CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - ”If you find a VHS tape from 'Ғылыми қондырғы', destroy it” Creepypasta

Episode Date: December 10, 2021

CHECK OUT Soviet SCP audiodrama series► https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GXu6B...CREEPYPASTA STORY►by MikeJesus: 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►Y-mir: https://www.deviantart.com/y-mir/art/...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/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA 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-

In the basement, right by the washing machine, I have a little cardboard box that I visit whenever I need a break from reality. Collecting offbeat VHS tapes might seem like an offbeat hobby, but I've always taken some amount of pride to marching to the beat of my own drum. After all, there's a section of the population out there that likes to keep deadly snakes and poisonous insects as pets. Wouldn't say that what I do registers as particularly weird in the grand scope of humanity. I've always thought of my hobby as something harmless I do to take the edge off, as a means of injecting a sense of mystery into my day-to-day life. Yes, as I sit here trying to make sense of the tape I watched this afternoon, my quirky hobby feels a lot more sinister than it usually does.

Weird, doesn't even begin to cover it. Shaman Tape B-1 I bought the tape during one of my eBay shopping sprees months ago, but I kept his contents for a special occasion a time when I could really take a break from my regular life that time came this afternoon calling my wife a dog person would be an understatement just about every ounce of a maternal instinct

is laser focused on a two-year-old cocker Betty Laura shows her dog so much affection that I occasionally feel like a third wheel in their relationship my wife also marches to a different drumbeat hers just happens to be the beat of an excited sausage tail hitting the kitchen cupboard when lunch is being cooked she tolerates my VHS tapes I tolerate her obsession with the dog

usually it works out usually Laura was meant to have a weird dog friends over with their weird dogs for some weird dog socialisation party the whole morning she kept complaining about how Betty has been misbehaving over the past couple of weeks Her lengthy over-analysing of the dog's behaviour usually doesn't bother me

but this morning she decided that I was the reason why the dog doesn't listen to us apparently I've been feeding Betty too many treats and spoiling her Laura did not take kindly to my suggestion that the dog might just be spoiled from her treating it like a toddler by the time the weird dog people started to arrive at her house

I was already hidden in the basement I was still amped up from the argument but the cool air and the gentle smell of laundry detergent can't be soon enough. Upstairs, strangers were baby talking to animals in horror pictures, but by the time the ancient television flicked on, I was already in my happy place.

I picked out the shaman tape almost instantly. It was as if the words and the labelling reached out to me, as if they were taunting me with a mystery. Shaman tape B-1. I pushed the tape into the VCR, and prepared to see something weird. Blank spots at the start of the tape have always been marks of quality for people with my taste.

It means that the tape is not meant for public consumption. It means that we are not the intended audience. In a media landscape where every bit of content is laser focused on reaching its desired demographic bubble, a VHS tape of something you're not meant to see is worth its weight in gold. The waves of static drifted across the monitor like an infinite digital ocean.

I was no longer in a house filled with dogs. I was on a journey to see something forbidden. A lit up stage flashed into existence on the screen. The footage was grainy and mute, suggesting a film reel from the early 20th century. But the man who stood on stage felt timeless. He wore a tall feathered headdress and a long unkempt beard. In front of him, he had a little drum that he would ever be able to. absentmindedly tap from time to time.

He wasn't focused on his instrument though. His attention was elsewhere. He was looking directly into the camera. As grainy as the footage was, the shaman's stare was unavoidable. There was a suffering melancholy in his eyes. It was as if he was lying on the scene of a car crash and was looking up at someone who could help,

but decided not to. It felt like we were in the same room. He was gazing deep into my soul. We stared at each other. There was a screen between us, and even beyond that screen, there were decades of technological advancements. But the shaman from the film reel

was looking straight into my eyes. For a couple of seconds, we just stood there. Two men divided by media and time, holding uncomfortable eye contact. Then, the shaman started to see. The tape had been silent until that point, and the volume of the television was turned down to a whisper. But I heard the shaman song loud and clear.

A steady low drone came from the depths of the man's throat and echoed through my skull. His hands started to tap against the drum in rhythm. This is why I watched these tapes. For a moment I was elsewhere. For a moment I wasn't in a house filled with dogs. I was in an empty auditorium staring off with a sad mystic I was somewhere weird

but then the barking started a short burst of growls escalated into frantic yelling something was happening upstairs I wasn't in the midst of a mystic experience anymore I was just some dude watching a VHS tape beneath a weird dog party

Ryan my wife yelled from upstairs Ryan come here What is it? I yelled back. Ryan, come upstairs. It's serious. Begrudgingly, I got off the couch and walked up the stairs. Laura was holding the dog by the collar, scarcely managing to hold her balance under the animal's excitement.

Betty's mouth was wide open and her eyes were darting from side to side. The dog was eager to play. She got into a fight, my wife hissed, straddling that fine line between yelling and a whisper. I told you there's something wrong with her. Who's over-sensitive now? I shrugged. Past the dog-filled chatter from their living room,

I still heard the Shaman's song echoing in my head. I was eager to return to the basement. What do you want me to do? Take her with you so she doesn't start up again and check her for bite marks. We pull them off each other right away, but look, just make sure if you see any blood. Call me.

She hooked the dog's collar around my hand. The animal was clearly just excited. But my wife looked as if Betty had been diagnosed with something terminal. I'm going to go calm everything down, but we need to deal with this after the party, Ryan. This isn't how a regular dog behaves. Betty needs a therapist. She just seems excited. That's all.

Laura did not find my counter-argument worth responding to. She just stumped off to a weird dog friend's. Betty was irritated when I didn't let me. to follow my wife. But by the time I let the dog into the basement, she was back in good spirits. As soon as she jumped off the stairs,

she was running circles around the couch, panting with pent-up excitement. As I made my way down the stairs, however, my attention quickly shifted away from the dog. The flickering screen dimmed everything else in the room. A small, cried of people

in battered clothes, stood behind the shaman. They sang some sort of miserable hymn and looked just as tortured as a throating and mystic, yet their expression differed in one unavoidable aspect. They weren't watching me. The shaman was, past the screen of my bulky television, past the film grain and the years between us, the shaman was looking straight at me.

His eyes followed every movement I made down the stairs. In the depths of my soul, I knew what he wanted. He wanted me to understand. he wanted me to comprehend the suffering so clearly painted on his face. I sat down on the couch, ready to be sucked into the mystery of the VHS tape. The rest of the universe fizzled out. I was fully committed to listening to the shaman, to understanding his pain, to indulging in the forbidden tape. But then, Betty jumped on my lap.

She sat there for a grand total of half a second and then leaped back onto the floor. and started racing around the basement like a wild animal. I tried turning my attention back to the shaman and ignoring the frenzied dog. But when Betty nearly knocked over my television, I knew something had to be done. Betty, I yelled. She didn't listen to me. Instead, she grabbed one of my slippers and jumped around, challenging me to chase her. Betty! I yelled again, this time taking a treat out of my pocket.

The slipper dropped to the floor. In an instant, I had the dogs complete, undivided attention. Please don't be annoying, I said, and threw the bribe. It was one of those rubbery bones that advertised with a pearly tooth flabridor. Chewing on the treat would occupy her for a good couple of minutes. Satisfied with the dog snoring, I turned my attention back to the shaman. He continued to hold his low, throaty note and tap his drum, staring deep into my soul.

The crowd around him grew. Between the flickers of the screen, as if spliced into the film reel itself, new gaunt faces started to appear on the stage behind the suffering mystic. There would always be a moment of shock when they found themselves standing by the shaman, but soon enough they all joined the chorus, accompanying the mystic's performance. Betty was chewing on a dental treat next to me, but the dog's snarling was drowned out by the haunting him, bleeding out of my television. I did not understand the words that the chorus sang, but I found myself mouthing along.

The room grew even dimmer, dragging all of my focus towards the television. A wave of static washed through my ears like a gust of wind. I found myself shivering. I found myself numb. Adam Ashkoshan Kata al-Mai-di. A concerned growl came from next to me. But Betty was gone. The world beyond the television was impossible to focus on.

My body was starting to grow faint. The shaman's eyes were begging me to join him on the screen. Haddam Ashkashan Kata al-Maidi. I accepted his invitation. The reality of my basement drifted apart like dying smoke. For a mere moment I felt Betty's paws press into my lap. Before her weight disappeared off my body, she let out a single anxious bark.

It was as if she was saying, Goodbye. I found myself standing somewhere incomprehensible. The air was heavy and cold. The universe before me existed in shapeless suggestion. From the blurry outline, I could tell apart the swaying of the shaman and his tired chorus. But there was someone else in the room with me,

someone who stood next to me. His mustache was well trimmed, and he wore a clean lab coat, but his eyes were just as miserable and piercing as the shaman's. Leave, the scientist said, his voice stretched in a foreign accent. You do not belong here. Leave now or you will be trapped forever. Leave now or you will forever sing. I opened my mouth to ask about the nightmare I was stuck in to understand where I was.

But no words came from my lips. The sudden realization that I was not in control of my, my body hit me like a crumbling brick. I opened my mouth again in an effort to ask for a way out, to demand escape from the steadily sharpening image of the shaman and his chorus. This time, words came from my lips, but they weren't the ones I had intended to vocalize. Haddam Eskoshan Keta al-Mai-di. I'm sorry, friend, the scientist said.

I am sorry you have to share our curse. And then he too. started to sing. Before me, I could see the shaman. He was no longer in the universe of film grain. He was a real man, standing in front of me in the flesh. Looking into his pale eyes, I finally understood his sadness. I understood that he was trapped inside of the VHS tape.

Adam Eskoshan, Qatar, al-Mai-di. I understood that I would be trapped with him. until the end of time, singing that horrid song. Adam Eskoshan Kata al-Mai-di. Thought to the woman that I loved, of a dog, of the weird friend she kept. They felt like distant memories from a warm, detergent-scented universe I would never see again. I knew that I would spend the rest of eternity singing words I did not understand in an inescapable tortured chorus. Adam Eskashan Keta

eternity came to a close with a crash I was back in the basement before me stood an overactive cocker spaniel her little sausage tail was beating against the side of my broken television the loud crash brought a premature end to the weird dog party

as soon as my wife saw her fur baby standing in a mess of broken glass she kicked all of the weird dog friends out and spent the rest of the afternoon checking Betty's paws for shards of glass. She yelled at me for not looking after Betty properly, but my wife's anger didn't last long.

She was more concerned about getting her dog behavioral therapy. As she checked the animal's pause for the umpteenth time, she decided it was time for Betty to get a trainer. I didn't argue. I was too preoccupied, thinking about what I'd seen on the VCR. I didn't tell Laura about the tape or the shaman. For starters, I didn't want to questioning my mental state, but I was also still making sense of what happened.

That hasn't changed. I'm still trying to comprehend what I've witnessed in the basement. My VHS tapes helped me unwind, and they give me that glimpse of a bizarre corner of the universe, which I so desperately crave. But the footage from this tape has been far too much. Even as I tap out these words to my screen, a shiver travels up my spine at the mere thought of what I had witnessed. There's no way that I am ever letting go of my hobby. But if I ever come across anything to do with these tapes of my late-night eBay shopping sprees,

I'll be sure to look for my forbidding kicks elsewhere. Usually, Betty follows my wife to bed and sleeps at her feet, but tonight my wife sleeps alone. Betty has been obsessively tailing me ever since she tipped over the television It's like she knows that she saved me From an eternity of misery behind the screen It's like she's expecting her reward

I give the dog another treat As soon as the faux bone is in Betty's jowls She runs to the bedroom to churn her prize I sincerely hope that the dog's snarling Doesn't wake up my wife The last thing I need right now is another argument outside of the dog snoring, the only other sound in this tranquil suburban night is the hum of our fridge. Underneath that mechanical purr, however, there is something else.

Hidden within that familiar buzz, I hear something foreign. The shaman's low, throaty song still echoes through my soul. For a moment I tried to listen to it. I tried to understand it, but then it's something. stops. The mustache scientist was right. I don't belong in the demented realm of the shaman's tape. I belong in my bed next to my wife with a misbehaving dog at our feet.

I should go get some sleep.