CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I Work Night Security. Christmas Eve Is the Only Shift I’m Not Allowed to Skip" Creepypasta

Episode Date: December 29, 2025

Couldn't resist making this.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'd been working night security on the lot long enough to know that the job only worked if nothing happened. That was the point of it. Repetition. You walk the same routes, check the same doors, log the same confirmations until the motions stopped requiring thought. The nights where you started thinking

were the nights you missed something. The site itself was massive. Warehouses, office blocks, loading bays, service corridors stitched together with access roads and fencing. During the day, it was loud and chaotic. At night, it emptied out so completely it felt abandoned. Most shifts were automated, sensors reporting back to a central system, cameras cycling, logs filling themselves in.

I was pretty much paid to watch Netflix all year because nothing ever went wrong. Christmas Eve. was the exception. Early closures meant that all the building's operations had to be shut down, temporary overrides had to be applied and removed manually. Systems that normally talked to each other got staggered or isolated. For one night a year, the site stopped being able to rely on automation alone.

So, on this one day of the year, the job changed. Instead of monitoring, I had to be present, physically verify locks, reset zones by hand, confirm lighting, power routing, access points, all of it untight, specific timings. It wasn't dangerous, just precise. Work where being five minutes late mattered more than being absent. There was a failsafe for nights like that, a full-site reset unit locked away in the central security. Hub. I'd been shown it during training years ago, back when I still had a supervisor

walking me through procedures, designed for what the manual called, Falsight Instability. I'd never seen it used, no one I knew had. It existed, like a fire extinguisher behind glass, something you registered and moved on from. This year, staffing was thin. People wanted the a day off, management floated the idea of splitting the lot between two guards. I told them I'd handle it. I knew the site better than anyone

still on the roster. I'd done this shift many times before with ease, and the bonus pay was enormous. The checklist they sent over was longer than usual, but still familiar. I skimmed it,

logged in, and started my first round. The shift followed the same cycle. Patrol, lock, reset, confirm and log. Precision was key. Speed only mattered when it protected timing. I was always told the timing mattered because the systems talked to each other. I only worked security.

The tech was above my pay grade, so I never fully understood what that meant. I carried a handheld unit clipped to my belt, scuffed from year. years of use. It was a scheduler, task windows, confirmation prompts and timestamps. It didn't tell me what to do so much as when I was supposed to do it. If I stayed inside those windows, the site behaved. Everything went quiet in the way they were supposed to. Language mattered too. Confirmations weren't checkboxes. They were short entries with exact phrasing. deviate and the system would accept it, but not always interpret it the way you intended. The lot felt right when everything landed on time. The first problem came from a loading bay on the east side.

A delivery cage had been left unsecured by a day crew rushing out early. Nothing dramatic, just a rolling barrier half a meter out of place, enough to block a sensor sweep. Fixing it cost me minutes I didn't have. to spare. I logged the correction, tighten my pace, and watched the handheld roll forward to the next task. I felt irritated. Christmas Eve had no slack, but I'd managed tighter runs before. I lengthen my stride, recalculated the root in my head, and told myself the same thing I always did when the margins thinned. I'd make the time back. The first real screen,

Quees came just after eight. My handheld chined again before I'd finished clearing the last confirmation, the screen stacking tasks closer together than I liked. They weren't emergencies. That's the worst part.

Just presence required checks landing within the same narrow window. I swore under my breath and picked up the pace. Jogging wasn't part of the job had it never been this bad. The whole point was consistency, the same steps, the same timing, but that one early setback compressed everything.

I cut across a loading bay instead of taking the long corridor, badge already out, eyes flicking between doors and the countdown ticking on my device in my hand. I made it, barely. The last confirmation accepted with seconds the spare. the handheld gave its soft acknowledgement tone, and the lot seemed to exhale with me. The low mechanical hum of the buildings evened out again, like a machine settling back into its preferred rhythm. Relief came sharp and fast, it made my hands feel light. I leaned against the concrete pillar for a moment, catching my breath, annoyed with myself in needing to. I logged the tasks, forced my writing to stay neat, and told myself, this was still well within what I'd handled before.

Christmas Eve always pushed. That was the job. Just one tight shift, and it'd be back to the easy life. That was when the radio clipped in my shoulder, crackled. Just a quick burst, dry, electrical, cutting through the air, like a tear in fabric. And then silence. The channel cleared on its own, the idle hiss returning as if nothing had happened. I frowned at it, thumb hovering near the volume knob,

then let my hand fall away. Old building, cold night, interference. I pushed off the pillar and started walking again, already mentally rearranging the rest of the shift to stay ahead of the clock. The pace eased, the lot settled into the kind of quiet I'd been expecting all night. The stretch where your body stays tight, even though nothing is actively demanding attention. I moved through one of the smaller office blocks, running the same checks I'd done hundreds of times before.

The doors were still locked, but one of them resisted when I tested it, like the latch hesitated, before. remembering its job. The overhead lights took an extra beat to come up, humming softly before stabilizing. Little things. I blamed the hour. Christmas Eve always did strange things to the buildings. Partial shutdowns, half-powered systems, spaces caught between open and closed, annoyances you only notice when you're in a rush.

I log the checks and started down the corridor toward the exit. when the handheld chimed. A motion sensor, single trigger, same floor and wing. The room I just come from. I stopped listening. The air felt thick as if the building were holding onto sound rather than letting it travel. I waited for the follow-up ping that would mean an actual problem.

It never came. I stood there longer than I meant to. scanning doorways, watching the light panels, listening to my own breathing echo back a little louder than it should have. Eventually, I moved on, standing still never fixed anything. But as I walked, the lot no longer felt empty, occupied in a way I couldn't pin, like something had arrived early, and was waiting for the rest of the night to catch up. By the time the next cluster of notifications hit, I could feel it in my shoulders before I saw it on the device.

Two critical tasks, different buildings, overlapping windows. Not impossible, but tight enough that I had to choose an order and commit to it without second-guessing. I checked the distances, picture the roots, and went with the one that would bottleneck faster if I missed it. I broke into a jog again, boot slapping harder than I liked against concrete. The air felt colder now, sharp in my lungs. I keyed in the first reset with seconds to spare, waited for the confirmation tone, then turned and ran. The second task was on the far side of the lot, past loading bays that echoed my footsteps back at me at odd intervals. My handheld vibrated as the tolerance window narrowed.

I vaulted a low barrier I usually walked around, felt something twinge in my calf, and ignored it. I made it. Barely. The indicator flipped from pending to green, just as the timer expired. I leaned against the wall for a moment, hands braced on my knees, sweat cooling under my jacket. My pulse took its time settling. This was the part of the job no one talked about. the quiet aftermath when your body realized how close you'd cut it.

I logged both tasks, fingers moving faster than my breathing. When the time stamps populated, I frowned. Both were off by a minute, early on one, late on the other. I checked my watch, then the handheld. I corrected the times manually, added a brief note, and watched the system accept the edit without comment. Green across the board. Clean again.

I told myself it would be fine. Both were complete, just off. It wasn't my fault. Christmas Eve doing what it always did, compressing everything until even small errors felt loud. I moved on. A few minutes later, during a slower stretch, I pulled the log back up to reassure myself.

The original incorrect times were there again, sitting where my corrections should have been, then. The alert stopped. Just ended, mid-cycle, like someone had cut me from the system. My handheld stayed lit in my palm, screen-ready, waiting for the next instruction that didn't come. I kept walking anyway. standing still on a site this size felt worse than moving.

The lot had changed this feel. The buildings were where they'd always been, but the air pressed closer, sound behaved differently. My boot still struck concrete, but the noise didn't travel the way it should have. It fell short, absorbed, as if the space around me had decided

it didn't need to carry anything anymore. This had never happened before, on a normal shift or a Christmas Eve one. The only difference this time was mistiming a few tasks, a drastic change for something so small. I slowed without meaning to. The emptiness I relied on was gone. In its place was something fuller. The sense you get in a crowded room when everyone goes quiet at once. no movement, just the awareness that you weren't alone in the way you were supposed to be.

I told myself it was stress, a long shift compressing my perception. Still, I stopped. Behind me, something else stopped too. A pressure change, subtle but exact, like a breath being held at the same time as mine. I didn't turn around. I stood there, listening to my own pulse, suddenly conscious of how much space my body took up. Whatever was moving wasn't wondering.

It had matched my pace. And now, it was waiting. Lights dipped across a lot like someone had put a thumb over the lens of the night. But not evenly. One warehouse went dusky, while the office block stayed bright. the loading bay fluorescence thin to a weak, sickly glow. It didn't look like a power cut. It looked like the lot had started making decisions

about where the light was worth spending. I checked my handheld out of habit, expecting a cascade of tasks to explain it. The screen stayed calm, no faults or prompts. That was when I heard the sound. A slow drag. through the corridor outside the nearest offices, coming from an especially darkened hallway, heavy enough to raise the hairs in my arms, steady enough to feel deliberate.

It wasn't the staccato clatter of a loose trolley wheel or the skitter of wind-blown debris. It had weight, it had rhythm, like something moving with authority, despite the fact that I should be alone. I held still and listened, trying to place it. The drag continued. Then it paused. The corridor's glass panel gave me a slice of reflection and, for a second, it offered me a shape. Tall, folded forward, too much height packed into a hunched frame.

Something rose from his head in branching silhouettes, antler-like, catching. the weak light and brushing near the ceiling tiles as it passed. The joints didn't swing like a man's. They hinged. They clicked into the next position as if the body had rules different from mine. My mouth went dry so fast it hurt. I backed into the closest office without taking my eyes off that pain, turned the thumb latch and slowly drew the deadbolt. The lock sounded tiny in the quiet, and I prayed that the sound didn't travel to that thing. The dragging resumed, closer now. The sound didn't hurry or search.

It travelled straight like it didn't have to search and would find me eventually. I braced my hand against the desk to steady myself. My radio sat in my vest, silent, like it had been all night. Then... It woke up. A clean, mechanical phrase played to the speaker. Flat, official, old enough that I recognized it before I understood it.

Vale safe access available. I hadn't heard that line before. When I was briefed on the failsafe, it was assumed among staff that it was some sort of hardware reset in case shutdowns went wrong and bugged the system. but seeing glimpses of that thing stalking the hallways, I prayed to God it would deal with that. The problem was the failsafe wasn't in this office. It was in the central security hub in its seal case

where it sat untouched for as long as I'd worn the uniform. The dragging stopped right outside the door, and then the door took on a new weight. The handle didn't twitch, nor was it being bashed in. The pressure arrived the way someone leans their shoulder into a wall to listen through it. Casual yet intimate, certain you're staying putt. I stood there with my hand hovering over my radio, my other hand still on the desk. The pressure and the door stayed steady, like it had all the time in the world,

and it was just a matter of time before it got in. So I stayed as still as possible. I figured it must have picked up the small vibrations when the radio sounded, but I didn't turn it off. I didn't risk an ounce of sound, knowing it was just outside the door. My face was tense from only breathing in short, shallow gulps. Hard to do with my heart rate spiking. I waited until the pressure in the office door eased. the stress on the door relieved, as if it too was taking a breath of relief.

When I heard it lumber away, I moved. I didn't think in words. I followed habit. Left turn past the break room, down the service stairs two at a time. Bad swipe I'd done a thousand times without locking. The central hub was three buildings over, and I took the shortest internal route, cutting through corridors meant for carts and maintenance crows.

I kept my pace steady, running burned oxygen and made noise, and noise carried. So I was brisk, but still careful. The handheld stayed quiet in my grip, its screen glowing uselessly. Still no tasks. That scared me more than if it had been screaming. A task would give me hope that I had some agency in what was going on. But I was at the mercy of the unlawful. unknown. I caught sight of it on the way. At the far end of the loading corridor, where the

emergency lights cast long shadows, something tall crossed between them, its outline breaking into angles where joints shouldn't bend. It moved with weight, each step deliberate, hoves striking concrete with a sound I felt through my boots. I dodged between doorways, making sure not to stay too long and linear lines of sight. However, from all my ducking and crouch walking, my phone slipped out of my pocket, landing with a sharp clatter. Before I had chance to pick it up, the sound staggered toward me. I was forced to flee as quietly as possible to a hiding spot.

From there, I heard what I didn't want to hear. A glassy crunch. My phone was its first victim And I was terrified I'd be the next Another glimpse of it came in a reflection Chrome trim on a forklift Polished smooth by years of hands A silhouette behind me

Crowned with branching shapes That scraped pipes along the ceiling When I turned the space was empty But the smell lingered Cold air old hay, something burned. The central hub door came into view and my chest tightened with relief so hard

it almost slowed me down. I slipped inside, locked it and crossed straight to the wall-mounted case. The fail-safe. Gray metal, unlabeled, a red seal I'd only ever seen intact. Training videos were never specific on what it did, treated it like a theoretical, something for storms, riots, and blackouts that never came.

My hands shook as I broke the seal and pulled the handle. But my heart sank. Nothing happened. The lights didn't change. The creature still wondered. My radio stayed quiet. There was no feedback that it had done anything. The impact came a second later.

The outer office wall bowed inward with a deep, wet thud that rattled the fixtures and sent dust raining from the ceiling tiles. Glass flexed but held. Something dragged across it slowly, testing, learning the boundary. I backed into the inner office and locked myself in, just as the wall shut it again, harder this time. I had just enough time to think that I'd made it worse when a sound ripped through the night above us it wasn't an alarm or anything I could identify from years of working this job the sound from above grew fast close enough that my teeth rattled

before I could make sense of it it sounded vast tearing through the air at impossible speed followed by a concussive impact that shook the building to its bones. The building shuddered as if something immense had struck the roof and transferred its weight straight through the structure. The pressure against the wall stopped. Whatever was haunting me made a sound I hadn't heard yet. Fear.

The pressure against the wall vanished. Whatever had been leaning there pulled back with sudden urgency, and a sound tore out of it, high and sharp, stripped of patience. Panic, unmistakable and raw. Then came footsteps. Each one landed with deliberate force, heavy enough to thrum through the walls, too slow to be chasing, too confident to be cautious.

The hallway should not have been able to hold that much weight, but it did, groaning under the approach. And then, stranger still. Laughter. Low, full, and unafraid. If this was some sort of military intervention, I imagined I'd hear the chirps of radios, the cliques of rapid boots on the ground in perfect unison

to meet the creature with structure. The laughter didn't make sense. It rolled through the corridor like a presence rather than a sound, and the thing I'd been running from answered it with another shriek, closer now, desperate. I heard it surge forward. There was one impact, a single catastrophic collision that slammed through the building and left the light swinging on their mounts.

I braced for another, holding my breath, waiting for whatever survived to finish the job, nothing followed. The footsteps moved away, unhurried, fading with the weight of something that knew it had already won. Was that all it took? A creature that curled a move through tall hallways,

enough strength to bow a wall just by leaning, beaten, in one motion? I waited longer than I needed to, Long enough for my hands that stopped shaking, for the silence to settle into something that felt final. When I finally opened the door, the corridor had changed. A blackened smear streaked across the wall and floor, as if something had been burned down to residue in a single motion. At its centre sat a small, dark lump, brittle and uneven, like a piece of coal. Beside it, rested a box, bright paper, clean edges, a ribbon tied carefully at the top.

A tag hung from it, handwritten. On it was my name in neat cursive. I stood there, staring, my pulse loud in my ears, unable to reconcile the violence with a care placed beside it. and against every instinct I had left, I moved toward the nearest window. I braced for the worst, and finally looked outside. As I did, I heard the rumbling from on top of the building as whatever landed prepared to leave.

As I looked up, it was already pulling away into the clouds, just leaving. It moved with no need for else. urgency, confident it had finished this task without needing to double check. What I saw went beyond anything I was expecting. It wasn't a Chinook, a fighter jet, or anything remotely military. It was a broad, colorful shape sliding across the night, trailing faint sparkles that drifted and faded before they reach the ground. Whatever pulled it flew in formation, silhouettes rising and falling together with a childlike familiarity that made my chest tighten.

Helming the vessel was a portly figure dressed in all red. The same laugh he chortled in the hallway, echoing in the sky. I stood there longer than I should have, trying to understand what I was looking at before it disappeared entirely. The sight settled around me. Lights evened out. The low mechanical hum returned to its normal register. Censors stopped tripping. The lot felt empty again.

Properly empty. The way it always did when things were working. I went back and saw the box still sitting where it had been left. Ribbon unwrinkled, my name written neatly on the tag in ink that hadn't bled or smudged. I poked it at first. With everything that had happened, I was dubious of strange surprises. But when I saw that it was docile, I gently opened it up.

What I saw inside surprised me. It was a brand new phone. Same make as the one I just lost, but a newer model. I flipped it over a few times, and everything checked out. Just an ordinary new device. Nothing eldred about it, no devil's deal catch. I put it in my pack and read it to leave. I logged out early, noted nothing unusual in the report,

and went home with my hands still shaking on the steering wheel. Over the next few days, I heard small things through the usual channels, late shipments, minor timing errors, conflicting access logs that couldn't be reconciled. Nothing anyone wanted to dig into, during the holidays, nothing that justified a callback. I told no one what happened.

I didn't try to explain it to myself out loud either. Every version I came up with collapsed under its own weight, the job being secret containment procedures, some kind of elaborate fail-safe test I hadn't been clear to know about, and what I could only perceive as the universal vision of Santa Claus rescuing me from some Eldrous Crempus. To call it unbelievable would be an understatement, a fraction of the story enough to get me sent away for mental help.

When I came in for my next shift, everything looked normal. The checklist wasn't changed, the site map was the same. The central hub was quiet. I was ready to settle down for another year of an easy job. But out of curiosity, I checked the failsafe, which, last I saw, was used up, seal broken. It sat in its case, a new seal intact, status-like green. It had been reset, ready to be used in another emergency.

There was no note or message from management, no acknowledgement that Christmas Eve had been anything other than another shift. However, the fact that it had been reset meant that someone knew how the system worked. Someone knew when it failed and knew how to correct it. I still don't know what the job was really for. I only know that I did it, that something went wrong, and that something else showed up to fix it.