CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I inspect foreclosed houses. I’m haunted by the things people leave behind" Creepypasta

Episode Date: May 24, 2023

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by ChristianWallis: 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"- • "I wasn't careful... ►"Personal Favourites"- • "I sold my soul f... ►"Written by me"- • "I've been Blind ... ►"Long Stories"- • Long Stories 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/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

This weekend, I'm I'm going to watch I'm mad when I'm new as I'm not on think. Oh, that dossier that morning off must be all

I'm too much as I'm on think. Oh, van't after the tail tournoe, oh, I'm a moose if I'm a new as I'm not

on the going to come. Give you self then a boost with bio-cure Maxshot Liquid. Three op-hept

plants, magnesium, iceer. An energy booster to make then to come to come out of bio-cure

Macshot liquid. Foodings Supplement, forcrag by the apotheker. I get shot at, a lot. But that isn't what scares me about this job. When I arrive at a home and see someone burst out of the front door clutching a rifle,

I know what to expect. They have something to lose. They're scared and they don't know what to do. So I tell them. I give them resources and fighting back. I refer them to law firms who do pro bono work, government bodies and charities that can help them get back on their feet. I speak calmly and with empathy,

and people listen. Some even thank me as they pack their things up and drive away. People ending themselves are harder to deal with. I get at least three or four a year, and people who do it out of spite really go all out on the spectacle. The harder it is for the bank to clean up, the better. And people assume the bank puts their house

in the market the second it seized, but a house can sit forgotten for years before I'm sent to look it over. Lone bodies swinging in empty living rooms. Flesh like melted candle wax from all that time left in open air. I find it profoundly sad.

These people lay themselves out like a spiteful diorama and then no one turns up. They slit their throats or clutton watching eviction notices, and by the time I arrive, the blood is dried and the ink has faded. The worst ones don't just hurt themselves, but their loved ones too. Packs are more common with the elderly, but it isn't always octogenarians, families too. It's rare, but it does happen.

A sun-baked house with drawn curtains, so much time passed in dry autumn heat that their skin turned paper thin, receding lips, black toothless gums born in a rictus grin. Hell of a thing to see staring out of a crib. Each house is its own apocalypse, its own ruined city for me to wander. Whiskey in the toilet cistern, fentanyl under the bed, bills past due, and it doesn't just end with the people we kick out. These places are empty so long, you will often get squawful. cutters, usually harmless, not always.

Some have the potential to be thoroughly lethal, stringing men and women with flinty eyes and missing teeth who come bursting out of the multi-blankets and indoor tents, slashing box cutters wildly in the air. You could play a tick-tac toe on my forearm from all the defensive wounds. when they moved on. The things they leave behind aren't exactly safe. Fumes from homemade labs can rot your lungs and disease positive needles stuffed down the sides of old sofa cushions wait to prick curious fingers. And the cooks get real paranoid about being robbed, so they like to rig their homes with traps. They get inventive with whatever's lying around. Shards of glass on spring-loaded broom handles, trick floorboards over boxes of of razor blades, infection smeared knives hidden beneath false windowsills.

Every now and again, I find a trap that's been set off. A baseball bat rigged to lash out at anyone engine the kitchen. Blood and hair dripping from the bent nails hammered into the wood. No sign of the poor guy who set it off. Just the grisly trail of gore leading out of the house and into the nearby woods. Most likely candidate is the guy who set the trap. These addicts can stay up for days and pass out, and when they wake up, the first thing I'd do is head for their stash, not remembering what they left behind. One time I found the guy lying a few feet away from his own trap.

He kept his money in this old metal lunchbox at the back of a cupboard, and he'd rigged it so anyone reaching in would get a hell of a surprise. The blade went in at his elbow and left just below the knuckle on his side. thumb. No helping him after that. He died bleeding out on his late grandmother's cold linoonium. What a god-awful way to go. And his little lunchbox? On the ground and empty of everything worth taken. Police reckoned someone was with him when it happened, must have gotten scared, so they took the cash and left him to die. It'd take a full month before I found him, and no one even reported him missing in the interim. You'd think the kid would be angry, but he wasn't.

He just looked like he was scared. 19, going through withdrawal and dying slowly, curled up like a baby, one hand gripping his open wrist. You can't trap the ocean in your fist. It leaks through your fingers. A kid knew what was coming. I could see it in his eyes. terrified

Meth is a hell of a drug These poor guys Fry their brains out in the middle of nowhere I can't even begin to imagine What they think they see out there What visits them in the dark Found this trailer once They had been rigged with damn near a hundred traps

They weren't particularly sophisticated But they were numerous and vicious and desperate They circle the lone motor home out in the middle of the desert, like an invading army made of knives and bear traps and stolen guns, and even a few hastily made IEDs. Took me and a bomb squad a week just to get to the front door, and by the time we opened it,

we were all fairly certain of one simple fact. This place hadn't been rigged to keep thieves out. Whoever had said the traps had been scared of something leaving, probably just drug-fueled paranoia on behalf of whoever said them. But I think the idea that something was in there waiting for us got under our skin anyway. During the operation, we'd sometimes get shouted reports of someone moving around in the trailer and the whole sight would go to hell. Armed men and women lying in their bellies, iron sights lined up on the front door, hands shaking.

I guess we kept asking us. ourselves over and over. What's in there that had someone so scared they set all these traps? When we finally got our answer, the first thing we found was a meth lab. Pretty par for the course. Less normal was a body that had been torn to pieces, halfway to dust after all that time in that heated past, but it was strewn all over the interior. Walls, floor, see. dealing. Couldn't argue he was a natural death or a product of scavengers, not unless coyotes can work a lock and key. What was left of his head and torso looked like he'd gone through hell. I'm hardly a forensic expert, but it had looked to me like he died slowly and painfully.

Missing fingers, teeth, one eye plucked out. Torture is what it made me think of. Even stranger than all of that, though, was what we found sat on the kitchen counter next to all those broken beakers and stained chemistry equipment. A doll. Not like a kid's doll. Horseslin, like a collector's item that had seen better days. Scared the hell out of me, given the circumstances and all. Couldn't shake the feeling whoever had made all those traps had done so with that thing in mind. which begged the question Who was the poor guy stuck inside the trailer

And what had happened to him Cops wrote it off Meth is a hell of a drug So they say We all knew that Only I wasn't so sure I've seen a lot of weird stuff

Who knows what visited that poor guy Out in the Wild So far from civilization A lot of life gets lived out in the world, out in the plains or in the forests, and amongst hills, far from prying eyes. You get a sense of it in my job. The sheer quantity of untold stories. Failed dreams, great triumphs, abandoned canvases, well-worn guitars, heydays that came and went, or simply never came at all. Most stories follow a rhythm. Most.

Some, like that doll, raise profound questions. Others aren't really stories at all, so much as nightmares, just waiting for the next victim. This world is full of hidden needles waiting for probing hands. There are rare occasions where I'll advise the bank not to sell a property. They become part of a kind of no-go zone the government is set up around the country. I only see bits of this machinery at work. Whatever bureaucracy manages it is way over my pay grade, but there is a system in place for managing the worst of the worst.

I'm not talking ghosts either. None of the examples I've given so far would be candidates. Sounds messed up, I know. Scrub the blood, scrape the brains, pick the shotgun pellets out of the plaster. If the next family who move in have to go. contend with the ghosts of a few clumsy methods or disgruntled former owners, well,

so be it. No, for a place to be deemed a no-go. It has to be beyond recovery and an active threat to life. I'm talking factories with bottomless holes that pump out enough

radiation the government has to build a nuclear dump site just to make a convincing cover. Although that is a bit of an extreme example. Most of the time we just blame it on radon or meth fumes and condemn it. At this one place, a farmhouse where a family of five had lived for nearly 60 years. By the time I got there, the kids were adults and the parents had been dead for a while. The children had resisted selling the family home, tried to keep up with the payments.

But they had their own debts and in the end, the bank got its' business. pound of flesh. At a glance, the house didn't look too bad. Bit run down, sure. But my standards are low. Cracked in low. Windows were intact, no graffiti, roof hadn't been stripped, satellite dish was still up. From where I sat in my car, gulping down a lukewarm bottle of water that had spent a drive

tumbling around the passenger footwell, the house was relatively untouched by anything except nature and time. Something about that gave me pause. Shame I didn't listen to the gut feeling telling me it was all sorts of weird that an isolated house had gone undecayed for so long. I grabbed the keys the sheriff had given me and went inside, hoping for an easy gig.

Three hours later, and I was crawling out a kitchen window I'd smashed. The shirt and skin of my back cut to ribbons. I stumbled to my car, chest near bursting from the pounding of my heart, and my eyes fixed on the empty window frame I just escaped. A lone figure, barely visible with a bright sun in my eyes, but still too substantial to be a mere ghost. My wounds were a testament to that. Once the doctor had finished patching me up, I sat in the waiting room and tried calling the former owners. the siblings

one after the other I wanted to know what had attacked me if anyone knew what I was walking into there'd be hell to pay if so the oldest son was the first to answer I didn't go all in straight away I asked probing questions

took my time before I mentioned the basement the guy laughed when I brought it up Told me he hated going down there as a kid because he'd heard the weirdest noises, like someone moaning. They all thought a ghost lived down there in the dark, and to keep them from hurting themselves or playing around with stuff they shouldn't, their father had embellished this ghost, giving it a name. Marion lived in the basement, hiding amongst the crates of old photos and clothes. She lurked behind the half-disassembled lawnmower, scuttling away to the dark places at the very edge of your eyesight. Marion had long fingernails and a haggard flower-sack dress. She had dark lips and a pointed nose and a wart the size of your thumb.

Marion ate children, their dad had told them with glee. And if Marion knew there were three bite-sized kids living just above her, she'd come out of the basement and come crawling up the stairs with arms as long as a body and she'd slink away into the bedrooms using the shadows cover and she'd start by taking tiny little bites out of any bare feet that lay dangling in the cold what about that freezer did you ever use it i asked oh god no he said even now that basement gives me the creeps and that freezer was where marian lived or so he figured his kids

so we stayed the hell away from it it was just always there in the back looking old and forgotten I think dad used to go hunting when we were little and that's where he kept the meat but he phased all that out before I turned five he seemed so sincere that I didn't tell him what I'd found in that house

at the end of my inspection he didn't know that behind that freezer was a false wall and behind that false wall basement number two home maid God knows how the father managed it with no one noticing

but he dug it out and made a private soundproof space hollered out a room about the size your typical jail cell the furniture was threadbare deliberately so a single mattress propped up against one wall an iron shableness

buckled bolted into the foundation. A dentist's chair modified with restraints. And a stain. A vague Rorschach blob of ancient browns and almost greens that pulled outwards from a patch in the corner. It had texture. I knew that stain. I'd seen it before. Residue left behind after the professionals have finished peeling her desiccated corpse

off a hard surface. At first, I assumed someone had moved the source of that stain. There were even footprints. But they didn't look right. Something about them made me queasy. They'd not been left in the residue. They were made of it. Something or someone covered in that stuff

had been stomping around down there. Until that moment, the inspection had been mundane and boring, but it isn't every day you stumble across a hidden dungeon. Now I was suddenly presented with a hell of a family secret and one that didn't quite make sense. I stood there for a good minute trying to make the piece of that puzzle fit. Had someone moved a corpse and gotten covered in rotten flesh

and walked around leaving a trail? If so, Why the hell had they done it barefoot? And why not clean up afterwards? And how had they been so clumsy, yet so clean as well? There were no drag marks. I took another look of those prints, and something inside my gut soured. Small feet.

A woman's. We all know this story. Don't make me go over it. Basement out in the middle of night. nowhere, restraints, a family man that no one suspects. He'd hunted all right, sicko. So, who had died in that basement, and who had left those prints? Not all of them were on the floor either.

With an increasingly shaky hand, I tracked a few to the wall, where they mounted the vertical surface and continued upwards and onto the ceiling. Just like that, a cold sweat gathered on the back of my neck And a powerful sense of the uncanny ran over me like icy water Somewhere overhead the wind blew And the boughs of trees groaned in the yard Sounds of another world I could see it in my mind up there

Not far away My car sitting in the shade Those images felt like they belonged to another world though. I desperately wanted to rejoin it, to leave this squalid little hole behind. All I had to do was walk out of that basement and make it for my car. Only, I wasn't so sure I wanted to move at all. Felt like I might break something brittle. The notion that the creeping dread I felt was all in my head, a product of an overactive imagination. nothing more.

And yet, I got this feeling that if I tried to run, the nightmare would spill out into the real world and give chase. I even tried telling myself I didn't know what happened in that room, not for sure. It could have been a game, one played between him and the wife. But then I looked at the chair again, at the cracked and frayed leather of ancient. straps. There were teeth marks on some of them. I took a deep breath and regained control of my legs.

Unless I saw something alive down there, I had to assume I really was alone. So I turned and began to walk. Eyes forward, mind steled against the myriad of little groans and creaks that felt as if they followed me, going from shadow to shadow. I couldn't stop myself from filling in the blanks of that basement's history, even as I told myself to stop. Maybe she died first. Maybe he did. Maybe he got bored and left it to starve. Or maybe he nearly got caught and decided to put an end to it all.

Maybe she snucked something sharp and did it herself. But she died for sure and she stayed dead a long time, at least a couple of months for that kind of liquefaction. She lost a lot of cohesion. Skin, muscle, blood, like the plug of mould that forms on top of the forgotten coffee. I could see it in my head. Her collapse, the claymation time lapse, a riot of colours. Only somehow the natural cycle broke. She didn't go away completely and no one came to take her away.

Those were her prints on the floor and walls and ceiling, weren't they? She laid down, she died, and then somehow she got back up. By the time I reached the top of the basement steps, I'd scared myself so bad that sweat was pouring off me. So far, the only things I'd seen on my way were just old boxes and crates and ancient bits of crap, weedwhackers and leaf blowers with cobwebs and defunct logos fading away. But that didn't mean I was alone. There was something wrong with that place. I could feel it.

A radiant heat. A palpable aura of hatred. Even in the absence of anything seemingly real. It was so bad that as I opened the door, I actually felt a moment of childlike relief. A little like how you might feel racing back to bed after going to the toilet in the middle of the night, convinced some ghosts was just inches behind you.

I laughed, and something cold and hard wrapped around my ankle. A hand had reached up between the slats of the stairs, like it was reaching straight out of the world of make-belief and into this one where things are real. I stared down, heartbeat like thunder in my ears, and slowly began to process what I was seeing in bits and pieces. First was the hand, gnarled, black, like a badly sketched shadow visible only because it caught the light coming through the open door, and then beneath it, in the shadow,

a face like a skull wrapped in a garbage bag, the plastic pulled tight so you could see the suffocating outline of empty eyes and a gaping mouth. I'd expected something wetter, something straight out of a bad horror movie. In reality, whatever was in that basement had undergone a strange transformation. I only ever saw it in parts, so I can't say for sure what all of it was like, but it sure as hell didn't look like a ghost or a corpse or anything else I'd ever seen or thought I'd seen in life or me. movies. It looked like a monster, the real deal. And I reacted like a child seeing the buggy man.

I made some weird, half-muffled groan of fear and ripped my leg away so quickly that I surprised myself and got free. But whatever was hiding under those stairs was quick. Before I had time to take another step, it had left its hiding place, climbed the stairs and was already driving me to the ground. The last thing I saw before my chin smashed into the kitchen floor was that Marion really did wear a flour-sack dress. At the time, this strange detail passed over me without notice, but in hindsight, the fact that the son would later recount that particular item of clothing convinced me his father had been the man responsible for that hidden basement. It wasn't like it had been waiting undiscovered when the family moved in.

And on top of that, the father must have been a real piece of crap to inject that sort of sickening detail into a story he told his kids. He'd likely done it, so if his prisoner ever escaped and his kids saw her, their first instinct would be to scream for their lives and run. I didn't know any of this at the time, of course. I had only vague notions of what had a attacked me. Something hateful for sure. Something that had died in that awful room and come back to life. God, she was so angry. She pinned me, knelt at my back and howled like a banshee that had been hit by a car. I was terrified at the sound, at the feeling of helplessness, and the realization this was a nightmare I couldn't wake up from.

She went to work on my back with fingers I couldn't see, but could feel as white-hot tattoo-needle pain. It lasted only a few seconds. The agony was enough to send me into spasms that knocked her off and onto the floor. A tiny moment of freedom was all I needed. I crawled to my feet and jumped head first out the nearest window. I didn't give a doubt.

about any cuts I might acquire. If you could have felt what I felt, you wouldn't have either. These weren't scratches. Doctors compared my wounds to those left by box jellyfish. The kinder thing that causes muscles beneath the wilt and wither after a million hypodermic needles have turned the flesh into porous sponge. I had to get skin grafts. I had to get rid of my car because they couldn't scrub what I'd left about.

my skin from the leather seat. Even now, my back looks like I got run over by a mower. Still hurts when I put my top on each morning. Somehow, they're not even the worst than my wounds. Just the biggest, the most visible. At least those scars made it easy to convince the bank not to sell. Normally, it takes a lot of effort. But they took one look at the doctor's reports and agreed to convince the doctor's

condemn it thoroughly, pass the land onto whatever strange governmental department handles this kind of thing. That particular house had been left to crumble. No piece of paper or deed or mortgage payment is taking it back from Marion. We can only shut it off. The land is fenced and every window has been slapped with so many toxic gas signs that I can only hope no one else is stupid enough to ever go back inside. Looking back, I really should have listened to my instincts. Squatters, don't leave a place alone, without good reason.