CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "If someone offers for you to try Stepminding, don't do it." Creepypasta

Episode Date: September 14, 2024

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Saturdead:   / stepminding  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 ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creep...  ►"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

A couple of years ago, I was dating a woman named Lynn. She was deeply enthusiastic about alternative medicine. It was such a strange obsession. In every other aspect, she was insightful and critical. Hell, she was a paralegal. She just had this one blind spot that I could never figure out, and it was a big part of a life. We were together for two years.

During that time, she had me try all kinds of strange treatments and experiences. Things like acupuncture, spirit healing, crystals, Reiki, Rolphing, and even a seance. I may or may not have been asked to do ayahuasca. I went along with it because I cared deeply for her, but the cracks in our relationship had started to show. Turned out, we wouldn't last in the long run. But I don't want to talk about that relationship. I want to talk about this one treatment she took me to

and how it has shaped the life I'm living today. It's a bit complicated. I'm going to talk. About step-minding. It was an early Minnesota morning and the last session that Lynn and I would attend as a couple. We pulled into a nondescript parking lot and Lynn led me by the hand.

We had an insane fight that morning about something I can barely remember. I think it was the order you put in your yogurt when eating musley. Of course, you put musley in first, right? It's like cereal. We entered a stale waiting room. The AC must have been off for days. I could taste the air. The only other person there was a short, balding man

who spoke to us in a vaguely European accent, barely looking up from his iPad. Stevenson's, he asked. Over-exposure is room four. No, uh, that's not us, I said. We're... right, right, sorry. He sighed, wrong day. He tapped the screen a couple of times and nodded. Slip-minded, couple's treatment. Still room four. Thank you. He wondered off, and I noticed he didn't have any shoes on. I pointed it out to Lynn, who elbowed me.

She thought I was being judgmental. I just thought it was strange. I didn't want to start anything. She vehemently disagreed with my assessment. As always, we walked up to room four. The door was already open. It was a plain, windowless room with a small coffee table, surrounded by four basic office chairs.

There was a vase with a single blue flower. There was a naked light bulb overhead with nothing covering it. The floor was covered in a plain grey carpet. There was a little note on the door that urged us to take off our shoes. Then just smiled at me, as if this explained everything. I rolled my eyes. We sat down across from one another and waited. It didn't take that long before a woman wandered in.

She was in a forties, wearing a sort of knitted white wool cafton. She had a combed back flat, Ilvera-looking hairdo, and covered herself in rings, chains and bangles. She took her hands, smiling widely. I'm Dr. Bogan, she assured us. But please, call me Jane. I wasn't feeling all too confident about what we were about. to do. Jane described the procedure. Step-minded was a way to connect to one another in a new way,

giving a better understanding of what it was like to walk a mile in their shoes. There are a couple of rules to remember before we started. For example, once the treatment started, we couldn't get up from our chairs. If we did, we'd get horribly nauseous. Also, we'd get, we'd get horribly nauseous. Also, We had a sort of safety noise. If someone were to snap their fingers three times in a sequence, that it trigger a failsafe that broads us right back. All in all, it seemed odd but not like nefarious. Then we began.

Jane rhythmically snapped her fingers like someone tapping their feet to a slow song. She spoke in a monotone voice asking us to. to look down. Look at your feet, she said. Imagine the feeling of walking, the way your muscles contract and your knees bend. Think of how it makes you feel and imagine the sound you think your body makes. I don't remember the exact wording of what she told us next, but I remember how it made me feel. Without moving, we were supposed to imagine standing up, stepping up.

across and through the coffee table and sitting down on the chair of the person on the other side. Our spirit passing through them, occupying the same space. We were to imagine looking at ourselves through the eyes of the other. There was a breathing exercise following the rhythm of a finger snapping. We joined our breaths and Jane made us focus on each part of our body, leading from our toes up to the top of our heads. She called it materializing. We kept her eyes on our feet, except slowly.

They weren't my feet anymore. Now look, Jane said. Look at yourself. I was looking down at Lynn's feet. But not through my eyes. I have a hard time describing the first sensation of step-minding. Jane's finger snapping stopped, and all of a sudden, I was looking up at myself. I was sitting in Lynn's chair.

I was, for all intents and purposes, experiencing the world as Lynn. I was Lynn. My hands were smaller, more delicate. I was colder, and my clothes were uncomfortable. smell and taste felt different and I had this gnawing hunger in the back my stomach my back ached and I could feel my long hair reaching halfway down my back I was Lynn I can barely remember what I did we talked and touched each other's hands reassuring one another that we were actually experiencing this Lynn was repeating the same thing over and over.

That's me, she said. I'm looking at me. You're me. I'm you. We had a long discussion. I could feel air reverberating through my throat in a strange way. I spoke in Lynn's voice and it made my neck strain. I had to settle myself in a body and there were so many details that just didn't click.

It was so hard to focus on what was being said, and all I could think about was the way my earrings swung back and forth when I moved my head. But after about an hour, Jane snapped her fingers three times, and I was back in my chair in the blink of an eye. This is how I realized I was short-sighted. Lynn's vision had been perfect. I also felt bigger, heavier. Her world felt so different from mine. And while it didn't explain our disagreements, it gave me some insights into just how different we really were. And I made a note to get new glasses. Still, reeling from the experience, Lynn and I thanked Dr. Bogan and stepped out.

He had a strange, disoriented talk in the parking lot and broke up. It was oddly amicable, as if we both understood. that we were fundamentally incompatible. That was it. No drama, just... That's it? I thought about that day for weeks. It was so surreal.

I mean, how do you go from a literal, out-of-body experience and back to work on Monday morning? You can't pretend nothing happened. I wanted to understand it. Like, really understand it. I'd been to countless nonsensical treatments with Lynn, but this one had been the real deal. There was no denying it,

even though I desperately tried to. A couple of weeks later, I returned to Dr. Bogan on my own. I wanted to talk to her about it, the science behind it, how it functioned, how it was performed, anything. And of course,

how I had never heard of step-minding before, I met her on a rainy Wednesday afternoon. She sat me down and had her assistant offer me a cup of coffee. She explained it as calmly as she could. It was complicated, but essentially, she explained it as something based on raskin identity theory, the transfer of thought pattern through vocal meditation, exchanging vibrations and adapting electrical patterns in the brain. Every word sounded like nonsensical pseudoscience,

but it didn't change the fact of what I'd experienced, and at the end of the day, that was the only thing that really mattered. I have to see it again, I said, I need to understand this. Funny you should say that, she smiled. I think we can work something out. Jane offered me a quid pro quo.

She had a couple of patients who could benefit from a step mining session but she needed a neutral third party to act as the recipient I seemed to be a good fit I was skeptical but she had a little bonus to sweeten the deal she'd pay me a handsome sum of cash for each session as a kind of consultation fee I was a bit hesitant but I agreed One week later, I was sat on a session with Jane and one of her patients.

The patient had a dissociative issue and needed a step-minding session to alleviate a strange obsession she seemed to have with what sounded like a house plant. I didn't pay too much attention. I was nervous. I couldn't figure out why. Maybe it was the thought that what I'd experienced was real. and how that would force me to change the way I viewed the world. If a thing like step-minding exists,

who's to say there aren't ghosts or wizards? So I sat down with this stranger, and Jane started snapping her fingers. Now look, she began. Look? At yourself. Jane used the same words, the same sequence, the same rhythm.

stepping out of my body and into another. But the difference was palpable this time. Lynn had been calm and collected, but this woman was the opposite. Sitting in a body, my pulse was higher, my legs were shaking and my breathing was shallow. I was physically exhausted, but mentally wired, thoughts rushing a hundred different ways at once,

and I didn't even know why. A single second in that body, looking across my table back at myself, and I could tell they were a troubled person. I was to sit there for a while, as Jane had a discussion with the other patient. Instinctively, I stood up to leave the room, to give them privacy, but I had to sit back down. My head started spinning as all these unfamiliar muscles reacted to my input, and I couldn't get very far. Perhaps the sitting down rule was there for a good reason. I sat there trying to calm down while the two of them had a discussion. I was asked to put on headphones for a bit, and I didn't mind.

It was hard hearing anything through my pounding pulse anyway. As the session came to an end, Jane snapped her fingers and I was back in my chair. My heart rate was slower. I wasn't shaking. I was nervous, but compared to the other patient, I was an obelisk of relaxation. For a moment, looking across the table, I could see her taking a deep breath.

She was still shaking, but not as much as when we started. Perhaps that session gave her a new perspective on things. As the patient left, I got a moment to talk to Jane alone. I explained to her that if we had wheelchairs instead, the other patient could be rolled out during the session. That'd be more effective than using headphones. She really liked that idea and suggested we'd try it at the next session,

which inadvertently answered my next question. There was going to be more sessions. I worked on and off with Dr. Bogan for a couple of months. I usually did about three to five sessions per month. netting me a bonus income of about $400 per session. Jane ended up getting two wheelchairs and having her assistant, Jonathan, wheel me out while she had a conversation with the other patient. I grew accustomed to it and started to enjoy the sensation. It's sort of a pleasant ego death.

You feel more connected to the world. It was becoming a steady source of secondary income. Taking an afternoon off to get paid for something that I ultimately enjoyed. Yeah, not a bad deal. Over the upcoming weeks, I got a couple more opportunities. I joined Jane on a couple of out-of-town sessions, meeting some clients she was following up on, mostly folks who needed privacy for one reason or another,

folks with all kinds of strange afflictions. I could probably write a book about those people alone. Coming back home, Jane contacted me about doing a couple sessions where she wasn't personally involved. I was also asked to be the guide a couple of times, seeing as how I'd step-minded so many times and could recite the guiding words by heart. The pay was more than double, so I agreed. I had three guiding sessions on my own, one with a hippie couple who wanted to experience a sort of, intimacy. Let's just leave it at that. Another session with two brothers, performing a trust exercise.

The third one was a group of college kids who wanted to debunk the whole thing, and their left sort of befuddled. All in all, things were going well. Then I got a call about being a neutral third party. I was going to perform a switch with a patient. But this time, Jane wasn't involved at all. The customer went straight to me. It was a group of people who contacted me. They described it as their dad having a disorder, and they wanted to try step-minding to sort of reset him.

They'd arrange their own guide, so they just needed me as a neutral third party, someone who wouldn't freak out about the process, as it might take a couple of hours to get through to him. It would be my longest session yet, but the pay was good, and I'd tried a lot of things up until that point. I was ready. I met the client, Harold, at his home in Southern St. Cloud. Big place, three floors, gated property, with both a pool and a tennis court, modern architecture and heated floor tiles.

The guide for the evening was a cheery one. in her 40s. She gave off a bit of a college professor kind of vibe. Apart from the client himself, there was a group of four other people who seemed to be close relatives. And of course, there was Harold himself, the man I was supposed to work with. Harold was surprisingly upbeat. I couldn't see anything obviously wrong with him, which surprised me. From what I understood He was in dire need of this treatment

He was a man in his early 60s But could easily pass for 50 Hell the man had better teeth than me I could tell he must have been a salesman at some point You can tell by the smile I was introduced to the others Who introduced themselves as friends and family We hurried to the living room

Where a space had been prepared We were all seated as a group. The guide had prepared everything and offered me a reassuring smile. She took her hands, something that Jane usually didn't do. I just want to make sure we're all feeling good about this, she said. We good? We good, I nodded. We're good, Harold agreed.

And with that, the session was on. The guide said. snapped her fingers, load a voice, and took us down the mental road and across the table. By then, I knew the process. The right words were the right cadence at the right time. I sunk back in my chair, looking at my feet, and felt the world shift. After a while, my shoes looked different. They were nicer and my pants fit me better. Slowly, I started to feel. feel the reality of my borrowed body, the various aches and pains, the thinning hair, the wrinkles on my cheek when I blinked. I'd aged about 30 years in a couple of minutes, and it would take

some time adjusting. Looking up and seeing myself in the opposite chair, I got this anxious sting in my chest. The thought crossed my mind. What if I never returned? The guide excused herself and left. She'd done her job. The rest was up to Harold and his associates. But as soon as I heard the front door close, the air in the room shifted. Harold was sitting there, looking like me, stretching his arms. The others joined us, making a circle.

One of Harold's associates, a young woman who'd introduced herself as hope, spoke to the both of us. She could easily have been his daughter. How are you feeling? she asked. Everyone okay? Yeah, I nodded. You do what you gotta do. So this works?

Harold asked. This, this is it. It's done. It's done, Hope smiled. Harold pulled out a gun. A well-polished revolver. I was the only one who reacted, flinching at the sight of it. The others didn't seem to care.

I didn't know what to do. Should I be scared? If so, why was no one reacting? So then, we just cut the cord then, he said, and we're good to go. Wait, what are you? They were tricking me. They put me in their old body and had no intention of putting me back. I held up my hand and snapped my finger two times.

But before the third snap, I had a gun pushed against the back of my head. That won't help, Hope said. We'll just kill you when you're... You again. It's hard to describe what I felt in that moment. The fear was real. But there was also a longing to go back. Being out of your own body is like sleeping up.

outside. You feel exposed and maladjusted. If you know it's for a while, it's not that bad, but if there's a chance you can't go back, it becomes terrifying, like getting lost in the woods. That's not even counting for the primal terror you feel from having a gun pointed at you. Harold seemed a bit confused, which made me realize that no one had explained the rules to him, that we couldn't get up and that three snaps of a finger would cancel the effect. I got the impression that he thought

this was somehow permanent. Looking at him, I could see a worry spread across his face. My face. You said this was permanent, he said, looking at hope. It is, as long as you don't do

three finger snaps. How's that going to work when we cut him off? You're going to work. going to have to make sure you're never around someone who snaps their fingers, Harold. She smiled. That's not too much, is it? Do I have to remind you that I got the tapes to put you away? Harold snarled back. And that, if anything were to happen to me, you're done.

Nothing's going to happen, Harold. Hope chuckled. Look, you're right there, safe and sound. She pointed at me. It was as if a light turned on in Harold's eyes. He was being double-crossed, just like me. In a desperate moment he raised his handgun at me. I recalled so hard that I fell out of my chair, feeling my heart skip a beat. Cold sweat spread across my arms, clinging to the thin inner fabric of Harold's expensive blazer. But there was no gunshot, just a click.

His gun was empty. That click was a loud. the sound I'd ever heard. I came crumbling down to the floor, feeling the effects of the first rule. Don't get up. I was immediately nauseous. I felt like a bubblehead

as my head went one way and my body another. I collapsed in a pile, trying to find the magic number of blinks to make the world stop spinning. You'll never get past the safety checks, Howard screened. You'll never get the backups, you...

It's all fingerprinted, Hopeside. Fingerprinted, bio-coded, voice-checked. Sorry, a man raised his arm. There was no second click. Instead, there was a bang. I looked up with my ears ringing, watching a reflection of my dead self on the other side of the coffee table.

Bullet to the brain. Nothing but blank eyes looking back at me. My face didn't look at me. look dead. It just looks sort of tired, like I was sleepy. I was expecting that face to blink, but that blink

never came. Blood pulled at the corner of the mouth, running down from the open wound at the temple. They pulled me up and dragged me over to Harold's workstation. They used my hand to log in. I had to do a voice recognition check as

Hope's associates went through two laptops and a smartphone. While they did, Hope sat down across from me. My head was still swimming. We're gonna need you, she said. And as long as you play along, you'll be fine. But if you mess with me. She snapped her fingers twice. Ice filled my veins as I gripped my seat.

I can't imagine something good would happen if we tried this. she said, allowing her voice. So how about we just really, really pay attention? Hmm? She explained it to me. I was done for. Anyone in her crew could snap their fingers three times, and I'd be done.

This also meant I couldn't perform step-minding again, as you need a rhythmic finger-snapping as part of the process. She explained the plan. They needed Harold Alive to slowly transfer his company shares to someone else without it looking all too suspicious. They needed access to his files, both immediate and over a long term. They explained that they needed me around to make it appear that everything was fine. In return, I get to live in this amazing place with whatever comforts I could ask for, for the rest of my days.

But if I slipped up Snap, snap, snap, snap Done, fade to black It was so surreal Watching them wrap up my own body in black plastic Men in tailored blazers scrubbing the floors and walls with bleach Hope sitting across from me

Rubbing her fingers together Where do you think you'll go? She asked If I snap my fingers, where do you think you'll go? I don't know, I stuttered. I don't. Maybe you'll be fine, she shrugged. Maybe there's something nice and warm on the other side.

Or maybe the snapping doesn't even work anymore. Want to try? No. No, she smiled. No, you don't. You're smarter than that. And maybe you're not the gambling type. She typed the barrel of the gun on Harold's mahogany desk.

You can have all the parties you want. You've got a big bank account, she sighed. But maybe be careful about inviting musical people, those who stump their feet or snap their fingers. And that was that. I was left there. I had keys to a place I didn't know, a phone full of numbers I didn't recognise. I just stood there in the chlorine-smelling house of a stranger.

I didn't know what to feel. Ever since I started step-minding, I had never considered this. It was unreal. I remember looking down at my own hand, not being sure if I could snap myself out of it. What would happen? Over time, I got used to the nausea. Nowadays, it's gone. I can walk around like anyone else, but I have to avoid crowds.

I can't risk hearing those three snaps. I watch videos with the sound off and subtitles on. I only watch movies after checking the soundtrack, making sure there are no snapping in the songs. Radio is out of the question. You never know what you might hear. And even if you do, does it work hearing it through a TV or in a song? Would you risk it?

I won't. I can't. I don't think I can ever adjust. I thought about contacting people from my old life, but I wouldn't know where to begin. How do you explain this? I have to be careful not to draw any attention to myself, or hope and a cronies might return.

And if they do, well, I don't know how far I could push my luck. I mean, I'm comfortable. Harold may close the six figures a month on passive income. I've learned most things about his life. He never married, he has no children, and most of his contacts are passing acquaintances at best.

He was a lonely man, And now, that's me. I spend most of my days considering my options. I've thought about destroying my hearing as a safety measure. Yes, going death is awful. But you have no idea what it's like, living with the thought that a sound that can be done at any time by anyone can kill you. It's exhausting, and you end up isolating yourself. I'm Harold now, screaming into the void that I used to be someone else.

I'm sipping on a drink from a glass with my initials on it. And when I go to bed at night, I will do the same thing I do every night. I will take a long look at myself. I got better vision now. Harold isn't short-sighted. But I can't look at myself. I'm not there anymore. It's just Harold.