. I've even expanded. The batches are only successful a third of the time, so with enough bats, the odds are,

I'll usually have at least one turnout right. It doesn't take much to rake an enormous profit. Like most rare luxuries, human skin fetches an exorbitant price if you can find a buyer. The first year was tough. I knew I had a valuable product, but I had to find willing people to buy it, and I had to do so discreetly. Couldn't exactly have the police come around asking uncomfortable questions like, why do you have eight people worth of skin laying around?

Sure, sure. It's not like they're going to find the skin bodies in a ditch anywhere. That's not how I operate. But I'm sure they'd find something to charge me with. Many some things most likely. So I had to be careful. When I finally made the right connections though, oh, the payoff was worth the weight.

I sell to all kinds of places. Medical facilities are tough. lots of questions asked The forgery isn't worth a cut Not when there's less stringent buyers available I sell to a lot of dentists Yeah they've got uses for skin grafts Especially the upscale ones

That do surgeries for gum repair and the likes A lot of them are willing to look the other way So long as it means they can stay supplied with crafts And keep charging ridiculous prices for their procedures I also sell to rich folks The really rich ones the ones you don't always hear about. The ones that have gotten bored with the mundane luxuries

and want something a little more unusual. I disguise the leather. It's no fun if they can't flaunt it, after all. Like wearing racy panties to an interview. No one but you knows they're there. But oh, they're there. So I dyed different colours and it gets turned into a starless jacket

or the strap for a watch or even leather seat covers for a foreign sports car. I charge a pretty penny for that last one, because you know it takes multiple bodies to get enough for a car seat, much less an entire car's worth. Or at least, that's what they want to believe. It's not luxury unless someone suffers to produce it, after all. Oh, I dress up the sale. I make up a story to go with a leather. I find out my client's preferences first.

Maybe they want the victim to be a woman, snatched off the street and leaving behind a bereaved family. Or maybe they want a man's skin, and drunken loser stumbling home after the bars close. I let slip enough details that they can concoct a story about the source's life and think themselves clever for wheezing the scintillating details out of me. Jokes on them. All the skin I sell them comes from a single source. My ex-husband May he rest in pieces.

There's certainly pieces of him everywhere now, on people's wrists, in their cars, and in the mouths are poor saps that think their gum grafts come from a cadaver. There's nothing unnatural going on here. It's all science. Well, I'm assuming science is involved. Honestly, I just kept everything running the way it's been running.

Getting it started was all dumb luck, and I admit, a little bit of murder. But only at first. Only that one time. You see, my ex-husband had I had an argument. I'd swung by the brewery on my way home from work. It was Monday and the bar part of the building wasn't open on Mondays. He was up on the catwalk, polishing off another beer. A pile of empty and shattered bottles lay on the ground underneath him and I carefully

tiptoed around them as I approached. He didn't answer when I called to him, so I headed up there, annoyed that I had to walk up all those stairs. We weren't sure what this place was before he rented it, but it had a lot of odd industrial touches. Catwalk, capped gas lines. Aren't you at least supposed to be drinking your own beer? I asked, gesturing at the pile of six-bags waiting to be open next to him. What beer? He snapped.

Well, slurred is more like it. I came to stand next to him, but didn't sit down yet, not willing to commit to a long conversation with him. Not when he was in a mood like this. Though, to be honest, we weren't having long conversations anymore. He was staring down at one of the tanks, shining metal with all those dials and gauges.

I still don't like to think about how much it all cost because I think that's where the marriage started to go wrong. There were the loans, the bonuses I reluctantly sank into his endeavour instead of going on a dream vacation. Don't ever marry when you don't see I to own finances. It'll only end in disaster. Anyway, he had the lid popped open.

It's just a hatch, really, barely big enough to accommodate someone crawling inside. Keep that in mind. It's important in a moment. See what? He said, gesturing at the open hatch and the liquid inside. It's ruined. The whole batch is ruined. Looks okay to me.

I mean, I couldn't actually see inside. It was too dark. But I just wanted to do that. the conversation to end so I could go home. Take a sniff. I leaned over the railing and inhaled deeply. Now that I was directly over the tank, I could smell it.

It was something. Not an unfamiliar scent, though, reminded me of the men's dormitories back in college. See? He insisted. What's it smell like? Mould? Exactly.

I didn't think this could happen. Hell if I know what could. got in there, but it's all ruined. Did you ask your brewing buddies about this? Maybe you can still make kombucha. Look, back then, I didn't know a whole lot about brewing. Still don't, if I'm being honest. I know how to make skin.

Not yet. I don't want to know how bad it is. What if we have to get the tank sterilized? I have no idea how much that'll cost, but I don't think the brewery has enough in his account. I guess I could have told him that it was okay, that my job made enough that we could cover the losses and keep the brewery going. He'd recover. This was only a small step back.

But I didn't. Our relationship was almost entirely antagonistic at this point, and I wasn't about to let the opportunity to twist the knife go. Well, is a good thing you got me then? I said sarcastically. One of us has to pull our weight around here. Things escalated pretty quickly after that. He started going on about all the things.

the work he was putting into this, and at least he was trying something instead of pining after everyone else's Instagram feed and feeling sorry for himself. And I went off, and how I didn't get into this marriage to support someone else's dreams at the exclusion of my own, and if I spent a lot more time thinking about the things I was missing out on, it was because I was missing out on them, and whose fault was that? I was out making sacrifices, only got to play brewmaster all day. Then, he said something, and I don't recall, exactly what it was, because it got me so angry, it was like my brain turned off.

He felt it, right? The blind rage where you literally cannot process what you're seeing, and you just want someone else to hurt, because that's the only thing that can make you feel better. So, I shoved him, and he was balanced just right and just drunk enough that he simply slipped through the railing at the catwalk and went tumbling down through the air. Maybe it would have turned out differently if he hadn't landed on his head. I wouldn't have gotten filthy rich And I wouldn't be here writing this

I kind of wish he'd only broken a leg or something We could have gotten a divorce And maybe I wouldn't have been out to afford a Porsche But I could at least have some kind of sports car As it was He hit his head Bam right onto the top of the tank And then he slid limply down

Right to the edge of that hatch The open hatch And, in he went. For a moment, I was stunned into motionlessness. Then my next thought was, I had to save him. I mean, we didn't get along. We don't turn into a cold-blooded killer within seconds, okay? I went running down the stairs into the catwalk and over to the tank.

I climbed up and stared down into the hatch. I remember glancing at the temperature dahl as I climbed. 98.6 Fahrenheit. I thought nothing off it for a long time, but now I wonder how he got that high in the first place. The surface of the liquid inside bubbled like a fetid swamp. The liquid was pinkish-red in colour. There was no sign of my husband.

I knew that the clock was ticking, that every second I hesitated he went without oxygen, to say nothing of what that temperature was doing to him. I started to call 911, and then I paused. He'd be dead by the time they got here. If the fall hadn't broken his neck or if his brain hadn't hemorrhaged, then the delay would. How would they fish him out before he drowned or cut?

They couldn't. That hatch was too small for such a delicate rescue operation. My husband was as good as dead. And then they'd ask how he got inside in the first place. Sure, I could say he was drunk and just happened to slip and fall off the catwalk, and that would be believable. But he just happened to slide into the...

open hatch? I had a good job. I wasn't sure if that job would remain good if I was being investigated for murder, which, I suppose, I'd committed. I shoved him. Maybe I could plead manslaughter, but either way, not a good luck. In retrospect, I wasn't making good choices that night. I guess I was in shock. I mean, I just pushed my husband to his death. I roamed helplessly through the brewery, looking for something to dredge his body out with. I thought if I just saw it, I could decide on a better cover story. I finally found a broom

and I started that around in the pot for a bit. I didn't find his body. Instead, the liquid inside started thickening and when I pulled the broom handle out. It was coated in a thin film of milky white tissue, like your fingers when they're in the bath too long. He was dissolving. That's all I could think of.

I panicked. I dropped the broom and fled the brewery. I locked it up behind me, went home and drank until I fell asleep. In the morning, I told work that I was sick and took the day off. I went back to the brewery and hoped that his body was gone and that I could just drain the tank and bury the bone somewhere. Wouldn't that be convenient? Unfortunately, his body was not gone.

When I popped the hatch to the tank, I was confronted with a quivering mass of colour of a corpse and the consistency of a freshly risen loaf of bread. I poked at it with a broom handle and it gave slightly. I brushed harder. It tore slowly and the wound pattern reminded me of peeling away dead skin. I didn't know what I had. Not yet. But after I dredged most of it out, I realised that his body. was gone, bones and all.

I've never felt so relieved in my life. I reported my ex-husband as a missing person. Then, when the police started asking questions, I broke down crying, and admitted that he was having an affair and took off to live with her. I produced

the plane ticket he'd bought. One of the few times in our marriage, I didn't regret a joint bank account. The police was sympathetic, but they couldn't do anything about a domestic issue like this, they said. technically I'm still married to him can't get a dead person to sign divorce proceedings after all and I really don't want anyone to scrutinise too hard

my ex-husband didn't have any close friends left after the one he started brewing with split so no one questioned it that much with that handled I turned my attention to the thing growing in the brewery tank it seemed quite content to sit there at 98.6 degrees I got a microscope took some samples sending

engaged in some amateur biology. Eventually, I convinced myself that it really was skin inside there. The whole thing. Skin. So then, I had to figure out how to get rid of it if I was ever going to sell the brewery equipment. And that led me to some very interesting

internet searches. And then I thought, wait a minute, I might be onto something here. I got connected with the right, or wrong people, depending on your perspective. made a few sales and business just grew, literally from there.

I transferred bits of my ex-husband to the other vats. It likes the temperature right at the average for the human body. After that, it consumes all the yeast and just keeps going. As I said earlier, it doesn't always work out. Sometimes the flesh doesn't solidify, and you just get these patches floating around in a murky red liquid that smells like blood. Sometimes, I wonder if that's my ex-husband trying to come back. Maybe if I left it long enough, I'll see organs and bones growing in there.

I made a lot of money with the successful batches though. Got my dream vacations, got my dream car. I quit my job and told my friends I hit it big with stock options. I've always been ambitious, so they believed me. I had fancy parties, the best alcohol, designer clothing, you name it. It's been great. Seven years of living in the luxury, I never could. could have had while my ex-husband was alive. So, why am I spilling all the secrets of my business? If this gets out, I'm ruined, aren't I? Maybe they won't figure out who I am, and I won't go to court for my crimes.

But those rich folks and those dentists that buy from me will figure it out, surely. Maybe the dentists won't care, but the rich people will. Oh, they will care so very much. It would tarnish their precious luxuries and leave a bit of the best. a taste in their mouths every time they put on a jacket or watch or get in that car and hear the stretch of the leather as they sit down. They'll destroy me somehow. I hope they find out. I hope they hate me.

I hope they hate themselves for being so easily duped. Though they could never admit that part of themselves. Hear that? I took you all for a ride and you swallowed it all. You see, one way or another, my business is finished. I'm finished. Something went wrong with the last batch. It started to smell

like mould. I didn't want to dump it just yet, so I left it alone, hoping for the best. I should have dumped it. I should have turned off the heat, killed it, sterilized the tank and started over.

But I wanted to install a swimming pool in the backyard. And, well, that would have been cashed down the drain. I already had someone that wanted enough flesh to make a sofa out of. When I went to check on it next, worried about the smell.

I found that the tank was almost full. There was only an inch of clearance between the soft surface of the mass of skin and the hatch. It smelled like fresh break bread, a thick yeast over with an undercurrent of mould. I gagged, slammed the lid

and turned the temperature way down. I couldn't sell skin that had gone mouldy. I'd emptied the tank out in the morning and start over. The next day, I entered the brewery and heard a noise like the rattling of an overloaded dishwasher. Nervously, I made my way to the back where the tanks were. They all looked fine. All but one.

Its temperature was back up, despite the heating elements being turned off. 98.6. And it was moving. The whole tank was swaying gently back and forth on its base, and it was vibrating, like a symbol that had just been struck. I had to get the flesh out of there, I thought. Maybe it was packed in so tight that it was trapping the heat in. I just popped the hatch and start dredging it out.

It all happened so fast after that. I opened the lid and the flesh inside surged out at me, finally freed from its metal constraints. It was like watching a bubble bath overflow. I stumbled backwards, heart pounding an alarm. The tank roamed at the strain and heard the snout. snap of ribbons breaking. I ran for it, and the tank exploded behind me with a deafening screech as the metal tore itself apart.

I threw myself to the ground as bolts of scraps and metal flew of my head. When I rolled over and started to pick myself up, I found myself staring at a bubbling mass of flesh, pasty white, oozing across the floor in thick, bulbous puddles. There were hard bits in it, like almond slivers, and a mass of cookie dough, and I ran realized with horror that they were teeth, human teeth, tombling around inside that oozing mass of flesh, and the whole thing pulsed, shuddered like it was breathing, or like there was a massive heart buried under the folds of mindless flesh. It was coming for me, advancing with the inevitability of the avalanche,

those teeth and that skin tumbling over itself, like it knew I was there. My heart raced with terror. I had to escape. I'd long ago covered up the front windows and reinforced the doors so the building wouldn't be an easy target. Now, that same precaution was working against me. The roiling mass of flesh

had slammed against the entrance and covered the walls, swallowing up the exit in a pile of doughy flesh. I was trapped. I still am. The only option was the catwalk stairs behind me. I ran up them and watched as the flesh cover the ground floor.

It continued to grow. The entire building is heating up, like it's generating its own body heat now. I'm sitting here dripping in sweat, like sitting in a sauna. I can no longer see the tanks. They have been swallowed up by the flesh. It's just a rippling ocean beneath me,

a soft, billowing carpet of skin. And it's still rising. I don't have much longer before it reaches the level of the catwalk. I was so scared at first. I sobbed and screamed and tried to reason with God, with my ex-husband's restless soul, with anyone that would listen. I considered calling the police, but then it would all come crashing down around me, wouldn't it? One way or another, I was going to lose everything.

My ex found one last way to ruin me, even from beyond the grave. But I'm not going to let him win. The entire first floor is covered with flesh. The walls of the building groaned with a strain of containing it. But, that's okay. Because I'm up here on the catwalk. And there's a pipe on the other end of the building that are cut open before I started typing all this up.

Those capped gas lines we never learn the purpose of. The smell of gas is starting to make me sick. So I guess that means we're about ready. Hear that, my dear ex-husband. I'm coming for you one more time. Me and my cigarette lighter. We're going to burn in hell together.