CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I used to work at an NSFL video store" Creepypasta

Episode Date: August 13, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by TheCrookedBoy: https://www.reddit.com/r/ManiacSociet...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"- 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-

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com. We called it snuffing my day, but I figured I'd update my language for the internet crowd. Most people are familiar with the acronym NSFW. It stands for not safe for work. That one is usually stamped over nudity,

etc. to keep you're not supposed to. NSFL is one step up from that. It means not safe for life. From what I understand, it's usually tagged over images or videos of a highly upsetting nature. Take an execution video, for example, some unlucky schmuck getting flayed alive or chains or apart while it's still screaming, or machete hacked limb for limb by guys in black masks. You'll see the NSFL's

tag before you know to stay away. Ever wonder. Ever who those videos are made for? Of course you have. And the answer probably sends you meat running cold and a flash of goosebumps sprouting up over your skin. They're made for teachers, parents, friends, bus drivers, politicians, bankers. They're made for people who get off on it. People who feel a warm tingle down south at the size of a serrated knife running through an unbutated neck, the great rush of the blade, the gurgle of the dying. It gets them hot and bothered. People love it. Nowadays, you can find most of it on the internet. Animals being thrown, tortured live drowned. All of that stuff is just a few clicks away. But back in the 90s and early 2000s, it was harder to come by.

Rare stuff, like a foreign movie you'd been itching to see that hadn't gotten a American release. These were foreign films to some. Exotic is maybe a better word. Either way, I didn't realize there was such a market for the depraved until I took a job at Video Kingdom, a local video store on the outskirts of Seattle. I'm hesitant to tell you exactly where. It closed down right around the time the economy imploded, but I'm fairly certain some of our old stock might be hidden away in the dungeon. That's what we called our backroom. Some guy, usually some white-collar sap, with a Ned Flanders haircut and three kids at home. He'd trundle up to the counter, looking around like there might be FBI crouched behind the VHS racks, and he'd say,

I'm here to rent a rare film, the dungeon by Carl Hinton. There'd be an exchanging of glances, and look him up and down. pretend like I was sizing the fellow up, you know. He scanned the place nervously, look back at me with an almost apologetic expression that said, I swear I'm not messed up. I'd shrug and lead him through the velvet curtain into the back room. We'd navigate boxes of VHS rentals. I'd pull aside an industrial shelf that concealed a hidden doorway, leading down a flight of stairs, neon lights from a kitchie, the dungeon sign guiding the way. We'd hit a subterranean level And the fellow's eyes

To turn to saucers A hard on tending his pants As he wandered into our sicko's paradise Welcome to the dungeon I bet you're picturing some dimly lit hellhole Stashed with Black Unmarked videotapes Not this place

This was a classy establishment Carpeted, paneled walls lounge chairs Dimly lit sure But like a cigar lounge dimly lit We had back rooms with TVs, The clients could taste whatever they had chosen A vast array of tapes.

There were dozens of categories, like any regular video store, featuring everything under the sun. We had a whole section dedicated exclusively to people being run over by steamrollers. They were scoured from all over the world, I was told. Mostly Eastern Europe, Asia. I took it as gospel.

I hadn't watched any of this stuff. It should be noted. that anything related to kids was forbidden. that was where we drew the line. And if some guy came asking for that, we'd send a few heavies to his house with knuckle-dusters and order to maim. We were scrupulous, a morally inclined organisation. But everything else?

Fair game. I know you're probably thinking I'm some mentally warped scumbag drifting through life one sort of video after the next. You'd be wrong. I never watched the take. never joined up to sell him either. I didn't know what I was getting myself into. I was 22 the summer I started working at video kingdom and by the time Halloween rolled around the owner of the place had me roped into a sixth scheme. By that point I was in too deep to get out. He had me by the scruff with an ugly knife tucked up against my jugular, metaphorically speaking. I'm going to spare you the story of how I got involved. It's long and boring. and surrounds me, while smoking weed while smoking, after work.

The story of how it quit is much more interesting. I'm here to rent a rare film, he said. The dungeon by Carl Hinton. I could tell this guy was bad news. He looked like he was grown somewhere dark and moist. A basement dwelling freaksoid, crusty, slightly overweight, enough grease in his hair to keep the McDonald's fire running for a year. Big Van Helsing style leather.

Van-style leather-coats. Unlike most folks, he wasn't nervous either. He was confident, smug even. I could tell he was a veteran. That gave me pause. I was sharing air with no run-of-the-mill freak. This guy was one step away from making his own tapes. If only I'd known, I would have said, sorry, sir, we don't carry that. That's what we fed to unscrupulous figures. It was at the clerk's discretion. We had carte blanche to turn away anyone we wanted. But I didn't. I gave him the up-down. He never broke eye contact. His eyes were bright, amused.

They were alive, like two black pools of oil, just waiting for a spark. I swallowed. Right this way, I said. He knew his way around the door. dungeon. That was odd. I never seen this guy before. And if he'd been a regular, I'd have known. There were a few other people browsing. One guy who looked like a wet muskrat, another who was at least 400 pounds. There was a woman too, a real dominatrix type, of his six feet, heart features, prim hairdo. My guy didn't spare a glance at any of them. He hurried to the vault. That was what we

called the old-the-the-choole-the-court tucked into the back-of-the-door. It had a wheel-handle with a combination dial in the centre. All that remained of the bank that used to live here. I'd never been through the vault door, didn't even know what was on the other side. I honestly thought it was just there for decoration, for atmosphere.

In my six months as an employee of Video Kingdom, this was the first time I'd ever seen it open. The guy spun the combination, hiding his activity behind a cupped arm, like that annoying kid in class who will let you copy of his test. I heard a heavy click. He cranked the handle, and the vault door weased open. The skeevy guy slipped inside, slamming it shut before I got a good look at what stood beyond. It nagged the hell out of me, like an itch you can't scratch.

I had to know what was beyond that door, but I knew better than to ask questions in a place like this. I was the highest paid video store clerk in the world for a reason. I could have gone to Carl. Carl, as in the dungeon by Carl Hinton. Fake name, obviously, but a real enough guy. He was short, big personality, like a Danny DeVito type. I had only met him a few times, but he'd always treated me like a son. Slaps on the back, musseling my hair.

Hell, he even called me, son. But I didn't go to Carl, because, asking questions. The questions meant I was curious, and you don't get curious, unless you're interested in the merchandise. So, I decided to check it out on my own. Christmas Eve, slowest night of the year, I was clerking the dungeon while my colleague ran the upstairs. It had been empty for a while, so I decided to take a peek. Had I known the guy from a few months ago would be showing up, that when I first saw enter the vault, I would have kept my ass gloom.

to the chair. I wouldn't have gotten curious. What was the damn combination? I tried a few random spins. 11, 12, 63. JFK's assassination. 0420, 1998, Hillers' birthday. No dice. The vault was locked down. I thought, racked my brain. Then it hit me like a freight train. The Kissinger tape. That was one of our videos I'd seen. Carl made all the newcomers watch it. It was the first known snuff film. It was like the Santa Claus of the forbidden VHS community. A white whale, rare and iconic. Anyone who's familiar with it and worth their scruff can tell you what day it was filmed on. That was easy. Thanksgiving, 1929. I remember watching it for the first time. A sepia-tone nightmare, a galaxy of grain

across each gory frame. I won't tell you what's on it. Well, what the hell? It stars a family of depression-era farmers tied up in their field. Ma, pa, grandma, grandpa, and two gangly teenage boys on the wrong end of their horse-palled plow. Story goes, that there's some beef

with one of the big corporations who earn their land. That was how the man got you back then. You sold to move your land for loans to buy seeds away. whatever, and once you took the loans, there was no getting out from under them. The corporations would twist and squeeze until you own nothing but the clothes on your back. Parr was clever, figured it out, started crawling up all the farmers in a union to expose the banks. Banks didn't like that, so they hired some outside hands to make an example. And it was made at 24 frames per second.

Now, here I was, some 50 years later. spinning their death date on a dial. I spun to 29 and heard a satisfying click. It had worked. My hand was shaking, trembling a little. Shot with adrenaline, I gripped the vault handle. Spun the wheel. Thunk.

The bolt door weased open. Stale air and darkness spilled out. There was a bucket of flashlights on the floor. I grabbed one and clicked it on. A cone of light shot ahead. illuminating a bank vault. Metal walls crushed in. Pigs drilled into the walls held various weapons. It was like a screwed-up toy box. Guns, knives, razor wire, chainsawes, haxs, pliers, plires, scalples. Everything that cuts and scrapes and plays with nerve endings was hanging from the walls. There was a pit in my stomach, not just at the collection of tools, but at the gaping hole eating through the back wall of the vault. It had been tunneled steel, a narrow, snaking off into the earth.

I inched towards it, hesitant, my heart beating its fist against my eardrums. I grabbed a scalpel off the wall, tucked it into my pockets as I moved into the corridor, figuring I might need a weapon for what loomed ahead. I left the vault door cracked, listening for movement beyond. I didn't hear any. Didn't hear the basement-dwelling guy for the room. from before, didn't hear and follow me into the vault. I had already found my way.

Into the studio by then. The passageway was rocky and claustrophobic, just tall enough so that I didn't have to stoop. After 20 minutes of barking my shins and elbows on the narrow, craggy walls, I hit a dead end. I exhaled, irritated and relieved. A horse race of thoughts had been galloping through my head as to what I might find. I was glad my worst nightmares weren't about to materialise.

Then I looked closer and saw a false panel blocking off the egress. I moved the panel aside and stepped forward, finding myself in a crowded basement space. There was furniture, beds, set pieces stacked high. It was like a prop house that a movie studio might employ for set design. There was a concrete ramp at one end. I hesitated. Not sure I wondered to see what it led to. But of course I did.

I navigated the crowded up the concrete ramp. It fed me into a soundstage. That was a wide warehouse like space with soundproofed walls and a network of dead overhead lights surrounding a number of different movie sets.

There was a pink bedroom and executive type office an outdoor start scene in a mock forest. There were a few others I couldn't quite decipher from my vantage. It was quiet. And then it wasn't. There was a delicate sound

Like an animal caught in a snare A slight whimpering laced into the silence. My whole body felt empty Like it was encased in drying concrete. It was hard to move, breathe. I inch toward the noise, Hyper aware of every movement, Every crash thud of my heart,

each breath soaring through my lungs. I nose toward the wimpers and saw cages resolve out of them. Lots of them. A dozen, inside. Inside, like tired, broken animals, were men and women, naked, cuffed, ball-gagged, curled up in a soup of their own filth. Most limp, unconscious. A few were bleary, nodding in and out of consciousness, as whatever drugs they were on wore out. An icy bolt of dread shot through me. We weren't just the supplier of red tapes, weren't just a distributor. We were a producer. Carl Hinton made our videos, most of them at least. I heard footsteps behind me, started to turn. Thud. Something hard and blunt cracked across my skull.

A light ball popped behind my eyes. I crashed down into darkness. I knew my hands and legs were restrained, even before I opened my eyes. I could feel the cuffs digging into my flesh. My eyes eased open. Blinding light hammered my pupils. A violent white light from overhead. Hurt my eyes stung them. Slowly, a movie set resolved around me. It was a page office, crowded with paperwork and boxes of VHS tapes.

I recognized it immediately. A facsimile of Car's Office, an exact detail-for-detail replica. A camera locked off in one corner, trained on me. I looked down at myself. I was still in my work uniform. Hands and legs fettered to a bolted down chair. I struggled, groaned, heard hushed voices. My back was to the door, so I had to fight in my seat for enough leverage to look around. The door opened. Carl Hinton entered. For an instant, I saw past him into the door. the area beyond the greasy, I saw the suit, who was handing over her stuffed duffel bag. Then the door swung shut, and Carl took his place behind the desk.

Sorry it had to be this way, son, he said sadly, but it would have ended here either way. We don't do severance or 401k at Video Kingdom. He smiled at his little joke, like it was the funniest thing in the world. I tried to ask him what the hell was going on, but I could. couldn't. I was gagged. Muted syllables Kall frowned. Don't bother, kid. You're fired. That's a segment we do from time to time. When the video employees of the dungeon hit expiration, you're fired. We don't stock it at Video Kingdom for obvious reasons,

but I hear it's a big hit in Japan. I struggled against my binds, fought, screamed into my gag. Carl just watched, slightly amused. Go on, They love it. You know they do. You're giving them what they want. I fought harder, rattling my binds until my wrists bled. Carl sighed.

The guy who's gonna fix you as a regular, real vanilla Joe, but he pays well. He all sore open your throat. One and done. You won't suffer. I screamed something into my gag. He smiled, piecing together my question. Nobody will come look. You're producing your paperwork, so it'll look like he got fired two weeks ago.

I liked you, kid. I really did. Sorry, it had to be like this. He got up and left. I struggled for a while, not sure how long. At some point, the guy in the suit passed through the room like a cold draft. A real plain guy. Might tell insurance, maybe real estate.

Probably has a wife and a few pups back at home. Maybe a pool. He fingered the camera. A red recording light blinked on. With a sigh that said, sheesh, this is not the position I want to be in. He claimed a spot behind the desk, pretending to be my boss. He was practically vibrating with excitement as he started through a poorly written script about how my employment was being terminated. I didn't hear any of it. I was focused on something else. The scalpel I tucked into my back pocket. My hands grazed the handle just out of reach. I strained harder, vaguely aware that the guy was done talking. He was now rising, producing a big bowie knife with a serrated blade. He was walking over to me.

I could smell his after shave. Something minty. I got the scalpel between the tips of my fingers. He yanked my head back, exposed to my neck, getting ready to slice through the big net of veins pumping blood into my brain. The bowie knife went up. The scalpel slid out, slipped, fell. I reached out, caught it in time. The bowing knife came down. I saw a wink of light of its polished blade. I gripped the scalpel and stabbed. It was a blind stab, inhibited by my lack of wrist movement. But it was right behind me and standing crotch level within the arc of my swing. The scalpel sung through hot flesh. I felt it burrow through skin and gristle. I felt it pull. as it sunk further in. When he screamed, the bowing

trembling, I knew I caught him in the balls. I fumbled the scalpel, nearly dropped it. It was greasy with blood and fluid. I got my grip on it, plunged it into the handcuff lock. It worked. Click. The handcuffs sprung, fell away. The suit was rolling around, gripping his groin. Blood roared through his fingers as he was howling. Agony. I bent down for my leg fetters as the door flew open. Carl and the basement dweller tried to rush in the same time.

They got stuck in the doorway. It was a bit of slapstick, which would have been comical, and had not been on the wrong end of a snuff movie. My leg fetters fell free. By now, Carl and the basement dwelling Van Helsing had stormed the room. My scalpel flew up, caught Van Helsing and the jugular. He flopped back, a great spray of arterial blood shooting from his neck. Carl grabbed me, shoved me back. We hit a wall. Framed pictures of the ocean hit the floor and shattered.

Carl throttled my neck, his knuckles digging in and sealing off my windpipe. I stabbed blindly. The scalpel went through his cheek with a sickening ease. I ripped up. I missed the blood sneezed out as I opened his face like a zipper. He grunted, howled, lost his grip on my neck. His hands went up to his face, trying to wrench free the scalpel embedded there. I planted my foot in car's stomach And kicked with everything I could muster He flew back T-upling ass over a teacettle over his desk

I heard bones break The room was a mess of screams and blood I popped the VHS tape out of the camera And bolted for freedom As I was about to stuff it in my pocket When my gaze caught the duffel bag I had seen the suit hand over I ripped it open

I was met with cash Lots of it Enough to run away on enough to start anew. I shoved in the VHS and grabbed the duffel, never looking back. I don't know if any of them survived, but I do know Video Kingdom remained open. It held its spot in the Seattle Yellow Pages until it closed.

I would send for the local Yellow Pages each year, have them mail it to my little corner of America, along with a newspaper, which I would pour over for articles about my old boss. I never saw any. Since then, my world is limited to a quiet cabin in the woods, and my weekly trips to town for essentials. Otherwise, I keep to myself, always looking over my shoulder, always carrying the guilt over those men and women I left behind. Guilt over the things I haven't done about what I've seen.

You probably think I would have gone to the police. I didn't. I took the tape and ran. had I had I would have lost, I would have lost, I'd have lost, against the people who wanted me dead. That VHS is my bargaining chip. All I have left. After I escaped the dungeon, I mailed an anonymous letter to Video Kingdom,

telling them I'd made copies, which would be screening in every police precinct in Seattle, if I were ever harmed. This was a lie. There was only one copy of the tape. and it was hiding in my bed, along with the little cash I had left. I started this transcript, because I've been seeing strange things lately. Fresh faces in town, SUVs with tinted windows. I can't help but feel.

They're following me, watching. And sometimes, if I stare at those tinted windows long enough, I can see the eye of a video camera. on the other side.