CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I was a filmmaker working on government cover ups" Creepypasta

Episode Date: January 12, 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►https://www.instagram.com/that_space_...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-

I'm just to have Amsterdam, why? I'm forget how a towopriked. Doi! Toi! Toh!

With Eurocity direct, though? 16 times per day from out Brussels and in 2-hour. Now, from 19 euro in place of 25. Book you tickets on NMBS International.com.

The festival season is aangbroken, and that betekent Modder. And so, came Kim to Amazon.com. com.

On look to a waterdict tent, a comfortable lugbet, oh, so, and Lupertprint regalarese. Miao. Now, now, now,

now, know what you know about the modder, just like that man that, oh, wait just even, only mudder on?

Oh yeah, only mudder. Drogobleve? Goar for. Find what you know you need on Amazon.com. There are a lot of things about being old

that are absolutely garbage. Every day, a new part of me seems to hurt. And I have one speed, slow. But there is a sense of liberation. I find out of liberation. feel free to tell the truth. After so many years of being tormented by lies, I can't begin to tell you how good this feels.

The first lie, the one that began it all, came in a small, windowless room in an anonymous-looking office block. I was fresh at a film school. I was ambitious, bursting with ideas. I was ready for success. I was also thousands of dollars in debt. I needed a job and when I saw an advert for a filmmaker role my depressing visions of stacking shelves

or serving burgers and fries faded away it was described as working with a new company based in a city near my home the starting salary was sweet more than enough for me to begin digging myself out of my financial hole and candidates had to have experience working on documentaries

as I sat in that small room I thought of the film scripts I had written of the dramatic short I directed of the way my imagination had always been praised by my tutors I was all about the fictional the door opened and two men walked in

they both wore beige suits and neither had a necktie I could not decide if I was overdressed or underdressed in my denim shirt and skinny black tie I thanked me for coming today and beige suit number one began the interview by asking, How would you sum up your filmmaking?

I am all about the documentary, I replied. He smiled. I was acing this. Bayesuit number two then asked, how can you describe your most recent filmmaking project to us? I thought back to my short, girl meets boy, boy meets alien, love is strange. Then I answered,

I recorded the life of a young man over the course of 24 hours. I wanted to show the truths that society forces men to mask, their insecurity, their pain, their weakness. I was pretty pleased with that off-the-cuff fiction. I gave myself nine out of ten. It looked like both base suits were impressed. Bayesuit number one asking, how long was the finished film? Bay suit number two falling straight afterwith. Is there anything you did not have?

include any truths I were too raw. Thinking on all ten of my toes at once, I went right back to them with 90 minutes and no. The faces fell as one. Two mouths drooped. Two heads leant forward and both made notes.

Damn, I thought. What had I said wrong? 90 minutes was long for TV but would be acceptable in an independent cinema. It must have been my second answer. I smiled, putting myself on the other side of the imaginary camera for once, putting my acting skills on the fore and said, Of course, the truth is relative. One eyebrow perked up, another followed. Tell us more, they said in unison.

So, I did. I talked and I talked and I talked. A few hours later, I was signing a contract. It must have been 20 pages long and I was shown four different places to sign, which I duly did. I was thinking of the beer I would drink that night. The car I would be able to get on higher purchases the next day, the girls I would impress. I was only vaguely aware of one of the bay shoots gathering up the contract's papers and placing them in a suitcase. He left one sheet on the desk. Helpfully, I picked it up and held it out to him.

He shook his head. That's your copy, he said. A reminder. I grinned as if I knew what he was talking about. And, after shaking hands, I left holding my piece of paper. I read it on the bus back to my apartment for something to do. It had my signature on the bottom. On the top, it read,

Official secrets act. I felt queasy by the time I went home. I did not want to spend the rest of my life. life in prison, so made a solemn promise to myself that I would do as a piece of paper instructed and never breathe a word about what I did for my new employers, not sober, not drunk, not trying to impress even the prettiest girl into bed. My lips were sealed no matter what I was asked to film. No problems here, I told myself, and began to drink. The next morning, the boss rattled and swayed as I headed back to the office for the first day of my new,

job. I hoped it would be an easy one. A few introductions, a gentle brainstorming session, an early finish. I got off the bus and went to reception. I signed in, was given a security pass and told a report to the parking lot out the back. I headed there and my heart sank when I saw one of the beige-suited men from my interview loading camera equipment into a truck. He waved at me and said, look lively, we need to be on location with cameras rolling in an hour's time. I swallowed down bile. Great, I said. The suspension on the truck made the bus seem like a smooth glide over greenfields.

The throb in my head became a jackhammer, and my stomach bubbled and cramped and felt like it was going to go full erupting volcano on me at any moment. To this day, I do not know how I did not project off on it, but I made it. and was left unpacking the equipment while beige walked up to the house we had parked outside and pressed on the buzzer. We had already buzzed through a tall security gate and driven up a winding driveway. I paused the wiped sweat from my brow and silently cursed bros of beer everywhere and looked up at the house. House was actually an insult. This place was a mansion.

It was three stories high with ornate pillars. on either side of the door and looked immaculate. Heaven help any bird that dared crap on these walls, I thought, and followed beige through the now open doors. My arms loaded with the tools of the filmmaker's trade. Inside was even more impressive. Wooden floors polished within an inch of their lives, paintings that look like they belonged in museums,

and statues. Real for goodness statues. I almost fell over a trailing cable I was carrying while gauping at one of a semi-naked lady playing on a loot. Eventually we reached a massive room with a mahogany table at its centre. A white-haired man was sitting at it, pouring over a sprawling pile of paper. Bage stood silently. I tried not to drop anything. The man, thankfully for my aching arms, looked up.

A familiar smile spread across a familiar face I am not going to go as far as the name the man I now recognised I do not think it would be fair to his family but I will say that beige nodded differentially and said Good morning Senator And a fine morning it is The man replied and emerged from behind his desk to come and shake hands with both of us He wore a white suit that probably cost me

more than the camera and sound gear I now placed on the floor. Whoever did the floors had possibly also given his face a polish. He sparkled and chuckled as he said. So you've come to show the good people of this state how I spend my days? We certainly have, Bage replied and turned to me, as if I knew exactly what was meant to happen next. The senator saved me. Shall we start with a shot of me doing work at my death?

He said. It was one of those questions which really wasn't a question. Bays grinned. Sounds perfect. Now, up to speed, I began to set up the equipment. The rest of the day passed in set-up after set-up as we recorded a senator, meeting visitors, chatting with his head gardener, making an important phone call, mimed and from three different angles,

and standing looking thoughtfully out the window. We had brought no lighting with us, and when beige and the senator agreed a shot of him, closing a folder, holding a document he had just signed, and putting the top on his gold fountain pen would be fantastic. I had to point out the light levels would not work. Bage glared at me, but the senator looked wise, an expression I had seen slip on and off his face with a remarkable ease all day, and said,

Tomorrow is another day. and that, as they say, was a wrap. I was left to pack up and manhandle everything back to the truck. A couple of hours later, I was back on the bus, a snoring man drooling on my shoulder. I was smiling from ear to ear. I was a professional filmmaker. So what if it was a vanity project? It was a beginning and I daydreamed all the way home about my first.

feature opening in the years to come and the rave reviews that would follow. Maybe, I wondered, the Senator might want to finance it, or point me in the direction of his wealthy friends with a hearty recommendation that, this young man is hugely talented. He always ensures I was beautifully lit. I woke early the next morning and arrived at the office before Beige. We returned to the Senator's mansion, but it turned out he had called away on urgent business. We took some exteriors while we were there and then set off for the next assignment. As we headed along roads I did not recognize, I asked Bage what we would be filming. Channeling the senator, he looked sage and he replied,

Son, one lesson about working for the government is not to ask questions. If you need to know, when you need to know, someone will tell you. Makes life much simpler, I assure you. To tell the truth, stupid as it makes me look, I not realised up to that point that I was working for the government. The official Secret Act document I had signed and not specified this and my head had been packed with too many other things to work it out for myself. The new start-up in the advert had been baloney then.

Not a problem, I decided, because I was a professional, filmmaker. What sweet words those were. After about 30 minutes, we left the main road and followed a track through verdant countryside until we pulled up next to a small river. We need to get a series of close-ups of the water, Bays told me. We want to capture its natural beauty. Can do, I answered and got out the equipment. The water was crystal clear and rich with darting fish. The sunlight glinting of its surface was perfect. I gave beige a thumbs up and, shot in the can, we were soon back on the move.

We stayed on quiet roads until we reached a high wire fence topped with curling steel barbs. An armed security guard stepped out of the booth and asked the CRID before opening the gate to let us in. From bucolic to barbed wire, I thought, but kept my mouth shut. no questions I remembered we passed through two more checkpoints before we reached our destination I recognised it from news articles it was a new power plant

funded with multi-millions from the government it was about the ugliest thing I'd ever seen and my good spirits dipped as I was asked and filmed a series of exteriors next came an interview with the plant manager conducted as he took us on the tour of the inside of the concrete and steel monstrosity.

With that wrapped, we were heading back to the truck and I noticed the small river running behind the plant. Absent-mindedly, I wandered over to it. I was sickened to see the water was filthy and a dead fish floating on the surface. I realized Bage was standing behind me when he said, When we get back to the office, you'll let it in the other river. I spent round.

What he was asking was appalling. He smiled and said, Mom and Poppin Jr. don't want to see dead fishes in the evening bulletin when they are hoovering up their meatballs, and much preferred to think their taxes are making the world a better place. They'll sleep much better. He stepped closer to me, almost touching, and added, Do you see?

It was another, was a question, wasn't a question. And I did not argue. And from that moment, I was complicit. I told myself many times over the weeks that followed that I was doing this on my terms, that I was gaining experience and making contacts and building up a portfolio. But in truth, I was part of the machine that covered up unpalatable truths with sugar-coated films. I recorded government officials supervising the handing out of food parcels in a poverty-stricken district,

all filmed out on a lot near the office, with actors playing the grateful recipients of the aid. I shot a film about a government workshop with a long-term unemployed learnt new skills. From their glazed eyes, I could tell they'd been given dope before the camera rolled. These, and many more, left me feeling disgusted with myself. By the time we rolled up back at the Senator's mansion, I'd almost forgotten that first day of filming. I drapeze inside, carrying the equipment, and wondering if he knew what was happening. With his power, and reach, he must have, I decided. Maybe it was even his idea.

I set up in the grand dining room as I had been instructed. Bezier told me we were here to film the senator dining with his wife. We were going to capture a simple scene that families across the state would recognize and then he headed off, telling me he was going to let the senator know

we would be ready for him in ten minutes. I glanced up at the ornate candelabra and worked out my anger so it would not be in the shot. Perhaps I get editing footage of a lethargic lava lamp later to make the scene look more down to earth. I smiled bitterly, I was checking the sound levels when she walked in.

She was beautiful. Her dark, orb and hair was loose over her shoulders and she wore an elegant black dress. I stood there, feeling very naive and young, as she made her way across the room to a drink's cabinet. She started to pour a drink I'm not going to ask you if you want one She said

I know it won't be allowed She turned then And sipped on a drink And I noticed the bruising around her eye The cut on her lip I assume with some clever lighting And editing you can make these disappear she said

Or do I need more makeup I realised I'd been staring And looked away embarrassed She smiled sadly and poured herself another drink. I suppose you think I'm pathetic. She asked, her wife living off a wealthy husband

and putting up with this. She reached up and touched the mouth. I don't think that, I managed to say. I was shocked and angry. She looked into a drink, swirled the amber liquid around. It's not always been like this.

He was sweet and loving when we first married. But as his career soared, He had changed. He was always ambitious, but now he is driven by pure greed, for the finest food, which he gorges himself on, for the best wines which he drinks until he passes out, and for pain. He smiles when he hits me. He smiles his favourite smile, which he turns on for the cameras and the crowds.

She lowered her hand. It's wrong. He shouldn't hit you. No one should. She finished a drink. and we stood there in silence. I felt lost. What could I do?

Suddenly, I knew. I reached out, took the camera off the tripod, and hoisted it onto my shoulder. It's time for people to see the truth, I said. I wanted to expose the senator, but for me to do that, she would be exposed as well. She looked at me, and I waited for her answer. And then,

We heard the scream. It was a man's voice, crying out in terror and pain. Neither of us hesitated. We ran towards a sound. It's coming from my husband's office, she said. I turned the camera on. I did not know the new aberration the senator had committed, but I was determined to capture it on film.

I followed her into the office, heard a gasp, saw her body stiffen in shock, before I saw it too, dark liquid pulling on the floor. It was blood, I realised, in a trail that led out through the open French windows into the garden. The camera is still rolling, I followed the trail. Watching the footage afterwards,

as I stepped out onto the grass, the camera began to shake. The image blurs, and then it comes back into focus. And there it is, the man I called beige, His suit stained with blood. The flesh of his neck and his face has been ripped open. Skin and muscle is being pulled upwards and torn away by a creature from a nightmare. Its skin was drawn tight across its bones and its eyes were sunken hollows.

Its mouth hung open and its teeth was ripping at the remains of the dead man cradled in its arms. Its white blood-splattered suit hung off its frame. And still, The camera rolled. I was not even aware I was holding it until she put her hand on my other shoulder. We have to get away, she whispered. I could not reply.

I could barely breathe. Fear held me rooted to the spot. Before he sees us, she said. He, I thought, her husband, the thing he'd become. I began to cry as a terror. of what I was witnessing washed over me in cold waves. She took my arm and led me away,

and all the while the creature gorged and bit and slavoured on its human feast. After this, what happened has stayed with me as moments. The camera had run out of film. My memory shows me flashes. The truck starting with her at the wheel, road signs slipping past, a motel room, me lying sobbing in a lounge,

Then we drive on to a new place, a new anonymous town as we ran away. This was 40 years ago, and every day up to a death last fall, I thought how grateful I was to have met her. We never married, but we lived as a couple sharing everything. We made our home in a cold, distant place, where on winter nights I learned of ancient legends of men corrupted and transformed, of creatures whose hunger can never be sated. I did not pick up a camera again, though I kept my old equipment in a shed, along with reels of film. I am going to carry everything out of the woods, and burn it now. It is time to

rid myself of the past. I am an old man. I am tired, and I want to be. I am to be a bit of the past. I am be able to close my eyes and rest without remembering legends made real.