CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I have been caring for an old soldier with a secret past. Here's his story" Creepypasta

Episode Date: December 6, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by doomedgeek: 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►Ivan Kapustin: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/1n...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 was born into a middle-class family and had a comfortable upbringing. I did well at school and saw a bright future for myself, definitely involving a university, probably after a gap year spent abroad. I was shy around girls, but in my heart of heart knew this was change. Shortly before my 18th birthday, this future was torn from me. I don't remember the weeks before my nervous breakdown. I'd messed up a couple of exams and was spending more and more. time on my own in my room.

But then, that blank in my memory cuts in, until one morning where I walked into the breakfast room. My parents were there, and my dad asked me a question. When I replied, it was like my voice came from somewhere distant. The edit of my life

then had another bit missing, because the next thing I remember was that I was in an ambulance. I was struggling, being held down. My dad was next to me, tears running down his face. I'd never seen my dad cry before and that image is still one of the clearest to this day many years later

The ambulance brought me to a mental health unit Where I was sanctioned Looking back I've always been grateful for the care I received And know how lucky I was There are a lot of people who don't have the safety net of healthcare And a family with the time and resources to support them So yes, over time I came out at the other side of a horrible illness

and was able to restart my life. It was not the same though. I was in my mid-twenties by this point and my confidence was very low. I did start a university degree, but soon dropped out. The thought of travelling made me feel panicky. I just wasn't up to it. Maybe, just maybe.

It was then I might have slipped backwards. I was once more withdrawing into myself than one of my parents' friends. I had very few of my own age, suggested voluntary work. A few weeks later, I was visiting a home for the elderly on Monday and Thursday afternoons and chatting to the residents. That was all, and I loved it. As one season drifted onto the next, I started helping out in the kitchen as well. Shortly after, I began evening classes.

I took and passed basic modules that could have led toward qualification as a social worker. I did not need these to fulfill my growing ambition of finding a paid job as a carer, but it was all part of me building myself back up of becoming a person I once again liked and trusted. I turned 30, beginning a probationary period in the sprawling care home for the elderly on the edge of my hometown. It was here. I met John. He was in his 70s and physically sprightly. My tasks kept me busy, but,

I was determined to always make time to sit and talk to the individuals I was helping look after, even if that meant starting early or staying late. I also moved into my own apartment for the first time in my life. My parents divorced not long afterwards and both moved away. I think I understood, though I had rarely thought up to that point of the toll my illness must have taken on them and their marriage. I felt sad that they were no longer close and immersed myself, even more in my work. It continued to be rewarding, and I got to know the residents better, John in particular.

At times he seemed to bristled with frustration. I often found him sitting with his fist clenched and looking into the distance that it struck me, only he could see. On other occasions, though, he was chatty, and I found out as the months passed that he was an army veteran, a widower, though he and his wife. wife had never been blessed with children, as he phrased it. I asked him once which conflict he had fought in, and he simply shook his head and would not talk to me for the rest of the day.

I wouldn't have pressed anyway, and felt bad at even raising the subject. So I was especially pleased the next day when he said my name as I passed by on the way to fetch some clean towels. I paused, smiled. He looked me in the eye and asked in a quiet voice. Have you... seen a ghost? I sat in the chair next to his.

I was troubled by his question, not because of any concerns over supernatural matters. The existence of ghosts was neither here nor there as far as I was concerned, but because John had always been very down to earth up until then. I wondered if this was an early sign of illness. I chose my words carefully. I... I haven't.

Why do you have? ask. His face was set in a serious expression, and his blue eyes clear when he answered, Because I have. Then, he exclaimed, Ha, and slapped his knee. I knew it. I knew you'd think I was losing my mind if I told you.

And look at your face. It's as clear as clear could be. I'm sorry, I said, genuinely meaning this. I hated the way some of the other staff patronised the resident. sometimes even making fun of their foibles and weaknesses behind their backs. I felt I had just treated John without respect. A hand on heart, I went on, I've never believed in ghosts, but I want to believe you.

He sat back in his chair. I guessed he was deciding if he could trust me. Finally, he said, I want to show you something. He reached into the inside pocket of the waistcoat he was wearing. I haven't mentioned up to the waistcoat he was wearing. now, but John was a dab-looking gentleman as well, and produced a battered-looking silver-cigarette lighter. He held it up so I could see it clearly and told me.

The ghost I saw left this by my bed this morning. I scratched my head, and, after a moment, said, How about I go, broke some coffee, and drew my break anyway, and we settle down and you start from the beginning. How long you got? He asked. I replied. As long as you need. Ten minutes later, with the steam of our coffees rising into the air, John began to explain.

I was not in the army that you see marching in parades or having medals pinned to their chest, though I salute those brave men and women. No, I was in an army that operates in the shadows. Even if I was allowed to, after all these years, and believe me when I say that I am not, I could not tell you where my last tour of duty took place. It was hot as hell and somewhere where every damn insect had a taste for blood, and do not even know whether we were sent there as part of a legal war. More likely it was a squabble over minerals or borders or whose face fitted in the presidential palace. We did out of duty, though.

The unit I was a part of, and I trusted every one of those men with my life. And I was seriously mad. We all were, when new troops were flown in to join us. There were dozens of them. All strangers, all tight-lipped. It was one of those men whose ghosts I have seen. He reached out to raise his coffee cup to his lips. His hand was steady, his voice calm as he went on.

We saw action within hours of them joining us, a nighttime assault on an enemy stronghold. The dozen newcomers were ordered to lead the attack. We were to follow, and I thank the Lord that we were held back, because no sooner had they breached the building and it was ripped apart by an explosion. It was a goddamn trap. But he survived.

The man you think you've seen here? I asked. Have seen? He snapped. I get my voice steady as I could. He survived and now he is here and you've seen him. Sometimes the work can seem a small place. He shook his head.

No. No one could have survived that. I know. I was there and saw it with my own eyes. So how? I began to say. He cut me off. None of us boys were happy to have the newcomers with us,

but I knew it would be best if we could become buddies, so I lent one of them my lighter just before they went in. I assumed it was lost, melted in the pocket of a corpse. Until this morning. It was around 5.30 a.m., and dawn had just begun to scrape away at the darkness when I heard movement outside, with nothing but trees.

the doorstep here and wondered if it was a bear looking for scraps. I lay still and waited, and it was then I saw him. The man I had given my lighter to, the man who had ended that building and been incinerated. He came closer and put the lighter on the windowsill. Then he backed away, and the last thing I saw was him retreating into the cover of the trees. The ghost, bringing back my lighter after all these years. He closed his fingers over the lighter. They were twisted with arthritis,

and I knew he could not wear his wedding band because of this. But he held that lighter firm, and when I looked up at him, I saw that tears were running down his face. We sat in silence. Eventually, John took out a handkerchief and tapped at his eyes, then said, I have to find him.

Will you help me? In my heart, I knew what my answer would be straight away. It was a fine summer's day, and there was nothing unusual about a resident going for an unaccompanied walk. So I fetched John's jacket from the room, and we set off. Now, I had no idea where to begin, but as we made our way into the woods, at first, following narrow but well-treaded paths, I realized John did. After a short while We left anything resembling a path

I was constantly pushing back branches They were catching on my face John was quietly focused You tracking him I asked He waved at me to be quiet I decided not to argue The soldier that John had been

Was clearly back in charge I had lost track of time When we reached the clearing in the woods The ground was littered with gasoline cans empty tins, crates and cigarette ends. A little further and we passed the Jeep, its army green paint was cracked and disappearing beneath rust. Then I saw the wall of a building, a squat, crude construction.

John turned and placed a finger to his lips. He need not have worried. I was so unhaged by this point, I could barely breathe, let alone speak. He crept forwards. I fell into step behind him. A door hung up his hinges around the far side of the building. John stepped inside. I wished he hadn't, and really did not want to go in as well.

I did not want to be on my own more. So, I followed him. It was dark, musty smelling, and I could see nothing, not even John, until there was a click and a flame appeared from the lighter. John was right next to me, and a few feet to our left was a hideously injured. man. His skin was red, raw. In places he was simply not there. Scraps of a uniform clung to his ravaged body. His fingers were stumps. They looked like what remains of a candle when it's almost burned out. He cowered from us in the flickering light. My mouth was dry. The blood in my veins felt like it had

turned to ice. I thought at any moment my legs would buckle and I would fall. Pure fear. had possessed me. By my side, John slowly raised his arm and saluted. The man stared at him. His eyes shone and I realized that he was crying. John walked forwards, knelt and put his hand on the man's shoulder. So this was his ghost. The man looked at me and said, Who's the civilian? A friend, John answered, much to my way. relief. My nerves were still screaming at me to flee, but I needed to stay, to try and understand, to listen as the man spoke. My name is Michael. I was a sergeant, part of a small band of men who had volunteered for a top secret program. We were each given a series of injections,

without a word of explanation of what we were being given, or what it would do to us, then shipped out to join up with a unit already on the ground and sent into action. It was a nightmare, as the enemy position fell in flames around us. Our flesh caught fire and the blinding pain began. I crawled out on my hands and knees and lay there, still burning. I should have been dead. There was no question. But I dragged myself to my feet and began to walk away.

And it was then I started to understand. The injections had turned to. me into something that was more than human, and less than human. I had been turned into a soldier who could not be killed, a man who could not die. He began to cry again, and I saw that he had no eyelids, saw the shiver of pain past through his body, even from the gentle progress of tears against his damaged flesh, the nerves exposed beneath. John spoke to him, his words too quiet for me to hear, before Michael composed himself, and he was able to go on. The others never came back.

They had slipped away before they could be rounded up. They must, even now, roam the distant jungle, named demons, perhaps, by those who have glimpsed them. I was brought here and locked away. At first, men came to study me, and then others, cruel, hard-faced people, who took pleasure in taunting me. Finally, they too drifted away. There is only me now. He lifted his face, looked at me and said,

Once I was the future. Now, I am a forgotten past. I moved to his side. I did not know what to say to this man, this old soldier. Come on, John said, and got to his feet. I don't want to take any chances. They might come back. Let's get away from here.

He helped Michael to stand, and the two of them headed for the door. Wait, I said, I'm coming with you. That was a decade ago. The place we found deep within the woods to build a shelter remained hidden, and we passed our days untroubled by the outside world. But there is no reason now to keep hiding. No reason why I cannot reveal the truth. This morning, I carried Michael out of the shelter.

He had increasingly needed to rely my care, and I'd gladly devoted myself to his. We passed the simple wooden cross-marking where we buried John two winters ago. He died peacefully in his sleep after a short illness. We were by his side. Michael was too weak to walk or speak, but I saw him lift his head as we passed the cross

and mouth a silent farewell. We went deeper into the woods, before I laid him on the ground. Leaves drifted down as I dug a shallow grave, and placed him in it. He smiled at me as I covered him with a dark, fertile soil. Then I walked away. The earth will take him now, make his ever restless remains part of its cycle. Of rebirth.