CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I Record Nature Sounds. I Think I Caught Something That Wasn’t Supposed to Be Heard" Creepypasta

Episode Date: December 4, 2025

REEPYPASTA STORY►by frequent-cat:   / frequent-cat  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 enough on the deep web" ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher, and...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creepypasta  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / 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

I record nature sounds for a living. I don't make them from merging royalty-free soundscapes found online. I mean literally. I haul gear out into the wilderness, set up field recorders, and capture eight hours of wind through trees or frogs in a swamp, or whatever someone wants in their earbuds at 2 a.m. to sleep to. A few weeks ago, I hiked out to a stretch of forest in the Pacific Northwest. It was far from any road or town to avoid sound pollution from passers by.

There wasn't even a foot trail, just trees, ridge lines, and a stillness that messes with your sense of time. I'd scouted the spot online. There was minimal wildlife and no nearby power lines to cause interference, perfect for what I needed. I set up the rig just before sundown. a shotgun mic on a carbon tripod, paired with an unintended recorder tucked into a pelican case, all wired for battery life and max sensitivity. I set it to run overnight and hiked back out with my overnight pack. The next morning, I picked up the gear, packed everything up,

and drove back to the cabin I'd rented for the week. Standard routine. When I dumped the files onto my laptop, It sounded clean, real clean. You could hear a soft wind tugging through the pines, some distant wood creeks, a lone owl. It sounded like something I'd barely have to touch in post. No clipping, no signs of animals or interference.

It still needed scraping in case a low hum of an aircraft ruined a segment. So, I slowly scrubbed the whole thing, but then I hit 3.41. I didn't catch it the first time. I was playing it at four times speed, but even at high speed, something about that section, jarred. So I went back, played it in real time. That's when I heard it.

The whole atmosphere buckled inward, like a vacuum pop. A sharp inhale followed by a deep, groaning creek, like wood twisting under strength. rain. Then, nothing. All sounds stopped. The wind died, insects ceased in unison, no underbrush rustling. I've heard forests go quiet before, when a predator moves through or a storm's on the way. But this wasn't that. This was dead silence. Even in a perfectly quiet night, your mike still. still picks up something, ambient hiss, high-end drift, gear noise. But here, there was nothing for exactly 63 seconds, like the world forgot how to make a sound.

And then, just as suddenly, it came back. There was a faint crack, like a tree stretching. Then the wind returned, the chorus of nightbugs, a creaking canopy. I marked the section in my door and cut it out of the final mix, labelled it 341 anomaly and saved it with the raw files.

I figured it was a bizarre environmental event, maybe a weird pressure drop or a shifting fault line under the soil. At least, that's what I told myself. I couldn't stop thinking about the 341 anomaly. The silence wasn't a recording issue,

the waveform didn't flatline. It just dropped into a void. The environment stopped generating sound. And that inhale, it hadn't come from the mic. So, two nights later, I went back. Same trailhead, same clearing, but a different setup this time. I swapped the shotgun mic for a parabolic dish with a matched stereo pair. new recorder, fresh cables, no chance of interference or hardware glitches.

If the anomaly happened again, I wanted to rule out bad gear. I set everything up before dusk, hiked out and repeated the routine. Back at the cabin the next morning, I scanned through the files again. The waveform jumped out at me before I even pressed play. At exactly 3.41 a.m. Same shudder, same sucked in static, same 63 seconds of total silence. But this time, there was more. The creaking noise was slightly louder,

like something massive and straining was close to the mic. After that, a new noise, just barely audible, but it was there. something grinding, like roots twisting under dry soil, or teeth. I checked every logical explanation I could think of. Local seismic activity, nothing on the USGS feed, weather, perfectly still, not even a pressure dip. And besides, neither of these would repeat so perfectly like I had seen. I ran it past an engineer, I know. She thought it might be RF interference from military aircraft.

Or, she said, your recorder caught Bigfoot scratching his back on a cedar tree. I laughed. Then, I uploaded it. Well, I meant to upload the cleaned version, just the gentle forest ambience, with the odd 63 seconds cut and cross-faded. But when I packaged the files, I must have left the files. I must have left the original by accident. The raw take, with the 341 segment left intact. I've got my fair share of weird listener emails over the years,

people claiming to hear voices in waterfalls. Someone once swore a raccoon whispered Bible verses in their sleep track. Ambient audio and overactive imaginations go hand in hand. But this one felt different. The message came from a guy named Nolan. It was a short email. No pleasantries or emojis. Just this.

Subject. Your latest upload. Need your opinion. I use you out to sleep with tinnitus. Played your new Forest Loop last night. Around 3.30, I woke up gasping. No nightmare. Just this pressure in the room.

Like something leaned on my chest. I checked the audio file to see if anything caused this, and found this. Screenshot attached. Let me know if you see it too. He attached a spectrogram screen grab from his player, a frequency waterfall of the 341 segment, right in the center of the silence.

It was a shape. It wasn't obviously human, but it was symmetrical, made of low, barely besetable frequencies, hollow of the centre, with long vertical streaks running from top to bottom, almost like arms or legs, but far too long. I stared at it for a long time before I closed the tab. Just audio pareidolia, like seeing faces and tree bark, I told myself, and moved on.

But the following emails were harder to ignore. Someone in Oregon reported that their power cut out for exactly one minute at 3.41 a.m., somehow attributing it to my video. Easy to dismiss as bad timing. Another said their dog barked to the speaker, then refused to enter the room where the track was playing. One woman swore all four of her houseplants were dead the next morning. They didn't just wilt a bit. They were fully blackened, crispy, like they'd been flashed dry. I still didn't panic, but I got curious.

I reloaded the raw file and Reaper, this time pushing deeper. Noise reduction, spectral isolation, half-speed playback, then reversed. I tried every witch angle. There was more under the distortion than I'd realized a single, deep knock. And then, wet foot. steps. Soft, spaced far apart, pine needles crunching under something that walked like it didn't need to. I froze the waveform. The pattern was there. A gate, something with weight. I pulled up night one's raw file at the same time stamp, the same silence. I overlaid them. The knock

was identical. But on night two, the footsteps started sooner. And they were closer. I didn't go back to the forest because I'm brave. I went back because my name was on that file. People had started commenting, messaging, accusing. One user posted a TikTok claiming the track gave their boyfriend's seizures.

Another said the sister collapsed while it played and hadn't woke up since. Some said it was a hoax, others, a curse, what even called me a murderer? So, I packed the best gear I owned, a parabolic mic, a battery recorder, and a pre-amp with real-time monitoring. I brought my field laptop too, so I could listen live, not just hope I caught something after the fact. I also brought a flashlight, three backup batteries, and a hunting knife I'd never actually use. I arrived just after 2 a.m. The clearing looked exactly the same.

The pine spirals still there, like the trees had grown in deliberate concentric rings. No animals, no signs of people. I set up the tripod, calibrated the mic, and began recording. At first, it was peaceful. Crickets, faint wind, occasional owl hoots drifting from the canopy, clean audio, nothing strange. But I get to my eye on the clock.

3.50.59 seconds. 3.41. Gone. All of it. Sound just ceased to exist. The LED in my recorder flick at once, then held steady. The waveform on my laptop froze into a flat bar. I tap the mic. nothing, not even a pop.

The only thing I could hear was my own breath, louder than it should have been, sharp, exposed, like it didn't belong in this stillness. What the hell? I muttered. The words felt intrusive, wrong, like I just shouted during a funeral. Then, crunch.

A twig, directly behind. me, close. I spun, flashlight up, and that's when the noise came back, but it didn't return the same. It surged in like a recording played through broken speakers, echoing and unsinked. The trees creaked on delay, the wind hiccpped. And something was moving. Not straight toward me, around me, circling fast. I whipped the flashlight left and right, catching glimpses of limbs between trunks, slender, too long, moving in bursts,

blurring between shadows. Then, I saw it. Ahead, upside down, hanging from high in the trees like it was suspended by its legs. wide black eyes like oil pool reflections stringy hair clinging to a crumpled grey face skin like soaked paper wrinkled smiling its mouth was too wide then a hand began to reach slowly the hand approached and never stopped the limbs stretched slowly impossibly the show

shoulder never moving from the tree, elbow bending the wrong way, fingers lengthening by the inch, despite how high up the thing was. I was in shock. I couldn't move, stunned by the abnormality of what I was witnessing. It reached toward my neck and brushed a leaf beside my collarbone. That was enough. I ran. Branches tore up my arms, roots caught my boots.

Every few seconds I nearly trip, catch myself and push harder. I could hear it, behind me, above me, so fast that I couldn't pinpoint where it was. It wasn't chasing on the ground, it was moving through the trees, something heavy thudding from branch to branch like a gorilla made of wood and tendon. Every impact sent down a shudder, a sound that wasn't just in my ears, it rang in my teeth. I didn't scream. I couldn't. My breath was fire in my lungs.

My chest locked tight. I just ran. That was all I could focus on. I didn't want to be led astray. I had one goal in mind, locked on, and speed was my only chance. Because trying to outmaneuver this thing would only push me into unknown territory. The trees started thinning. I saw the glint of moonlight on glass.

My car. I vaulted over a stump, skidded onto the gravel, and yanked the door open so hard it cracked the hinge. Leaving it unlocked was my only saving grace, knowing there was no one around for miles. The keys were in my coat pocket. Of course they were. I scrambled, fumbled, handshaking. Then... Bang.

The hood buckled under the impact. A single hand slapped down onto the windshield, long fingers, bone-white skin, unkempt black nails dragging, screeching lines across the glass like it was trying to peel it open. Its face leaned in, neck so long, it had a twist a few times that peer in. Inverted, grinning, eyes like oil pulled over bone. The keys hit the ignition. The engine coughed, then caught. I slammed it into drive and hit the gas.

Gravel exploded behind the tires. I clipped a tree as I peeled out. The thing blurred past the rearview mirror, arms trailing like ropes of wet muscle. I didn't look in the mirror to see if it followed. I just drove. Fast, stupid fast. the trees are blur of black and silver, the trail nothing but instinct. I didn't breathe until I saw the welcome sign for the next town.

When I got home, I locked the door behind me, deadbolt chain, even with the chair under the knob. Then every window, one by one. I knew it was pointless, but it felt like doing something, like I still had control. My laptop was still on the kitchen table. I opened it as I walked past, booting up the file system before I even kicked my boots off. The plan was simple. Pull the upload, scrub it from the app, maybe even write a warning, something vague that wouldn't get me laughed off the platform. But then I saw the notifications.

Dozens of emails, subject lines in bold. Something that was in my hall. last night. I saw her. She watched me sleep. It knocked until 3.42. Then it started climbing. My hands went cold. One message had an attachment. A blurry phone photo, the edge of a blackened head, blurred from movement, too familiar to dismiss. Sixteen floors up. I sat there, staring at it. This was my fault. Not because I recorded it. That was a fluke, an accident.

But I'd uploaded it. I'd left it public, ignored the early warnings. I doubted myself because the alternative was accepting something I couldn't explain. I should have pulled it days ago. Now I had my chance. I didn't know if deleting it would undo anything. Maybe the damage was already done. Maybe whatever this was had already done.

spread. But if I left it up, more people would hear it. More people would see it. More people would bring it back. So, I made the call. I pulled the file from the content manager, sent takedown requests to mirror sites, deleted the raw uploads from the app queue. Everywhere I could find it, I wiped it. It was over. I sat back and my chair. My phone lit up in the dark. I reached for it with shaking hands. New notifications from listeners. Whatever you did, thank you. It's quiet again. The notifications kept coming in, all from people who'd messaged before, the ones who'd said they were being followed, stalked, Haunted. Relief washed over me, feeling like I'd at least salvaged something good from this whole thing.

But my night was just getting started. I didn't sleep. I couldn't. Instead, I stayed on the hallway floor, legs cramping, back pressed against the wall. Every light in the apartment blazing. I kept the laptop open on my knees, the inbox still flooding with new messages. strangers thinking me, telling me the knocking had stopped, that they were finally safe. But inside my own apartment, something was beginning to stir. It started subtly, like a change in barometric pressure. The temperature dipped, the buzzing from the fridge stuttered. I heard a soft creak in the ceiling above me.

It wasn't a pipe or settling joist, but the temperature, the deliberate sound of weight shifting across old wood. I froze. For minutes, nothing. Then a whisper of motion against the far wall, the sound of something just brushing the paint with the tips of his fingers. When the tapping came, it was so faint, I almost missed it. Tick, tick, tick.

I turned toward the sound. and my stomach sank. It was coming from the living room window. I stood, cautiously, slowly, just enough to catch a glimpse through the frosted glass. Just a faint impression of movement, like someone had passed by a moment earlier. I backed away, heart hammering. The tapping shifted, now coming from the back door, then from the ceiling hatch. Every surface of the apartment seemed to carry the sound like a tuning fork, as if something was circling inside the walls, growing bolder by the second, testing the house for the weakest point of entry.

The lights dimmed as if the apartment itself were exhaling. I couldn't tell if it wanted to come in, or if it was already here. That question answered itself a moment later. The lights above me dimmed again, not in a flicker, but in a slow, deliberate pulse, like the apartment was breathing. Somewhere deep in the walls, the plaster shifted with a muffled thud, and then another, each one closer than the last. Something large was crawling its way toward the centre of the room. I stayed perfectly still. Then the dry wall to my left bulged outward.

Just slightly, a shallow swell, like someone was pressing a hand against it from the other side. I stared as the bulge drifted along the wall, dragging down toward the floor. Something ran his fingers across the baseboard, slow and lingering, tracing the shape of the apartment. A soft hiss followed, the unmistakable sound of breathing. sliding from behind paint. I backed up until my spine hit the opposite wall.

The thing in my home shifted directions scuttling up toward the ceiling. The plaster bowed overhead, dust drifting down in thin gray streams. Whatever it was, it wasn't bound to floors or gravity. It moved like a spider through insulation and beams, pushing against the structure,

testing how thin the barriers were. The ceiling vent rattled, then the metal grill bent outward. Long fingers had hooked into the slats and was prying them apart. One slats snapped, another warped. A black, knuckled-shaped silhouette pressed through, skin stretched thin over something too sharp to be bone. I scrambled across the floor, heart hammering so hard I heard it in my ears. The vents split wider.

A hand slid out. Long, grey, wrinkled, nails like splinters of obsidian. It curled slowly, searching the air, the way someone might test water before stepping in. It rotated toward me, knuckles cracking, reaching, and then... It stopped. Frozen, mid-motion, because it was listening. the same way it listened to the silence in the woods. I covered my mouth with both hands, shaking so hard, my teeth clicked.

Then, a sound. It wasn't from me or the thing, but from the table. A sharp ping. My phone still face up near the door, lit up with a notification. The sound cut through the silence like a siren. instantly something shifted a blur of motion too fast a process shot across the room the hand or part of it lashed out from the dark and struck the phone with surgical precision crack the screen shattered inward like it had been struck with a mallet the phone skidded across the floor buzzing once before dying I covered my mouth with both hands, paralysed.

Then, another ping from the laptop, an email. It shifted again, that thing in the walls. I saw the hand shut out once more, just inches from the keyboard now, fingers twitching, hovering. But this time, it didn't strike. It paused. almost curious. The same force that crossed the phone in a single blow

now hovered in silence, tense with restraint. There was a recognition in the stillness. The hand flattened its palm on the ground. I didn't dare move, scared to even just stir the air. Once flat, the arms swept around in wide arcs around the room. It was searching large motions, sometimes far away, but suddenly inches from my heel. If it were deaf, I could have jumped, rolled away with good timing, but I was still frozen to the spot. And soon, it bumped into my body.

On contact, it went frantic, sweeping motions over me, mapping me, until it figured out who I was my angle on the floor. the direction I was looking. It latched onto my wrist tightly, but didn't crush my limb like I expected. It pulled, a taut motion that gave me no choice but to follow. Less like a dog on a leash, and more like an escalator I couldn't leave. Unwilling, leading me to what I was curious about before.

My laptop. All the while, thoughts swam in my own. head, piecing together context from this absurd situation. It hadn't come when I uploaded the audio, not when people listened to it, not even when they started writing to me, terrified. It only came after I took down the video, when I broke the chain, when I tried to stop it from spreading. That's when it noticed me, I looked over at the laptop, now glowing in front of me.

And for the first time since this all started, the idea of dying didn't seem like the worst option. If this thing could be stopped by ending the transmission, by letting it end with me, maybe that was the answer. Maybe it was worth it. But the moment passed, survival dug its claws in. I sat down, and the moment it felt that it released its grip. my wrist, but hovered near my head in a threat that was easy to read. Upload or die, fingers trembling, I opened the app dashboard.

The deleted video was still there, sitting quietly in the recycle bin. I hovered over the upload button. Then, I clicked it, restored all the metadata. The upload bar crawled. From the wall behind me, I heard another creek, louder now, closer. I didn't turn around. I kept my eyes on the screen as the progress bar climbed. 30% 50, 72.

The air around me felt like it was pressing inward. It was still here. It knew. It was waiting to see if I'd go through with it. 94% a pause. Then, complete. The video went live. And in an instant, everything stopped.

No more tapping, no more movement, no more pressure in the walls. The lights brightened, as if a film had been peeled away from the bulbs. It was gone And for the first time in what felt like days Sound beautiful living sound I exhaled really exhaled like I hadn't in days

And I hated How relieved I felt Life went on People forgot moved on slipped again. But I didn't.

Not really. I still wake up every day and open my laptop. It's automatic now. Muscle memory. I don't check emails. Don't check socials. Just the view count. 318, 322, 338.

Every number feels heavier than the last. I don't see them as just number. numbers. Each one is a person. A victim. I still record sometimes to keep myself sane. Short trips, close to town, never at night. And I never upload the raw audio. I listen to every second. I triple check the waveform. I scrub the background for anything that doesn't belong. And when the clock hits 3.41 a.m. I make sure I'm in bed, ear plugs in, lights on, eyes shut tight, because I know now. It's not the silence that gets you, it's what follows.