CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I Needed to Know the Truth About the Abandoned London Underground Station" Creepypasta

Episode Date: April 13, 2022

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by withbite: 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►Anton Mikhalenko: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/zO...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-

You could say that being caught up in this nightmare was a family tradition. My grandfather was a soldier in London in the years following the end of World War II. He'd been too young to fight in the war itself, but had joined up as soon as he could, propelled by a spirit of patriotism that had been burning inside him while the conflict raged. As a serving soldier, he saw a sight of the city which the government had kept out of the newspapers. The beggars in the streets, the looting driven by poverty and hunger, and the outbreaks of violence between former soldiers who had returned home from war to find a society in which they no longer fitted. In the diary he kept, which I'm using for this account, he wrote of being out on patrol and encountering grown men standing on street corners openly weeping. The patrols, which were carried out in addition to ones by the police to try and maintain order, took him.

into some of the darkest corners of the city. He was armed with the rifle he held. But the rifle he held was one, which he'd never fired in anger, and the soldiers he was on patrol with were either very inexperienced like him, or older veterans. These were bitter men, he wrote,

quick to anger and even quicker to judge. He described witnessing what was basically the summary execution of looters when his patrol disturbed a gang robbing a warehouse storing tin goods. Shot in the head for a can of beans, as he put it. Terrible though these things were, they were overshadowed by the horrifying experience

which my grandfather had in the December of 1947. His patrol was making its way through the city of London, the aspect of the metropolis known as the home of business and lawyers. Fine buildings stood and well-lit streets, while minutes away, the poor huddled together in stinking back alleys. A message came through on the radio that a body had been found near their route

and that they were to divert and take care of it. My grandfather's spirit sank as the officer passed on the order. To find a corpse on a London street in broad daylight was no longer a rare occurrence. It could, he knew, have been a murder victim, but it was all likely to have been hunger and cold, which had been the killer of this poor soul. And it was the job of my grandfather and his fellow soldiers to remove the body.

There would be no investigation, no burial, a pocketful of stones and the river's embrace were to be this corpse's fate, as it had been so many others. They turned off the main thoroughfare along which they had been patrolling and entered a warrant of small, cobbled streets. These were ways little tread. The streets still bore names, handed down to them hundreds of years before, Mises Lane, Redemption Way, Sinusally. The town fathers in those days had been God-fearing and gin-loving an equal measure.

Even though it was just past noon, the lane their next entered was cast into shape by the buildings on either side. A small sign hanging from the wall proclaimed this to be devil's lane. It was here the body was meant to be, but even though the officer was. officer made them march up and down it twice. There was no sign of anything. Then one of the men called out, Sir? The officer headed over to where the man was standing.

Next to a steel fence covering an open doorway set into the wall of one of the buildings. Faded lettering next to the doorway read, London Underground. Although he had never heard of it, My grandfather knew this must once have been a station on the Underground Rail Network which crisscrossed the capital. During the war, it had become a nightly sheltering place for Londoners from the falling bombs. I was now once again busy with rattling carriages and cough-racked commuters. Some of the underground stations had not reopened though,

whether because the routes were no longer needed or the money was not there to bring them back into service. the entrance around which the patrol gathered led it appeared to one such now abandoned station. This would not usually be something of interest, however the steel fence had clearly been cut open. Someone had broken in. One of the older soldiers lit up a cigarette and said, The body we were sent to find is the corporate here. Another one of the old troopers nodded, he'll have wanted to get home for his tea before he went cold.

Colder even than he is, the first soldier added. At this they all laughed. No smoking on duty, the officer said. Scowling, the old soldier stooped out his cigarette with his fingertips and put it back in his pocket for later. Now, the officer said, we need to check if there's anyone inside that station who's up to no good. Then he looked at my grandfather.

You man, he said, you can do it. Reluctantly, wondering not for the first time, why he hadn't gotten a boring, safe job in a factory like his friends, my grandfather pulled open the steel fence where it had been cut and squeezed the gap. As he entered the darkness, waiting on the other side of the doorway, he heard the officer ordering the men to move on. Great, he thought, they aren't even going to wait for me. sighing he began to descend the steep, winding steps

which would take him to the station platform. He flicked on his cigarette lighter to prevent himself from stumbling and falling into the carefully constructed abyss. The air was stale and the fame flickered, not liking the old oxygen it was being fed. Green tiles lined the walls of the narrow passageway and he paused the posters advertising indigestion powders and whiskey before continuing down.

and emerging onto the platform. It was utterly deserted, and he cursed his officer and the entire damn army were sending him on this fool's errand. He turned ready to head back when he heard a snap. Who's there? He called out and lifted his rifle.

It was then that he saw a figure crouching on the tracks. It was shrouded in darkness and crouching over something. My grandfather, could not make out what. His guts tightening with apprehension, he stepped closer

to the edge of the platform and held the lighter high, revealing the figure. It was a man, crouched over a body, one from which the flesh had been stripped, leaving only bone, which the man was methodically snapping in half and licking at the marrow inside.

So preoccupied was he with his feast. He did not notice my grandfather, stumbling away, too horrified, too appalled to do anything but flee. My grandfather ran back up the steps, his skin now slick with ice-cold sweat, until he finally clawed his way out of the cut in the steel fence and found himself back in Devil's Lane. There was no sign of his comrades.

That night, he deserted. He did not return to his barracks. Instead, he went back to the cramped house where his wife and infant son. unlived and told them to pack and hurry about it. Then they called a train north. There was no destination in mind for my grandfather, only away, as far as he could get from the hideous sight he had witnessed. He could afford to take his family no further than Manchester, a cold, grey, industrial

city where the smoke was washed down with rain. He found work as a labourer and never spoke to his wife or his growing son about what had happened. He made this record though, the one I now hold. The diary is small, hard-backed, unlined. His son, my father, found it in grandfather's possessions after he died aged only 45. I imagine my father was as shocked as I was by what he read. He then continued to record the events of the abandoned underground station, a devil's lane. It was August of 1969 and my father had returned to London, drawn by a morbid fascination with a description of what had happened 22 years before. He found a city that was in the spotlight as a playground for the rich and fashionable.

A city also where many lives were blighted by poverty and discrimination. As he walked to the city of London, retracing his father's steps on the day of his patrol, he felt cold. even though the sun blazed down. He had seen a headline on a newspaper lying in the street saying, New disappearance in Finance District. He had picked up the newspaper and read that over the last few years, dozens of people had apparently just disappeared off the street. Some had respectable jobs,

some had been earning their living in disruptible ways, and all had gone missing at night. The police said there were no proven connections between the missing people. My father would have dismissed this as nothing more than a newspaper hack, trying to whip up a panic to sell more copies, had he not known about the dead body which had brought his father's army patrol to Devil's Lane. He looked at the small sign, telling him he was in the right place.

The sun was lost behind the buildings rising on either side of him. The lane was silent, deserted, apart from him. The cut in the steel fence over the open doorway was in front of him. He took a deep breath and prized the ragged edges of the fence apart and moments later found himself entering the underground station. Prepared for the darkness, he had brought a torch with him. His hands shook as he took it out and clicked it on. The beam exposed the beginning of the steps, the green tiles,

the same advertising posters his father had described. By the time he reached the platform, his chest felt constricted. This was nerves he knew. There was no physical reason why he was finding it hard to breathe. But reason had no place here. The platform was empty, but the tracks below were piled high with bones. They'd been snapped into pieces, but were clearly human. A skull nestled in one pile, its empty eyes revealed by the torch beam

he ran over the scene. There was no sign, though, of any living being. My father told himself it was because the man who had been feasting all those years ago were surely now dead, that this was what remained of his obscene acts. My father started to retrace his way. Now he had seen the truth for himself. He wanted simply to get the hell out of there. As he began to ascend the steps, he vowed to put as much distaste.

between this place and himself as he could. Then he heard a sound which stopped him. It drifted up to him from below, from the tracks. It was the sound of a baby crying. He dropped the torch and ran. He made his way straight to the railway station and never returned to London. He, like his father, died young. Having inherited the diary on his death,

I believed both men were haunted by what they had experienced in the abandoned underground station, and that, no matter how far they traveled away from it, they could never truly escape. I decided I had a choice. I could lock the diary away and forget about the whole thing, or I could confront it, and when I saw for myself the truth of what had waited underground, I would not flee. Rather, I would expose it to the light. I chose the latter.

I would face the fear and end it. I was a very young child when my father descended into the underground, and it was not till later in my own life that I decided to make my fable journey to London. It was in January of this year. Most of the restrictions in place from the pandemic were lifting when the capital was returning. to his bustling, uncaring self. One more stranger

staring at a phone, trying to follow a map to find devil's lane when completely unnoticed. I ended up asking directions from a man selling newspapers from a stall on a street corner. He pointed me in the right direction, and soon I was standing, locking at the small sign.

At the steel fence, the cut in it, the open doorway to the abandoned underground station. I turned on my torch and as my grandfather and father had done. I made my way inside. I imagined them taking the same tentative steps beginning to descend. As I make my way down towards the platform, there was no sign that anything had changed in the last 75 years. The station stood apart, forgotten by everyone else.

in the heart of one of the biggest cities in the world I felt utterly alone I reached the platform silence enveloped me I could see the edge of the platform ahead the dark lines of the track I inch forwards and saw the first of the bones hundreds of fragments littered the ground

and there sat on the tracks against one side of the platform It was a man. He was gaunt and pale in the artificial light of my torch. He had a body draped over his lap. It was bloated and decayed, and he picked listlessly at his great flesh. My heart was beating faster and faster as I fought the urge to turn tail and run. I must not, I told myself, not if I was going to end this.

So, I stood there as fear pulls through. me, as I learnt what terror meant. And all the while, the man picked, until he found a scrap of dead flesh that he lifted to his face, sniffed, then popped into his mouth and began to chew. His teeth worked their way through the meat, and then he said, I am disgusting, revolting, I did not know what to say. He was aware of my presence, but he continued. his weary cannibalism.

I swallowed, said, with difficulty. I'm going to the police. You've hidden down here for more than 70 years, but you're not going to get away with it anymore. To my amazement, he chuckled at this. Not just me, he said. I come from a long line of freaks, all skulking down here, sating our filthy needs. But my grandfather saw you. I splittered.

He looked up at me, his eyes blinking and watering in the light from my torch. Your grandfather. Must have seen my grandfather, he told me. My grandfather was the first of us. He was a proud man once, who left his home in the far north of Canada to come to London to join the RAF and fight in the war. But he was injured and left to fend for himself when the war ended. He had no money to go home, no money even to eat, and he had an infant son as well to take care for when the mother died in childbirth. It was then he spiraled.

In his homeland there was a dark creature called a Wendigo, and some who believe they are possessed by this monster, who crave the taste of human flesh. Whether it was possession or simple insanity, my grandfather began to take bodies he found in the street. and devoured them. He brought his spoils here to this deserted place where he could feed undisturbed. What happened to the infant? I asked, shocked and yet transfixed by what I was hearing. The man chuckled again, a low, guttural sound devoid of any humour. And then he said,

He brought my father with him and weaned him of powdered milk. I began to feel dizzy, the roof of the station revolving before my eyes, and I had to sit down, hug my knees to my face. That's abhorrent, I said. It was survival, he told me, and when my grandfather died, my father tried to leave this place behind. He lived for a short while in the city, but the call of the Wendigo's voice deep inside his soul was too strong, and he returned to feed. He found his prayer at night

Walking unsuspecting down dark Street and tasted fresh Meat, still warm and tender There was only the sound of a baby crying When my father came to this awful place I said I had to know

I had to understand No matter how repulsive the truth Was revealing itself to be Those were my cries The child he sighed Or trying to live a life not cursed he answered, My father must have been out hunting

when yours came here. And now he's dead, I said. He nodded. All dead, leaving just me, alone to scavenging graves reached by scrabbling through mile after mile of empty tunnels

to feast on this. His gaze fell on the corpse on his lap. Food I have stolen from the worms. Disgusting, I am. revolting, he said, and resumed picking at the dead body. I did not think I could stand up without fainting, so I began to crawl away on my backside. I'd clamber up the steps of my hands and knees if I had to. I had to escape. I reached the bottom of the steps when I heard the man say,

Do not leave. I turned back. You need to be stopped. I spat out the words. His reply left me reeling. With your help, I will be. I returned to the underground station a number of times after this,

with supplies brought from above. The best place to do what was needed was the narrow green tiled line passage down which the steps wound. I blocked up the exit leading to the platform with a crudely built brick wall. He sat on one of the steps, watching me work. I left him there as I made my way to the top of the steps where I built a

second wall. As he had asked, he was blocked in. Unable to get human flesh, he would starve to death in a matter of days. This will be the end of the legacy of pain and suffering. He had told me as he sat in his lonely lair. The second wall completed. I left the underground station for the last time and walked down Devil's Lane, emerged into the light of a winter's day and began to cry. It was over.