CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I spied on my Grandma when I was a kid. It DID NOT end well" Creepypasta

Episode Date: August 18, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by twocantherapper: 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 Aguirre: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/oA...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-#Creepypasta #Horror #CreepsMcPasta

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on Amazon.com. com. B.E. Let's get something straight before I start. I'm not and wasn't a peeping Tom.

When I say I spider my grammar in the shower, I mean once, one time, singular. It wasn't something I did regularly

is some kind of Freudian habitual neurosis. Trust me, once was enough. Spying on people, it wasn't a childhood preoccupation of mine. Okay, yes, I was spying on the family in the shower and had been for a few weeks before the grammar incident. But the goal wasn't to see their naughty parts. I was a normal kid, and the majority of my thoughts were on normal kid things,

like Cartoon Network and N64. It's important to me that you understand this. I was an innocent kid, even by the standards of most seven-year-olds. I ended up seeing what I saw because of reasons that were nothing to do with nudity and everything to do with a harmless jump scare prank. The incident happened in the summer of 98, the last summer where it wasn't just dad in me. I was seven years old, and like all seven-year-olds, had to come up with interesting ways to entertain myself through the six-week break

whenever parents were too busy to take me to the park or some other child-destracting place. One of the games I devised for myself that summer was toilet ghosts. The rules of the game was simple. Over the course of the summer, I was going to make my family, mom, dad and grandma,

believe that our bathroom was haunted. My room was right next to the bathroom. For those unfamiliar with the layout of industrial-era terraced houses in the UK, it might help to know that in most, the lavatory and shower, bathtub share a space. The idea for toilet ghosts came to me when I was looking for something under my bed.

That's when I found the hole. It was the sound of dad grunting that alerted me to it. I was lining up my army men, ready to shoot with my Nerf gun, when I realized the sounds of straining coming through the old walls were much clearer under my

bed than they should be. I was facing away from the wall at the time. So I looked behind me towards where I knew the bathroom was. Down by my left foot there was a section of wall missing. A perfect circle, roughly the diameter of a tennis ball. Now that I'm an adult, I realised it was where the toilet had been at one point before a previous occupant decided to rearrange the plumbing.

They'd done a rush job, which is why instead of filling the hole properly, they opted to file down the ceramic pipe on either side of the wall and plug up the gap with a loose-fitting half-brick. A half-brick that came loose easily with my tiny hands. My memories of the first time I peered through the mystery hole, as I initially thought of it, are almost as crystal clear as the last. The other side of the hole was at the base of the bathroom sink, behind where my mom kept the toilet brush and various bathroom cleaning products dad had no idea how to use.

From my vantage point, I could see almost the whole bathroom. In the dimlet cast from the narrow portal-style window on the opposite wall I had a full view of the glistening off-white tiles, drap marve wallpaper and of course

the shower. The toilet was about a foot to the right of the hole so I couldn't see much of dad but his ankles and toes. I watched his foot tap for a few minutes while he strained holding my hand over my mouth to silence

the gleeful chuckling at a finger window into his private moment. He'd have no idea, were it not for my scream. As I was watching, still delighting in the secrecy and stealthiness of it all. Something long and thin and hairy unfurled over the lip of the shaved pipe at the hole's other end. My eyes widened in horror as another and another and another of prickly limbs curled themselves around the rim, prodding and probing for my terrified features. My eyes bulged, heart hammering against my rib.

Then, before I could react, the furry, multi-limb monstrosity lunged at me. Get off! I hate spiders! I squealed and rolled out from under the bed. The errant spider flew from my face, scuttling away to sulk in the distant corner of my bedroom. What few hairs were my arms at that age stood up when I heard my dad's echoey cry from beneath the bed. Jesus Christ! What in God's name was that? Susan? Susan! Susan! Come up to the bathroom. The deliciousness of the idea

my seven-year-old mind put together in that moment excited me so much a lump caught in my throat. Toilet ghost was born. Game on. So, that's the first half of the equation. You know about the hole and why I was looking down it. Now, you need to know the second half. You know how I was spying on her and why.

But what you still don't know about, his grandma. This is where things stopped getting so whimsical and innocent. It's been 23 years since I saw her, but I remember the ensemble more clearly than even my wedding day. When I tried to describe through tears the hell I'd been through between terms to the class, I didn't have a widener vocabulary to describe her accurately. I sputtered and sobbed words like,

monster, nightmares and dead people smell. Now I'm older, I can do the creature that stalked my seventh summer more justice. Her skin was clay-like, mottled and almost grey, waxy to the touch and pudging texture. She was huge, with a waistline my seven-year-old self retold as being big enough to eat ten of me. She'd sit in my dad's recliner all day, her many folds and bulges moving and shifting at tectonic speeds. Her face though Her face was something else Botox was huge in the 90s

If you've ever seen a bad Botox job You'll have a rough idea of the odd way my grandma's nubbled Swollen features moved far too little when she talked I didn't know what nerve damage was at the time My parents' explanations didn't do much to dispel comparisons in my brain Made between a stiff features and the prosthetic creatures in the horror movie I'd given myself nightmares with the previous Christmas. What didn't help was her teeth.

Her eyes were unsettling too. All sunken and dim and unmoving. But it was the bulky square canines and incisors that freaked me out so much it took me a week to look her in the face over the dining table. As I said, her teeth was square, perfectly square, all of them. They ran uniform along a submit

meant grey gums. Each brilliant white posted stamp-sized chunk of enamel placed at a perfect right angle with its neighbours. I think the teeth freaked Mom and Dad out too. At least the snippets of conversation I stole from echoes coming up the stairs seemed to suggest as such. I've never seen her take them out if they are, was one that came up a lot, and she didn't pack a toothbrush, Susan. They only mentioned them the nights before they smelled of wine and demanded I keep the teeth TV volume low over breakfast, though. I don't have many memories of Grandma before she moved on. I don't remember Grandpa, the man whose death was the catalyst to her joining our household at all.

She'd only been living with us a few months at the time my father was the first unwilling toilet ghost contestant. I didn't know much about the elderly before she came to stay. I was glad to learn, as I grew older, but the bizarre and uncertain behavior I witnessed that summer had nothing to do with aging and everything to do with her. I was to experience with them to know that grandma didn't act like other old people. She didn't really act like any people at all. She'd say odd things when I was alone in the room with her.

The conversations she and my mom and dad had were nonsensical enough. When I was lying awake in bed at night, I'd hear snippets of arguments between my parents. Sentences like, I know she's your mother, Susan, but she's bar me. Don's death broke her. It's not healthy for Michael. He matters too.

And the doctor said it's early on set. It's only going to get worse, not better, would drift up the stairs. Words and phrases like dementia, louisbody syndrome, and care home, the implications of which I wouldn't understand until I was older. The things grandma used to say to me without my parents around were beyond the adult ramblings of a mind ravaged by a degenerative condition. Even as a kid, I knew the difference between confused nonsense and deliberate, malicious intent. You know, if you tell anyone, I'll come for you.

She hissed at me one afternoon while I was keeping myself occupied with a Lego set on the carpet. If you say a word, I'll come for you and suck out the jelly insides of your precious little eyes through a straw. Another example that my mind can't seem to shake is the morning when mom has a little. had to pop out to the shops. I ended up hiding in my room, carrying under the duvet while she bellowed at me up the stairs. I can take everything from you,

you trembling little meat sack, you sniffling waste of skin. Just be glad you're too small for anything to notice you. As you'd expect, I'd always burst into tears. Mom and Dad would calm me down, trying to soothe me by explaining

at infinitum that grandma was old, that she didn't understand what she was doing, By the time of the incident, I was terrified of her, not just because of the things she'd say directly to me either. The things I caught her saying when she didn't know I was listening creeped me out just as much. This one's no good, draws too much attention, can't move fast, they'll notice.

Need more padding around the mouthparts. Think the male and run suspect the teeth. We'll have to be the female, female past conventional beauty prime can blend. These nonsensical ramblings are all pieces of a puzzle I still don't want to put together. I'm not sure I can stand back to take the whole picture once it's finished, not without snapping at least. Mom and Dad didn't believe my frantic recollections

of the wild and dangerous words I'd ever heard Grandma spouting. They definitely refused to accept my explanation for where the television remote had disappeared to was anything other than a lie to get Grandma out of the house. Because I didn't just catch Grandma saying weird stuff. I caught her eating weird stuff too. It started small. Straight pieces of Lego, old coin she found down the back of the sofa,

any lighters or cigarettes that was foolish enough to leave laying around. I watched to consume all these at one point or another whenever I was left alone in her care. The TV remote was allowed. that took it too far for me. Kids are much more resilient than adults when it comes to the inexplicable untruths bubbling under the surface of reality. The remote was too much, even for a seven-year-old. Mom and Dad had gone somewhere for the evening. I was sitting cross-lake in front of the telly, trying to lose myself in robot wars and drown out the steady barrage

of grotesque threats. We were four weeks into the summer by that point. As much as a word unnerved and rattled me, I'd survived enough of them to have built up a smidgen of tolerance. Here, runt, look at this. Something about a gravelly word was different. They always held undertones of poison. But this time, it wasn't the same snake bite venom as usual. This was a different toxicity. Tainted nectar of the kind, behemoth rainforest plants used to lure unsuspecting hummingbirds into gaping moors. Taken by surprise, I lowered my guard. and turned from the TV. Grandma was leering down at me from her chair.

She was holding the TV remote in one hand, the gnarled nails of the other digging into the arm of Dad's chair. On anyone else's face, her shoveled eyes would have sparkled as a distant malice to match a wide, perfectly symmetrical teeth of her smile. As it was, the dead orb stared at opposite corners of the room. It didn't matter. I knew when Grandma addressed me,

It was only the enamel locked in those granite-colored gums that mattered. I'm not going to be around much longer, runt, she sneered, words still dripping with Trojan malice. You will be pleased to hear that, I'm sure. You pathetic stain on your gene pool. All of them I've encountered, you're the worst. I could feel my bottom lip trembling. As usual, this only seemed to egg her on. I can't solve the indignance of this postule, so unresolved.

undeserving that skin, walking around this backward cesspit, not knowing how insignificant they actually are. Before I could start sobbing, before the fluttering in my lungs could evolve into full-blown panic, she lifted the TV remote. I screamed so loudly, the neighbours on both sides yelled, Keep that damn kid under control. The lower half of a waxy face clicked and shifted. Her jaw extended slowly, the flesh making the groaning, creaking sounds of rubber. dragged across a bed of broken glass.

For a full half a minute, it juttered and protruded until a chin jotted out a full foot from her neck. The inexplicable gaze from her teeth never left my screaming face as she lowered the remote into a gullet. The cement gums

wriggled, puckering and closing the impossibly angular dentistry around a forearm, remote and all, independently of the rest of a motionless face. I continued bawling against the backdrop, of neighbourly complaints as the mouth within a mouth suckled and slavoured at a buried forearm. She pulled the limb out slowly, white teeth leaving deep and perfectly square imprint on a clay

flesh. Not that it would have made any difference to how fast I sprinted up the stairs to my room, but the junkie TV remote in a mucus-covered hand was gone. I refused to leave my room for a week. That was fine by my parents. They didn't believe me anyway. and I was grounded as such. It was exactly seven days from the remote that I plucked up the courage to, in my mind, get back at Grandma. Because, at the end of the week,

when she got out of a chair to ascend the stairs to the bathroom for a weekly shower, I made a decision. Grandma was going to be the next unwilling Toilet Ghost contestant. I'll fully disclose here. I was seven, but I wasn't stupid. I had seen enough daytime TV to know what a heart attack was, and how you shouldn't shock old people because of them. I knew full well the risks of subjecting the lady as old as grandma to the levels of jump scare toilet ghost brought my parents.

I have no shame in admitting I knew this. It's the first and probably only memory I have of deciding to willingly hurt another human being, but a heart attack was kind of the goal. Dad had gone to work in night shift, leaving Mom and I alone with Grandma. I lay in wait by the hole, listening to the stairs creak under the nightmarish woman's massive bulk. I didn't have any problems with stifle giggling over invasion of privacy this time. My mind was focused, sharp. This round of toilet ghost wasn't a friendly match. I never had the balls to play the game with Grandma.

I had had a lot more practice since. my first round against Dad, though. I'd perfected my ghost sounds now. I'd learned how to bend my moans and bounce my haunting whispers off the ten or so inches of ceramic pipes so well that mom nearly didn't get a trousers down in time more than once.

Come on, you freakish old coot, I muttered to myself as I heard the click and swing of the bathroom door opening. Get nice and settled. I'm going to toilet ghost you so bad you wish you never ate that remote. I had to try hard,

not to breathe too loud. A mix of anticipation, nerves and anger had me sucking up whole long falls through each nostril with every tense shift on my diaphragm. My throat filled with the acrid reek of bleach and I almost coughed right at the moment she stood in front of the hole

while doing something or other at the bathroom's sink. She stood for a full five minutes saying nothing and barely moving. I was about a toilet goaster back into Grandpa Don's arms when she took a few steps backwards. The moment her lumbering form came into full view, the cocktail of emotions gave way to one, singular, overpowering feeling, pure, unbridled, terror.

I was too scared to scream. I stared, wide-eyed, tears silently falling down my cheeks, while I bit into my hands so hard I could taste the metallic warmth of open wounds. Grandma's head was empty. Blank voids were all that existed behind her lips and eyes. With each quaking step, her head became more and more deflated, until by the time she stood still, all that existed above a pudgy neck was a near flat mass of skin.

The nightmare I found myself in didn't give time to process this though. It was already lining up the next traumatic mental image it took me years to repress. As I watched, praying that my wimpers were quiet enough to go unnoticed, Grandma's belly opened. A red horizontal line unzipped from her left to right flank, an equator perfectly aligned with a deep crater containing a belly button. The headless torso started to flap and wobble.

Her muttle arms deflated, a wet sucking sound accompanying the slow decompression of each appendage. Then, in a fluid motion, The quivering torso that remained lifted at the belly slit. Something pushed it away, discarding the unwanted flats of human skin like wet tissue paper. When the memories of the next few moments came flooding back to me last night, I puked for a solid hour. The thing that stepped out of grandma's skin shivered.

It's opaque, stone-gray, gelatinous form pulsated until the residual leg arched left at its base form, occupying its human shell had flattened. It heaved and rippled as it bloomed to its full height. The grotesque cylindrical body extended in pulsing spasms until it stood easily at eight feet tall. Its bulb was head rocked and swayed as it stretched long-cramped muscles, the unspeakable anatomy realigning to support the weight of its true form.

The head had no eyes, no nose, no features at all on its slick gray service. save for one. The mouth. The wide, square tooth, and possibly perfect angles of that damn mouth. Folds of glistening white flap puckered around the brilliant white teeth.

From somewhere deep in his throat, three long greenish tongues, each several inches in diameter emerged to probe the air. There were several times the total length of the thing that had worn my grandma by the time they were fully extended. Each of the three appendages,

set about a task. One turned the shower on, and the two others began curling right my grandma's husk. The thing slithered around the room on its slug-like foot whilst the tongues got to work. A pang of disgust rose in my belly, nausea, churning dangerously close to throwing up. I realized, with growing horror that, once a week, this blasphemy against the laws of reality had been emerging to clean my grandmother's skin. While I had been sleeping, it is scrubbed and scraped the only remains of the woman who had birthed my mother. I thought that this whole summer I'd been listening to the running water on the other side of the wall, while those three tongues defiled and preserved a human flesh suit became too much.

I couldn't watch the thrashing, greenish, more-born limbs any longer. I turned away from the hole, expelling everything I'd eaten that day onto the carpet under my bed. By the time I finished, I was spitting up nothing but flex of bile. My chest ached, both from the hurling and from the unstoppable pounding of my panicking heart. Shuddering, drawn by that morbid curiosity, known only to children and psychopaths, and lifted my head and looked back through the hole. There, staring back at me from only ten short inches away, was a set of angular, chalk white teeth.

I'd never heard mum run up the stairs so fast. She down near through the door off its hinges when she burst into the room. She tried to yell above my screams to get through to me. But it was no good. I wouldn't stop screeching about Grandma and the bathroom, pointing at the wall and trying to claw my way as far into her embrace as possible. I begged her to run. I begged her so hard my already horse throat started to burn red roar.

She didn't scoop me up, carrying me downstairs and strap me into the car. She didn't leave a trail of light of fluid and throw a match to the letterbox as she left. She didn't pick up Dad and drive us as far away from the house as we burned it down and the thing inside it. No, Mom did what all good moms do.

She stood up, sat me on the bed, wiped my eyes, and told me how she'd shown me there was nothing to be afraid of. Then, she went into the bathroom. I hid under the duvet the moment I heard a scream. Thankfully, a dying pleas and series of bangs, crashes and organic ripping, squelching sounds that followed didn't last too long. The silence that followed, that cacophony was worse.

I knew Dad wasn't going to be home until morning. After an hour or two, I decided that I had to look out from under the duvet. I'd almost managed to convince myself that I had been asleep, and that it had been a nightmare. One glance at mum's twitching silhouette in the doorway was enough to tell me how wrong I was. I was sobbing uncontrollably under the duvet as I heard a shamble over to the bed. I could feel her stood above me for what must have been hours. I could see daylight from the window outside, piercing to the cheap bedding, when she finally leant down close to where my ear was.

Remember, Runt, if a word of this leaves your filthy parasite lips. We all know. You can imagine the state Dad found me in when he got back from his shift. You can imagine the state he was in when he learned Mom and Grandma had disappeared. They never found remains of either of them. By the time Dad got home, the thing had managed to clean the bathroom. I don't know what it did with Grandma's skin, but the flashbacks of that protruding jaw and square teeth puckered around a forearm gave me a solid guess

They found mom's car by the coast Eventually they gave up looking for a body I still remember the gentle-mannered police officer consoling my crying father after informing him that they had to assume mom Overcome with grief over the dementia had taken grandma so they could walk out to sea together Swallowed up by the waves as he was with grief. The rest of my life was exactly as you'd expect. Counseling and trauma therapy were a big part of it. I told everyone, especially that what I'd seen. Nobody believed me, which is probably why I've been allowed to live so long. I was told by the army of doctors, therapists, counselors and

the like that it was a false memory created by my mind to cope with the horrific events that actually took place. For a few happy decades, I managed to believe that too. The truth of that night in my mind throughout my adult life has been that Mom had told me we were going to the coast and had been very upfront about what for. She tried to take me by force and even bit me during a psychotic break. At some point I passed out from fear. Worrying she'd kill me in her adult state, she then drove off to the coast of Grandma without me. All was going well. After a rocky adolescent and early twenties, I'm 30 now and married, have stable employment, a home, a life, a nice, normal life. At least it was, until last night. Because last night, when we were watching

a news segment about the UN Climate Crisis Summit, I saw them at the back of a crowd of suited dignitary and politicians. A set of perfectly square, impossibly white teeth, grinning from between pudgy, wax and lips. Pudgy waxing lips and a face that I recognised.

A face that hadn't changed much at all since 1998, aside from a slight greying of the skin and a new angular smile. It was mom. The memories came flooding back all at once. Like I said, I puked for an hour.

Kath, my wife was worried. As soon as I could stop retching, I explained it all to her. Grandma, Mom, that smile, the thing that wore both their skins. Kath's jaw dropped. I thank God she believes me, and that, unlike Mom,

she's agreed to drive to the remotest place we can find. She's agreed to go off grid with me, agreed to hide away from the monster she's never seen up close, but knows in her bones is real. Why does she believe me, you ask? Simple. The second, I collapsed into a sobbing heap

at my story's climax. My phone buzzed. It was seeing the colour drain from my face faster than she ever had that prompted Kath to snatch it from my hands. Her reaction was worse. I had to hold her for a solid two hours once it managed to stop her trying to barricade herself inside the kitchen cupboard.

I'd received a picture message from a private number It was a picture of Kath and I in our living room Taken from right outside the front window That night, judging by a clothing With a single sentence attached We told you, we'd know if you told Runt I don't think that's what's centre of the edge though

I think what's centre of the edge Is what we also saw in that photo Our living room runs from the front to the back of the house If you looked in on our front window You could see our back garden through the sliding glass doors What made convincing Kath so easy Was that in the photo You could clearly see a wide set of white

Square teeth Learing at the back of her heads From the pitch black garden Thank you.