CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I Work at a Storage Facility. Unit 103’s Lease Has Never Expired" Creepypasta

Episode Date: July 22, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Frequent-Cat:   / i_work_at_a_storage_facility_unit_103s_lea...  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"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep web" ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher, and...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creepypasta  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / 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 work nights at a storage facility on the edge of town. The kind of place nobody really notices until they need it. It's a squat little compound tucked between the back end of a shuttered strip mall and a drainage canal that smells worse in the summer. Most of the fluorescent lights hum or flicker. A few don't bother turning on at all. The vending machine in the office takes your money but won't give you a soda unless you hit the right spot on the side

with a heel of your hand. The job isn't complicated. Lock the gate at 11, unlock it at 6, walk the rows once or twice during the night, make sure no tweakers are nesting inside an unlocked unit. The cameras are mostly active, the alarms work when they want to. If anyone asks, the answer's always the same. Nobody's supposed to be here after dark. I've had co-workers on and off.

They don't stick around. teenagers, burnouts, parolees, working off-court-ordered employment. They come and go fast enough that I don't remember their names. Management doesn't seem to care who's on shift so long as someone fills out the logbooks and nobody burns the place down.

There's only one real rule here and it's not in the handbook. Don't mess with Unit 103. Old padlock on the door, heavy enough to stop a crowbar. The records flagged as do not access. No one opens it. No one rents it.

Not officially. Still, every month there's a payment. Always cash. Always exact. No return address on the envelope. Some months, the envelope isn't there at all. Doesn't matter. The ledger gets updated, paid in full.

Far as I can tell. Unit 1 or 3 is being. here longer than the company that runs this place, maybe longer than the building itself. The email came in on a Monday night, one of those generic corporate blasts from some office far away. All units must be accounted for by the end of the quarter. Visual confirmation, inventory checklist, photographic evidence, the usual box ticking to satisfy someone's spreadsheet. I scrolled through the list, already known. knowing the answer before I asked. Still, I brought it up during our weekly call with the site manager.

What about 103? There was a pause. Then my manager's tone shifted, just enough for me to catch it. Skip it, don't log it. You don't want to mess with that paperwork. Just trust me. That was it. End of discussion. Later, I brought it up in the break room with one of my co-workers, a guy whose name I hadn't bothered to learn, just chatting between rounds of walking the fence line. I mentioned something about Unit 103, half-jokingly. He stopped chewing his sandwich.

Don't even say the number out loud, he told me. No laughter, no follow-up. He packed up his lunch and went back to sweeping out an empty, unit without another word. I started paying closer attention after that. Little things caught my eye. Locks on units that hadn't been opened in years looks as if they had been freshly handled. Scratches on 103's padlock, new ones gouged into the old metal. I knew nobody had the keys, not even me. That's when curiosity started digging in. Not a question of why anymore. Just a question of when I'd stop looking and start doing.

On slow nights, I started digging through old records. There was much else to do. A few battered filing cabinets sat in the back office, stuffed with faded contracts and receipts going back decades. Most of it was routine. Late payments, auctions and unit transfers. But not 103. Unit 103 have been listed in every set of records I could find, including those predating the current building.

I found paperwork dating back far enough that the company name on the letterhead no longer existed. Handwritten leases renewed over and over. Different names on the documents, but none of them sounding real. LLCs dissolved 50 years ago, banks that folded in the 70s. Some of the signatures barely passed for handwriting at all. Jagged scrolls, symbols, loops. A few were signed in red ink that had bled through the pages beneath. One looked smeared as if the ink hadn't been allowed to dry properly.

Still, the payment never stopped. Every month without fail, the ledger marked paid. No account overdue, no notices. sent. The hallway lights started going out next, first flickering, then shorting entirely. Maintenance came twice, replaced the bulbs and checked the wiring. Both times, the lights failed again within the week. The rest of the buildings stayed fine. I started losing track of time during my shifts, waking up from what felt like less sleep and more like a trance, always standing in the same place,

halfway down the hallway, facing Unit 103. I couldn't say how long I'd been there. Minutes, hours, just staring at that dented metal door with its rusted padlock hanging loose on the hatch.

One night, I knelt to check the gap beneath it, found something wedged there, dry, cracked pieces of something curled in on themselves, too small to be cloth. too fibrous to be bone. Not organic exactly, but not quite anything else either.

I flushed them down the break room toilet, thinking it was something that needed disposing of. But later, I couldn't shake the feeling I should have kept them. Co-workers started complaining after that, scratching noises from inside 103, shuffling sounds, something knocking, slow and steady from within. management's response was flat.

Rats, they said, don't ask again. Management stopped responding to my questions. I stopped asking. Not because I didn't want answers anymore, but because I wanted proof, something undeniable. I started watching 103 more closely.

Every night of my rounds, I check the dust patterns across the concrete. The grime in this place settled thick, but around 103, it moved. Fine layers swept into spirals, smears stretched toward the doorframe as if something had dragged itself forward on hands or elbows. Footprints showed up when no one had walked, always leading to the door, never away. The smell grew worse by the weak, not the sharp stink of mold or decay, something cold. wet concrete left too long in standing water, burnt metal, rust blooming under damp stone. It hung in the air, even when the wind cut through the rows of units, heavier near 103 than anywhere else.

One night, in the back of an old maintenance manual, I found a logbook I hadn't seen before. Torn pages, scribble notes. Most of it was routine. Bulbs replaced, doors re-hung, pest control visits. The final entry stopped me cold, written in shaky block letters across the last page. It's not what's in there. It's what it thinks it's keeping out. I waited for someone to step in, a manager, an inspector, even another faceless corporate email reminding me not to ask questions.

But no one came. No one seemed to care. However, I gained a new understanding, or at least the theory to work with. The rule wasn't about keeping us safe. It was about keeping it undisturbed, about leaving it unobserved, containment through neglect. Watching it gave it shape, thinking about it, gave it weight. And now, I'd been paying attention for far too long. too late to go back to ignoring it.

So, I went about trying to fix it. One night, after locking the front gate and double-checking the cameras, I grabbed a pair of bolt cutters from the tool locker, walked the rows like I always did. Except this time, I didn't stop at the end of the hallway. I went straight to 103. The padlock looked heavier than it was. old steel scabbed with rust

It gave way on the second squeeze The metals snapped clean through Falling to the ground without a sound I pulled the door open Slow careful Expecting something worse than what I found No body No monster waiting in the dark

Not even the expected black void stretching off into nowhere Just the storage unit concrete walls, metal shelves bolted to the sides coated in a thick layer of undisturbed dust In the centre A chair

Wooden, plain Set facing the back wall Nothing sat in it Nothing crouched behind it No stains, no scratches No signs of violence or ritual or anything else my imagination had been feeding me for weeks. I felt disappointed, ashamed almost,

all that paranoia for an empty room. When I tried to close the door again, it didn't fit the frame. The whole door frame had shifted, warped slightly outward, bent at the edges, metal flexed out from the concrete. Simply put, it no longer closed all the way. I remember the door being airtight. This half-inch gap wasn't something I'd simply missed in my observations. Still, I had to close it. I jammed on the old lock and twisted it to look untouched,

knowing others avoided 103 on their shifts. It started slow. A week after I opened 103, other units began unlocking themselves, not kicked open. not broken into, just ajar, barely noticeable unless you were paying attention. A door hanging an inch off the latch, a padlock dangling loose where it had been secure the night before. Inside, things didn't make sense.

TVs left behind were still warm to the touch, their standing lights blinking in dark rooms with no power connection, Friges humming quietly, lights flickering behind cracked doors, food sitting on tables, untouched, but far too fresh for how long these units have been sealed. Each one felt paused, suspended in the exact moment their owners stepped away. Time bent around those thresholds. Minutes passed strangely when I stood in them. Watches ticked slowly, phones refused to keep signal. I reported it, of course, logged everything, photos, serial numbers, detailed notes on the oddities.

Management responded with the same tone they used for 103. Forced calm, thin smiles, tight voices. Unit shifts sometimes, they said. Logs fail. These things happen. When I pressed them, asking why none of this was in the manuals and why there wasn't a to call. They only grew quieter. Reassurances fell flat. Stick to the rounds. Keep your head down. They sent a guy from maintenance to relock the doors. He worked without comment, without hesitation,

locked everything up and left with a nod as though this was routine, as though this was exactly what he had been hired to do. Although he never saw that Unit 103 was actually unlocked. as he avoided it, presumably by instruction from management. The message was clear. Ignore it, leave it alone, and it stays manageable. Poke it, and things get worse.

That was the rule. Ignorance kept it docile. Attention made it restless. But that was the problem. I couldn't unsee what I had started. I couldn't unthink it. I had let something stretch, and now it was pulling at the seams of the whole place. I had been curious. I had gone too far.

Still, I told myself I could fix it. I could put it back the way it was. Seal 103, relock the others, return the building to its quiet, decaying routine. I thought maybe, if I moved fast enough and showed I understood the job now, It would let me. That was the only plan left. Fix it. Put everything back in its place.

When alone, I went back to 103 with a new lock in hand. Heavyer this time, industrial grade. I drilled fresh holes, set new brackets, and reinforced the frame where it had warped. When I cinched the lock shut, it felt solid, secure. By the next night, it had bent its sense. open again. The metal twisted outward at the edges, straining against bolts I knew I had driven clean. Nothing dramatic, no noise, no spectacle, just quiet pressure until the steel gave way. I tried again. Different lock, a different bracket, more reinforcement. The same result.

The door refused to stay closed. Management knew. I did not even need to tell them. They called me into the office at the end of my shift. No warning, no explanation, just the text from the manager's personal phone. Come to the office, bring your keys. The lights were already off when I got there. Only the hallway bulbs still burned, buzzing faintly against the silence. I half expected the door to be locked, half expected to find.

nobody waiting for me at all. But the door swung open as I approached. Inside, the manager sat behind the desk, hands folded over a manila folder that bore no label. He didn't gesture for me to sit, didn't offer a drink, just watch me come in and close the door behind me. For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Do you know why you're here? He asked at last. His voice quiet, measured. I shook my head. I kept my hands on my keys. Part of me wondered if this was the end of the line. If I had looked too closely, pry too far, if they were going to walk me down to 103,

unlock the door and shut it behind me. I imagine you think you've been clever, he said, breaking into 103, trying to fix what you don't understand. You open the folder. Inside were papers I didn't recognize. My employee file may be. A list of incidents, security logs, photos of me on my rounds,

standing too long outside wrong doors, opening the wrong locks. We warn people for a reason, the manager said. That unit stays closed because ignoring it keeps it quiet, like a dog that forgets the bark if no one is around.

Attention. stirs it up, curiosity wakes it, obsession makes it stretch. He closed the folder with a soft tap of his fingers. Most people can't help themselves. They leave eventually or they're removed. You lasted longer. You showed patience. You followed the pattern. You didn't just break the rules. You tested them. I felt my throat dry out. So, what happens now? He smiled, not cruelly, almost kindly. Think of it as a promotion.

He pushed a new set of keys across the desk toward me. Not just for the gates, not just for the office. A ring of keys I didn't recognize. Keys that had weight to them. Keys that belonged to things I haven't seen yet. This place needs a caretaker, people who understand the rhythm of things, people willing to watch the locks and turn them when they stop holding. It's not an easy job, it's not always clear what you're keeping out or what you're keeping in. You lean back in the chair, still watching me with that calm, unreadable expression.

The manager slid the folder closer to me with one finger, nodding for me to open it. Inside wasn't just my employee file. There were other names, other dates, a list of people who had come before me. Some I recognised from the old maintenance logs I'd found buried in storage. Each entry ended the same way. Reassigned containment oversight. No resignation dates, no severance details, just that flat, final note. You're not just getting a promotion, the manager said.

You're inheriting something, a responsibility that doesn't end. Not until it passes on again. He stood, stretched slowly, tired bones cracking in his shoulders. In the dim light, he leaned towards me. I got a better look at his face. He looked young but wore old features. Age eroded on him in legs. This building doesn't exist to store furniture or paperwork or people's junk.

It exists to hold things in. 103 isn't special. It's just the oldest. The others are newer, less settled, but they all need attention. They all need caretakers who know which doors to leave alone and which ones to lock twice. I looked down at the folder. Some units have been reclassified over time. The numbers changed, the locations shifted.

But the patterns were there. Always a handful, growing restless at once. Always the same kind of person brought in to notice to intervene. If no one does the job, the doors won't stay closed, he said. When one opens, the others follow. You saw it yourself. You started the chain. You're the only one who can put it back the way it was.

I asked the question, hanging at the back of my throat. What if I leave? He smiled, small. I couldn't tell if it was pity or amusement. People don't leave. They either lock the doors or join what's behind them. He picked up the folder again, tapped it twice against the desk, like closing the lid on a box.

You've lasted longer than most. That tells us you understand. Or you will, soon enough. He showed me to the door. The hallway stretched out ahead, quiet as ever. The keys heavy in my hand. Too late to pretend I hadn't earned them. I walked the facility alone that night.

The new keys cold in my hand. The rows of units stretched. stretched out under dead fluorescent lights, the air hanging heavy with a faint scent of dust and damp concrete. I thought at first it was my imagination, the way my breath fogged in the air, even though the night wasn't cold enough for it. But the further I walked, the colder it felt, the stillness wasn't right. Doors hung open where they shouldn't, not wide, not broken, just a jar. A fraction of an inch here, a full hand span there.

Locks dangling loose. Some fall under the ground without a sound. Lights flickered behind those doors. Television's buzzed faintly in empty rooms. Something inside breathed in time with my footsteps, slow and deliberate, though nothing moved in the spaces beyond the thresholds. No shapes waded in the dark, no feelings. faces pressed into the cracks, just opened doors waiting.

I understood. It wasn't about monsters hiding inside. It was about the act itself. Doors opened too long, invited attention. Left unchecked, they invited worse. If I didn't close them, someone else would pay the price for my hesitation. So, I went to work. One by one I closed them.

Check the seals, turn the locks using the new keys until they clicked shut. Logged each one in the ledger with slow, steady handwriting. Lock, ledger, lock, ledger. No answers waited for me. No final reveal of what I'd been keeping in or what might one day slip free. Just the cold repetition of the task I'd inherited. a rhythm as old as the building itself. Lock, ledger, move on to the next.

Years went by without me noticing, or maybe noticing didn't matter anymore. As soon as I was proficient at the job, my manager disappeared. Just stopped showing up to work. I saw a letter from upper management simply stating that I was the new acting manager. The job never changed.

But I did. My bones ached in ways they shouldn't. Eyes slow to adjust, joint stiff. Some mornings I sat too long in the chair at the desk, staring at the logbook, unsure whether I'd finish the shift or was about to start one. They tell me it was stress or lack of sleep. Maybe I believed that if I wasn't still young enough to know better. I watched the new hires come and go. Most treated this place as a pit stop.

A few months of easy nights, just enough money to bridge the gap to something better. They talked about future plans, schools, promotions, travel, anything else. Some lasted less than a week. The long hallways got to them, the way sound carried when it shouldn't, the way certain doors seemed to breathe if you stood too. close.

They all left in the end. They always do. Somewhere along the way, I started slipping, missing things. Locks were undone for longer than they should have been, units shifting without my notice. I double back on rounds and find doors opened behind me, though I just walked past. I told myself it was age catching up. made it easier to explain. Easier than admitting this place was draining me,

pulling something from me a little more each year. Then came the new hire. Young, quiet, observant in the way that made me wary. I caught them lingering too long in front of 103, asking the wrong questions, wring their fingertips along the locks like they were looking for something hidden beneath the rust. I recognised the look.

I remembered wearing it. One night, as they clocked in, I handed them the round sheet, casual as I could manage. Don't bother with 103, I told them. Trust me, just keep the doors locked. That's the job. They nodded, said they understood.

But I knew better. I'd said the same thing once. and still found myself standing with bolt cutters in my hands, staring at a door that would not stay shut. Now, I wait. Wait to see if they'll listen, or if they'll open it. Wait to see if they'll end up in this chair with my keys on their belt, wondering when the ache started,

and why the clock ticks so slowly here. Hopefully, maybe someone else can take this from me, that I can finally leave whatever leaving means. But I wonder what happens to me when that day comes, where I'll go. Or, if there's a door somewhere, waiting for me too.