CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I Was Hired to Keep an Old Woman Awake for 72 Hours" Creepypasta

Episode Date: April 15, 2025

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I found the ad while half asleep hunched over a greasy diner booth, stealing Wi-Fi from the subway next door. I've been scrolling through Craigslist for hours, past the usual flood of, make $500 a day from home scams, and I need a strong man to lift my mattress posts. That night, my bank account was sitting at $32.11. Rent was due in four days.

The ad was buried between someone offering tarot readings and another listing that just said, Free Dirt. Caretaker needed, 72 hours only, no experience necessary, $5,000 flat. No fluff, just that single line followed by. Patient must not fall asleep under any circumstances, all equipment provided. Do not contact us after the job ends. I read it three times. I even closed the tab and reopened it, expecting it to vanish or change into something ordinary.

But it stayed exactly the same. There was an email address, nothing more. I clicked reply and sent a message with one line. I'm interested. The man told me to meet him at a small cafe off a quiet corner of town. It was one of those places. with mismatched mugs, hand-painted tables, and coffee that tasted burnt no matter what blend you ordered. He sat at the far end near the window, a black notebook in front of him, and a cup of tea

that had already gone cold. He stood up when I approached and shook my hand. He introduced himself as Raymond. He wore a dark, well-fitted suit with a cuff-link shaped like a spiral. I could I didn't tell if it was a symbol or just a rich person flourish. You came quickly, he said, motioning for me to sit. I asked who I'd be caring for. He hesitated before answering. My mother, Marjorie, she's very ill. He stared at me for a long time after saying her name, then continued.

She has an unusual condition. Nothing contagious, I assure you, but it's neurological. You won't have to feed her, bathe her, or administer medicine. Just keep her awake, engage her, talk, play music, whatever it takes. The moment she falls asleep, it could. Werson, I nodded, and he exhaled. She was a brilliant woman. woman, he added, taught literature, used to run a little bookshop downtown before it burned down.

She is not herself anymore. She has these spells, fugues, hallucinations, night terrors. They come for her and asleep. He slid a heavy manila envelope across the table. Inside was a thick binder titled Protocol, a black key fob, a prepaid visa card, and a separate envelope with the address scribbled in sharp handwriting. He also included a list of items that had already been delivered to the property, blackout curtains, noise machines, stimulant supplements, and a medical-grade LED therapy light. I asked why he couldn't be there himself. Raymond looked out the window for a few moments before speaking.

She didn't want me to be here. the one, said it will be too hard on me. I've watched the suffer for years. I agreed to honor that. He turned back toward me. Three days. You'll stay in the house the entire time. No visitors, no calls. She has sensitive reactions to outside stimuli. Everything you need is in the binder. Follow it exactly. He slid a phone across the table, cheap and prepaid, with one contact saved. Ah. Only use this if things go completely wrong, he said.

Otherwise, you won't hear from me again. After the conversation, I had my doubts. But Raymond had already given me a debit card and a phone, so I didn't have much to lose. My first destination was the local grocery store. I'd never even tried staying up 72 hours, so I was in dire need of some energy drinks. The house sat at the top of a steep hill on the edge of town, wedge between two long abandoned properties. I wouldn't have noticed it, if not for the number painted faintly on the mailbox in flaking gold. The path up was cracked, great.

grass growing through every seam. A row of wind chimes hung silently from the porch, though there wasn't a breeze in sight. Inside, everything was quieter than I'd anticipated. No birdsong through the windows. I noticed that every clock in the house had stopped. One at 1203, one at 315, another at 424. The windlass in the house had stopped. The windlass at 12.03, one at 315, another at 424. The windows had thick, boarded nails over them from the inside, sealed tight. Light came from tall standing lamps in every room, all of them humming faintly. Marjorie sat in a faded recliner in the living room, beneath a painting of a forest

that had no path through it. Her body looked smaller than it should have been, curled in on itself, skin like, like parchment, pulled tight over brittle bone. Her hands trembled on her lap, but her eyes were sharp, vivid, and almost too aware. She didn't speak at first. Just watch me cross the room, the way you might watch someone approach your hospital bed with a needle in hand. I introduced myself and explained why I was there. Her mouth moved a little, but no sound came out. I assumed she was mute.

I was halfway through, unsipping my duffel bag, when I heard her voice. Quiet, dry, but laced with something that caught in my chest. I heard about you from Raymond, she said. I hope I won't be too much of a bother for you. Her voice didn't match her body. It wasn't weak, not completely. It had something else in it. Resignation.

Maybe loneliness. I stood there for a second, not sure what to say. Then I just nodded and smiled. It's no bother, I told her. I'm here to help. She smiled back. The next 72 hours would be the longest of my. life. The first few hours passed. I set up the equipment just as the binder instructed.

One of the tall lamps flickered at the edge of the living room, but I didn't touch it. Raymond had underlined several warnings in the protocol. Do not move the lights. Do not unplug anything. Do not let it close arise for more than 15 seconds. I double-checked the countdown timer I had taped above the kitchen threshold. 71 hours and 44 minutes to go. Marjorie surprised me. She was sharper than I expected. Thoughtful, sometimes even funny.

She told me about a book she tried to write in her 30s, something about a lighthouse that only appeared in dreams. She asked where I grew up, what music I liked, if I believed in anything after death. She didn't speak constantly, but when she did, she spoke with a stillness that made every word feel chosen. She didn't complain when I read out loud or when I played soft music. Her favourite was the cello, said it reminded her of something. Not sad exactly, more worn out.

As midnight approached, I noticed her start to fidget. Her hands wrung the blanket. it across her knees, her gaze darted to all the corners of the room. Do you mind turning that one on too? She asked, pointing to a lamp I hadn't noticed, took behind a dusty bug shelf. I turned it on. She nodded, but didn't thank me. After a while, she started whispering under a breath.

I leaned closer, thinking she was asking for water. But it wasn't. that. Her voice moved through the same sentence again and again, barely audible. Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me, stay with me. It started around 2 a.m. I had stepped into the kitchen for just a second to heat up water. When I came back, Marjorie's eyes were closed. Her head tilted toward a shoulder, breathe. slow. I panicked, rushed over, clapped my hands, called her name. She jolted upright with a gasp that echoed through the room. Her eyes were wide, filled with fresh panic.

I didn't mean to, she said. I didn't mean to. I just, please don't let it out. Before I could ask what she meant, I noticed the lamp beside the bug shelf had gone out. Completely dead. I touched it and felt a thin line of heat coming off the base. Something else caught my eye. The shadows in the corners had shifted. They seemed to ripple ever so slightly when I looked directly at them. They didn't retreat with the light. They moved when Marjorie blinked. When she closed her eyes again, even for a moment, the darkest part of the room pulsed, like they were breathing with her. I lifted the edge of the rug beneath her recliner to fix a frayed corner.

That was when I saw them. Thin black streaks burned into the hardwood, curving into spirals. It wasn't smoke damage. It looked older than the wood itself, buried into the grain. Marjorie reached out and grabbed my wrist. Don't look too long, she said. It notices when you pay attention. I wanted to leave the room, just to breathe.

But I stayed. I pulled a stool closer to her chair and sat beside her, rubbing my face with both hands. She leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling. If I fall asleep, she whispered, It gets out. It's always been with me since I was a child. It waits until I slip. And then it starts clawing. She didn't say much for the next hour. Just stared, glassy-eyed, toward the blank television screen. I tried to distract her with conversation, but she ignored me.

Then, out of nowhere. She began speaking again, this time to herself more than to me. My mother died in that same chair, she said. She told me the truth right before she passed, said it lived in her dreams that it would move up to me next, said I would understand when it happened. And I did. I woke up screaming that night. I couldn't even remember why. I dreamed.

But it was there, in my head, at the foot of my bed, in the seams of the walls. A voice wavered, but she kept talking. I never had children. I never wanted to pass this thing on. I thought if I just stayed alone, if I just endured it, then it would die with me. But I was wrong. It grows stronger. I feel it every time I close my eyes.

Her hands trembled, not from age, from fear. I could feel it in the air. I've kept it trapped by never really sleeping, never letting it root itself deep. But I'm no longer the young, strong person I was before. I've grown old and weak, and it knows. It's watching me lose. She looked up at me then, her eyes shining with tears. I just do not want this to curse anybody else.

I didn't know what to say. I reached out, unsure if she would take my hand. But she did. Her grip was frail but steady. She wept out of grief and exhaustion. I stayed quiet. I haven't known peace in so long, she said, just the waiting and the struggling. She didn't ask for comfort, didn't want to be told it was going to be all right.

She knew better than I did. Outside, the wind picked up for the first time since I arrived. One of the boards on the window creaked. Something in the walls shifted. too slow to be the house settling. Marjorie didn't flinch. She just whispered again. Stay with me, and I did.

The following day passed without a hitch. The energy drinks were working, but I could tell sleep was starting to creep in. However, the second night was worse in every way. My head throbbed from. From the constant buzz of the standing lamps and caffeine, my vision swam in and out of clarity. Every blink felt heavier than the last, like my own body was rooting for failure. Marjorie hadn't slept either, not for more than a few seconds at a time.

Her eyes were bloodshot, her voice more brittle than before. She had started to mutter nonsense. Sometimes it sounded like poetry. Other times, her words strung together with a logic that made my stomach tighten. She spoke in voices that weren't hers. A deep, guttural tone slipped out once, so low I felt it in my bones. Then later, her mouth twisted into a wide grin, and she giggled with the voice of a little girl. Are you scared yet?

She asked. or what I thought was her. She didn't remember saying it. By 3.30 a.m., I had started to hear things upstairs. There was no second floor, just an attic I had not dared to check. The footsteps weren't horrid or loud, but they paced back and forth. I knew better than to call out. Three minutes later, every light in the house.

shut off at once. The buzz died. The air turned cold. I didn't move. Couldn't. The only sound left was Marjorie's breathing, slow and uncertain, and the soft creek of wood under something heavy.

She looked at me through the darkness. Her face glowed faintly in the absence of light, not from any lamp or candle. Her eyes had taken on a sheen, faintly reflective, barely visible, like something was seeing through her. Marjorie closed her eyes for a single moment, and before I could think to wake her up, something caught my attention. The thing appeared above us, clinging to the ceiling like it had always been there. Its limbs didn't bend in the way they should have. There were too many of them, long and thin, like someone had built it out of smoke and bone.

It watched Marjorie with a stillness I couldn't match. It didn't breathe, it didn't twitch. Its head tilted slowly as her eyelids began to droop. The edges of its body glimmered faintly in the dark, a suggestion of shape, a ripple through the air. I tried to shout, but the air caught in my throat. All I could do was reach for her hand and squeeze. She gasped awake, eyes wide and wet, and the thing above us twitched once, then receded slightly.

It didn't disappear. It just shrank back toward the corner where the ceiling met the far wall. Marjorie stared into the black with me. watching it crawl higher into the dark. That's what it does, she whispered. Though I'm surprised you can see it. Her voice was her own again. We sat like that for a long time, silent except for our breath.

The air felt thick, heavy with a presence I couldn't name. The shadows were heavier now. The floor beneath my feet pulsed. faintly with the rhythm. Around 4 a.m., the house changed again. I dozed off, only for a second. My head dipped forward and snapped up with a jolt. Marjorie was still awake, but her expression had changed. Her eyes were unfocused, and her lips moved slowly. I can give you peace, she said. No more pain, no more. more nights alone. You want out, don't you? I can get you out. I didn't reply. I just shook my head.

Her face contorted again. You've always wanted more, she said, more than what life gave you. I could make people listen. I could make you known. The voice was wrong. It wasn't Marjorie anymore. It was deeper, older, and filled with something that didn't understand what it meant to be human. You want money? Done. You want fame? Easy. You want to be remembered? I can make you the only name they speak. I stood up. I felt sick, dizzy. The room was spinning, but I grabbed the edge of the chair and force myself steady. Marjor's hands shut out toward me again. I didn't pull away.

I knelt beside her. No, I said. She stays awake. She finishes this. We both do. The shadows writhed at the edge of the room, recoiling like a tide, forced to retreat. I stayed beside her, holding her hand, reading anything I could find.

I told her about my mother, about the first time I snuck out of school, about the time I broke my arm falling out of a tree. I didn't stop. When my voice gave out, I played music through my phone and let her rest ahead on my shoulder. She didn't speak for hours, but as the sun crawled toward the horizon, she smiled. A real smile. a tired one but real no one's ever helped me carry it before

she said that smile broke me more than anything else in that house because I knew how rare it had to be she closed her eyes for a second I nudged her gently she stirred still with me for now

on the last day Marjorie's body had started to give up. There was no other way to describe it. Her words slurred and dragged. Half her sentences faded out before they ended. Her hands clenched and unclenched the blanket draped over her legs. Each movement slower than the last. She coughed hard enough to double over, and when she wiped her mouth, a thick streak of black fluid clung to the back of her hand.

It smelled like iron and burnt oil. I moved to help her sit upright again, but her eyes caught mine with a quiet, trembling urgency. In the drawer, she said, barely more than a breath, hallway table, right side, bottom. I did what she said. My legs were trembling under me as I crossed to the hallway. The shadow shifted again.

when I moved. They didn't follow me, but they watched. I could feel it behind my ears, the quiet judgment of something waiting for the final piece to fall. The drawer stuck a little, swollen from age. I yanked it harder and it came loose. Inside was a dusty leather photo album, cracked down the spine. I carried it.

back to her and sat on the floor beside her chair. We opened it together. The pictures were faded, but intact, black and white shots of a young woman in a flowered dress standing near a broken fence. Marjorie. Her eyes were brighter then, her mouth softer the edges. She stood with a woman, I assumed to be a mother, tall and stiff, a distant look etched permanently across a face. The two of them stood apart in every photo, never touching. The mother always near the shadows. There were no children in any of the images, no friends, no wedding dress, just the same woman, aging slowly across decades, always alone. She pointed to one photo with a shaking finger.

It showed her sitting on the floor in front of a boarded-up window. There was a shape behind her, just barely visible through the gap in the slats. Long fingers stretched vertically, holding on from the outside. No face, no body, just the idea of someone watching. It showed up right after this was taken, she whispered. I tore the film up that night, buried the negatives. But it didn't matter. I stared at the photo and felt my jaw tighten.

My voice cracked when I spoke. How did you live like this for so long? She smiled with her eyes closed. I didn't live. I waited. I've almost made it to the end. I'm almost. Her voice faltered again.

Her jaw trembled. A wet sound gurgled deep in her throat. She tilted her head back and drew in a sharp, rattling breath. The countdown in the kitchen timer hit 59 minutes, 12 seconds. I think it's time, she said. I feel it in my ribs, I now beside her. My hands wrapped round hers, cold and papery. Thank you, she whispered.

I can feel it coming. Her head leaned back and her eyes fluttered shut. For the last time, the house went still. Not just quiet, but completely. completely still. The air stopped moving, the walls no longer creaked. Even the wind outside held its breath. I reached for my phone, hands shaking, and dialed 911. I gave the address, said there had been a death, tried to explain but couldn't find the words. They asked if I was alone. That was when a body cracked. It started with a small pop at the base of her neck, then her spine shifted.

Her shoulder blades rolled unnaturally forward. Her wrists twisted sideways and bent backward. Her jaw fell open, too far. Her head lolling as if disconnected from the rest of her. I dropped the phone. The operator kept talking. I heard her asking me to respond, but I couldn't. I was frozen.

Then, Marjorie moved. She rose slowly, joint snapping as her limbs unfolded the wrong way. She dropped to all fours and stayed there for a moment, her breath low and rattling. Her face curled into something that looked like a smile, but had no warmth. She launched forward. I barely rolled out of the way in time. I hit the floor hard and scrambled to my feet. She moved faster than I thought possible, limbs jerking as if pulled by strings.

A nails clawed across the hardwood, tearing through the rug and into the boards beneath. I ran down the hallway and the door slammed behind me. One by one, every door on the house slammed shut with a thunderous bang. The walls groaned and seemed to stretch. A hallway that had once led to a linen closet now spiraled to the right, deeper into the house. I stumbled into a bedroom I didn't remember being there. The furniture inside was nailed to the ceiling. Gravity had twisted.

Behind me, Marjorie laughed, not with their own voice, with several. Some shrieed, some crooned. One voice matched mine exactly, calling out in a perfect imitation. Help me, she said in my own voice. I'm still here. Please, don't leave me. I slammed the door and backed away. The floor thudded as she crept closer. Her feet didn't land with weight.

They landed with intent. I shoved myself into the closet and pressed the door shut. my breath tore in and out of my lungs. I could hear her sniffing outside, a slow, deep inhale, then another closer. I bit my tongue to keep from sobbing. Then I remembered the phone.

The cheap, prepaid phone Raymond had given me. I doped through my pocket, fingers slipping and pulled it out. The screen was dim. The contact still read, Ah, my thumb hovered over the button. Then I pressed it. The closet door creaked open a few inches.

Her fingers curled around the frame. They weren't hands anymore. The bones had shifted under the skin, forming long, hooked points that scraped softly across the wood. I couldn't breathe. I pressed my back to the far corner of the claw. closet, phone still clutched in my hand. The line went silent, no voice, no answer. Then the sound of breaking glass filled the house, a window shattered from inside the room,

not splintered or cracked, completely obliterated. Wood crunched, a gust of air swept through the walls and pulled the shadows backward. Heavy footsteps echoed across the wall. the floor, not the skittering limbs of whatever Marjorie had become. I shoved the closet door open and stumbled out. Raymond stood in the middle of the hallway, shoulder squared, dressed in the same dark suits from the cafe. There wasn't a scratch on him. His eyes were locked onto the thing wearing Marjorie's body as it came bounding through

the hallway ceiling, limbs bending around the corners. He raised a weapon that I had no words for. It didn't look forged or manufactured. He looked grown, smooth and bone-white, with grooves that shifted and rotated along the barrel. Each ring pulsed as if alive. He fired once. The sound it made didn't belong to this world. It was soft at first, like someone dragging stone across wall.

wet cloth. Then it expanded into a shriek, deeper than sound, something that made my ears ache and my eyes blur. The creature twisted in mid-air. Marjorie's body convulsed and peeled backward, limbs retracting, face collapsing into itself. The thing inside her screamed as it pulled away from her skin, unraveling in ribbons of smoke and bone. It dissolved into thick, black mist that clung to the ceiling before vanishing into the boards. Silence followed. Real silence, not the kind we had suffered through all night. This was absence. The room exhaled. I collapsed against the wall. My legs unable to hold me. Raymond approached calmly and knelt beside me. You did well, he said, his voice steady, almost tired.

We needed her exhausted, fully exposed. It can't hide anymore. You weakened it. I stared at him, throat raw, body trembling. He opened his jacket and pulled out a sealed envelope, thick, heavy. He handed it to me. The full five, as promised, no taxes. I didn't take it right away.

My hands shook as I reached for it. My eyes drifted to the hallway behind him, where nothing remained of what had been Marjorie, not even Ash. This wasn't just about mercy, Raymond said, standing. It was containment. He turned to wait.

toward the broken window, already reaching into his pocket for something else, a small metallic object that blinked red once before going still. I pushed myself up. Who are you? I asked. He paused at the edge of the frame, silhouetted against the dark outside. He looked back over his shoulder, and for the first time, I thought I saw something behind his expression. You should get some sleep, he said.