CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I Went Back To Pasadena, California. The Gates of Hell Were Open" Creepypasta

Episode Date: April 18, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Goose_jpg: 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►Fealasy: https://www.deviantart.com/fealasy/ar...​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/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 grew up in Pasadena, California, back in the 1980s. My father often worked late as a construction worker to provide for us, leaving me home alone from the age of eight, leading up to when I moved out at 22. My father never asked much of me. He let me wear whatever I wanted, especially through multiple phases. He let me smoke weed at 16,

bought me alcohol for parties, but he always had one strict rule. Never go near, The Gates of Hell. I didn't think that applied to me, now though in 42. The Gates of Hell, or more commonly known as the Devil Gates Dam, had gotten its name from locals due to the natural forming of a horn devil's face in the rock of the dam. It had been named long before my time, and his stories whispered before even my father was

born. Although he never spared me the details, my childhood friends, Mark and Patrick, told me tales of cults and rituals, mainly performed by some sort of science. and founder of a lab called JPL. Or, at least that's what I can pull from my memory. In 1989, I remember talk of children going missing around the gate, mostly teenagers, but there was one, age 11, just like me, who'd wandered down to the dam and never returned.

My father stayed home for a few days when that happened. I didn't think it back then, but now that I look back, perhaps he was making sure my curiosity didn't get. the better of me. And I think if he hadn't been there, I would have gone. The gates have been closed ever since, or at least, that is what I heard from my friends who frequently visited. So, when I headed back to my childhood home, following my father's passing, the last thing of my mind was some dumb damn of hell. For the first few days of being in Pasadena, I spent a majority of my time listing my father's furniture on Facebook marketplace.

I had considered donating it, but he insisted in his will that I get as much money from this situation as I could. He had also made a request that I burned the contents of the large maroon box which sat on the highest shelf of his wardrobe. I remember the same box being heavily guarded by him during my childhood, but I'd been too scared to look inside, despite feeling a draw to it. On day five, I pulled down the box. A thick layer of dust coated the lid with the contents inside. seemed to be frozen in time. The box mainly contained

pictures of my mother. She was an avid explorer. A secret, my dad kept quiet until a hot, hard talk over the phone when I was 39. I scattered the pictures across the floor according to the dates. From the look of the film,

they had definitely been taken on disposable cameras. There were a few pictures of my father, too, but never a photo of them together, indicating they were the only two on these adventures. On the back, listed multiple places within California and some of the surrounding states. Caves, forests, dams and abandoned buildings sat in the background of each one,

until I got to the final one, dating back to just a year after my birth, around the time she had died. And that's when I saw it. The Gates of Hell. I had never been there personally, but curiosity had gotten the better of me, my adulthood, and I'll admit to googling it once or twice, but it was just to feel the curiosity that stemmed from my childhood. It was definitely it. It's hard to describe my shock.

It felt as if my whole body had grown cold. I had been told my mother died in a car accident when I was younger, but with my dad's strong-mindedness towards the devil's gate, I couldn't help feel as if they were connected, so I continued to look. First, I pulled out VHS tapes. Many of them had titles to match the other photos, until I came across, Devil's Gate, written in my father's sloppy handwriting.

I was lucky that nobody had stepped forward for the dated VHS player and TV my dad had kept over the decade, as I was able to hook them up and play the VHS almost straight away. The tape was underwhelming, in a sense that nothing happened. What was exciting was seeing my mother in action.

Although the quality was awful, I was still able to make out of features and see her as a person rather than a still image. I teared up. She was beautiful. God knows how my father got her. But I could tell my dad didn't like these adventures. He did it for her smile. I would too.

The video didn't have much to it. They walked around a fence, down the ladder, and stood in front of the gate. It was locked. My mother was disappointed and wanted to climb to the top where there was a small gap. My father wasn't too keen on the idea and offered her a simple, we all just tell people we went in. And then the video ended. I replay the video multiple times.

It felt unreal to see my mother like that. I had no memories of her, but I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed and miss her. That night, I went to sleep in my father's bed, emotional, feeling like a little boy that had crawled into his parents' bed during a thunderstorm. The next day, I remembered the box. I had been so worn out emotionally from seeing my mother that I'd completely forgotten about it. I debated watching the VHS again, but figured it would be unhealthy. I pulled out a slip of paper, compared to the rest of the stuff in this box.

box, this folded up, lined paper had been touched a lot. I could tell by the deepness of the crease and the floppiness of the paper. I opened it up. The handwriting wasn't my father's. Dear James, I can't start thinking about the gate. I won't be able to rest until I go in. George will need his diaper change when you wake up. There's some food in the fridge for the both of you if I'm not back by then.

Yours, Grace. The paper I now realised to be stained with tears sat in my hands while the rest of me remained in still silence. The need to know more overcame me and I found myself searching through the box for more clues. Newspaper cuttings of my mother's missing notices were packed neatly in the box as well as letters my father had written to my mother despite her disappearance. What was so special about the devil's gate that she had to go that night?

I spent the day processing it. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to go see the dam for myself. So, I called up Mark and Patrick, who at first needed some convincing, and soon I was prepared to go visit it with them. I packed some items such as flashlights, emergency flares, a Swiss army knife, as well as non-perishable foods. Patrick and Mark didn't show up nearly as prepared, claiming they went there as children, and it really wasn't a big deal. They showed me the way. It wasn't easy to get to the devil's gate. Perhaps if I was as agile as I was as a child, I would be able to. Our journey started in Hara Monagna Park, which sits just on the border of La Canada Flintridge. I'd gone there and

walks with my father a few times. Its trails were fairly known, but we'd never gone close to the side that met the highway. We took the way that father never took me, over a concrete bridge. which had a nestshape bend to it. We had gotten lost at first by taking the tunnel before the bridge. You have to take the tunnel after the bridge. Mark and Patrick laughed it off, claiming that their memory of the place wasn't the greatest. We then ended up in a wooded area again,

but this time the path was lined with rocks, making it difficult to walk steadily. There it is, Mark shouted. He pointed ahead to the exact rock that gave the damn its name. It hardly looked like a face. but I could see the resemblance. Damn, exclaimed Patrick. He was just a few paces ahead of Mark at that point,

but came to a stop. The water. I forgot about the dam water. Sat between us was a murky green type of pond. Cairns, bottles and debris from trees floated on the surface, breaking the algae-like surface that blanketed the liquid. It doesn't look too deep, I commented. Patrick picked up one of the floated. pointing sticks and jabbed it through the water surface.

It had to have gone a good three or four feet before he stopped. It goes deeper than that, he said. We stood around for a few moments, and I recall the video I had watched two days prior. My mother never walked straight to the gate. They went down a ladder. Isn't there some sort of ladder around here? I asked the two. Mark almost jumped to the comment.

The ladder! I can't believe we forgot. Everything still looked the same as the VHS footage. The gate to the ladder was locked, but the fence didn't travel far and was easy to walk around. We travelled down the ladder and to the gate to find it locked. The two men huffed in annoyance, frustrated that it was closed. It's been locked since the 80s, Mark complained.

I brought my face up to the bars. The cool metal stung the side of my face, and I looked on. into the darkness. I was only able to see a good ten feet worth of graffiti before the rest of the dam disappeared into the void.

Well, I guess that's as far as we go, Patrick shrugged. I continued to look into the darkness. Did my mother really go in there? I took a quick look at the top of the gate. There was definitely space to fit if you crawled up there. Even one of the bars were bent out of place,

perfect for a human to squeeze through. George? I turned around to the two, expecting a follow-up to my name, but they'd been stuck in a conversation. George! The feminine voice echoed. It was coming from inside. Do you guys hear that? I asked aloud, putting a halt of their conversation.

They both approached the gate, not willing to press their faces to the dirted bars like me. Silence. I felt like a fool. Should we go for a few drinks and catch up? suggested Patrick. We agreed. The entire night, I couldn't get the gate out of my head. The echoing of a female voice remained present in my mind on repeat.

What was as clear as when I first heard it? Mark and Patrick had done well for themselves. They both had families they showed off proudly and full-time jobs that were respectful. I wasn't envious though I had lived my life in comfort Not having to worry about somebody else's needs meant that I could live happily And how I wanted

We had been drinking in the bar for about three hours now It was 9.32 p.m. Well, I think that's me for tonight, fellas I have to pack up the rest of my old man's things tomorrow I excuse myself I returned back to my father's house I debated burning the content into the box, like my father said, but I desperately wanted to keep the VHSs, just as a memory.

I placed the different VHS into the player this time. The camera was on my mother again, as she stood in front of a cave. Like the gate, it was also heavily graffeted. My mother was also very visibly pregnant. My father warned her to be careful, to which she responded with a carefree. Little George will be fine. It was me. George.

The voice rang through my head again, but this time it was clear as if someone was actually saying it. George, come back, I heard it once again. The more I heard the voice, the more I recognised it, to be my mother's. I'm stuck in the gate, please. I didn't hesitate. I put on my running shoes and grabbed a flashlight from my backpack from earlier and sprinted down there.

I didn't bother going to the ladder. Instead, I tended to jump a clearing of the pond to the small island between it. I had made the first jump, but the second was miscalculated. While most of my body had landed flat on the concrete, my legs were sunk into the water. And then I saw it. The gates of hell. They were open. I scrambled to my feet.

George, my mother called. a voice coded with desperation. I'm coming, mother, I called back. The flashlight had gotten wet during the jump and flicked occasionally, but still shown as bright. But despite the bright beam, just like earlier, I could only see ten feet ahead. I walked past the gate, my own footsteps sound like a giant due to the echo of the tunnel. Over here, she called weakly. I sped up as fast as I could with my now-bearer.

jeans chafing me. The cool air drifted through the tunnel and attacked my drenched lower body. You're nearly here, baby. I can see the light. I felt comfort in a voice. I could almost picture hugging her, the warmth of a hug, taking away the cold the bit away of my legs and toes. My flashlight caught a silhouette or something, huddled up into a ball. Long, wet air covered the majority of the figure.

Mother? I called. My flashlight flickered And I could have sworn I saw her body twist and contort for the split second But as soon as it turned back on I saw she was still rolled up I'm so cold She whimpered

Come warm mommy up She didn't move from the spot she was in Most likely conserving energy I thought If I knew you're in trouble I would have brought my bag I have food in a thermal blanket I blabbered She didn't respond, though.

Eventually, I approached her. The fact we were basically strangers, despite her birthing me, made some more goodness in my movement. I'm so cold, she wept. I sat down beside her. The flashlight faced the wall in front of us, rather than on us. She'd been down here a long time. I didn't want to blind her.

But, oh God, the stench. She stunk like rotten meat As if she'd been rolling it Every day of the week When I embraced her She felt strange Slimy like the surface of the water outside I'd figured

Since she'd been stuck down here She wasn't able to wash So she must have been full of algae And when I completely rat my arms around her She felt like bones Let's get out of here You need to go to the hospital I whispered

"'No,' she screeched. "'Her voice almost rushed my airdrums. "'I jumped back in shock. "'I was not used to hearing her like this. "'Mother, you're all bones. "'You're bound to be dehydrated and malnourished. "'I'll pay for the hospital bill.' "'Stay with me, George,' she demanded.

"'Her voice warm but stern. "'I couldn't take the stench much longer. "'She had to weigh like 70 pounds from the feel of her. "'I thought I could easily carry her out. severe. I turned the flashlight over towards her. She was so dirty that what was left of her skin looked grey. Stay with me, George. Stay with mommy. We'll be happy here. I only need you. I knew I only needed you when I gave birth to you, she rambled on. I didn't listen. I turned her over. It took me a minute to get a good look at her, as my body bogged the light source. But when I shifted

With my head, the light shone perfectly on her face. She was just bones. Patches of skin hugged onto a skeleton while her eyes were clouded. Bone poked through her arms, and I could have sworn she was more bone than skin. And her hair. It was thin, matted, and most of it sat on her shoulders as if it had fallen out. Don't you want to live with mommy? She asked.

She had noticed, somehow, my sudden disgust through those glazed eyes. I tried to back away, but a pony fingers gripped under my forearm so tight, it felt as if she could have broken the bone. I've been waiting for you, George, she continued. Whatever that thing was, she wasn't my mother. You can be like me. We just have to go see him. He'll be happy I brought you, she called out in desperation. I tried to wiggle from a grip, but I gained nothing from it.

He's been waiting. I told him about you. He was waiting for me. Now he's waiting for you. She continued to ramble. Her grip tightened. You're hurting me, I screamed. The grip's so tight the blood stopped flowing to my hand.

You can't keep him waiting, she shouted over me. I grabbed the flashlight and slammed it against the center of a forearm. It smashed through a bone, and she let out an ungodly shriek, and then I ran. The way out seemed much longer than the way in. I ran while she shrieked behind me, light and wet footsteps paddled on behind me.

But once I got out of the gate, the noise disappeared. She didn't come into the view of the first ten feet of the gate. I waited. The walk home was unsettling. I didn't sleep for the next few days. Instead, I packed

all on my father's things away, and on the final day I made a large fire in his backyard and burnt the contents of the maroon box, including every single VHS, with the exception of the devil's gate. I have the urge to visit Mother again, this time prepared to take her out of there, yet at the same time, I know it's not her. It would just be nice, but for now I have to travel home from work. I went back to the gates of hell in Pasadena, California, and the gates are open. Something pretending to be my mother tried to trick me into staying. And now, I'm curious about what I missed out on.