CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "If you find my camera, DON'T e-mail me the damn footage" Creepypasta

Episode Date: August 5, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by twocantherapper: 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►Oleh Koz: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/d8...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-

The festival season is Aangbroken, and that betekent mudder. And so, ging Kim to come to comasone.com. On the look at a waterdict tent, a comfortable lute bed,

oh, so, knus, and Lupeart print regalarze. Miao! Now, now he'll keep Kim not sure to make over the modder. Net so as the dancing

the modder man there that, oh, wait just even, has he now only modder on? Oh, yeah, only modder. DROG blithe?

Goar for. Find what you need you need to get on Amazon.com. Apologies for the aggressive title, but I'm in no mood to mess around. Snappy titles were always Ralph's thing. I hold the camera. My brain works in angles and shots, not words and phrases.

I'm only telling my story for two reasons. One, it might make it stay away from the Vegas storm tunnels. And two, if you ignore reason one, and you find my camera, this post may mean you don't follow the, If found, please return or email memory card contents to blah blah blah, blah instructions I always made a point of keeping tucked into the camera case. I can't express this enough. I never want to see what we've filmed down there.

The thought that there's even a slight chance some naive, well-meaning urban explorer could find my camera and deliver evidence to me that what I've been drinking to forget did actually happen. Well, let's just say, it pushes my sobriety further away than it's ever felt. Hopefully, after reading this, none of you will want to go knocking around down there anymore. That's kind of the goal. As my A.A. sponsor pointed out to me, nobody can find what nobody is looking for. If you've ever heard of the Storm Drain Network under Las Vegas or the homeless community that is set of a city down there,

stop reading now. I've already told you too much. You don't need to know anymore. Just stay the hell away from Vegas and live. of the best and most within life you possibly can. It's not worth a risk. There's more down there than even the most elderly of tunnel folk know. The only reason the police aren't evacuating the tunnels as we speak

is that I already tried going to them, because I'm not an idiot. They made it very clear that if I pressed the matter further, they'd have me sectioned. I'm not surprised. As soon as I started talking about this, the terror returns, and I start raving like a Well, like a lunatic. There's no other word for it. I did try. There's just no way that level of obvious abject panic,

eyes bulging to bursting point, and forehead wet with fear sweats, wouldn't be interpreted as hard drug use. For context, it was the second time I'd been to Nevada to film the tunnel community. If you search for Las Vegas tunnel community on YouTube, there's a load of videos with view counts ranking in the hundreds of thousands. even millions.

I won't say which. There's one video from a notable indie millennial focus media company. If you've seen that video, you've seen my first tour of the hidden world below Vegas. I don't want to give away any more than that for reasons you'll understand by the time we're finished. The second trip, the one with Ralph, came off the back of that. He was a Vegas native and through hearsay and gossip they come to learn that one of his former schoolmates had found their way down to a subterranean life underneath the desert. Ralph's idea for his documentary was simple. Track down his old classmate, find out the life story, and how he

ended up living in the dark storm drains below Vegas. Was a good idea. Netflix were interested in the pitch, and so was I. That's why I said yes when he tracked me down and offered me the gig. after I got off the plane we wasted no time heading to the outskirts of the city there are more than a thousand people living in the drains and not all of them take kindly to

outsiders especially ones with cameras I had a contact in the tunnels from my last visit and knew which of the wide concrete entrances we could use without risking Ralph or I never returning well that's what I thought at the time

you never know how ignorant you are until life slaps you in the face with your own stupidity. One of the reasons people are so drawn to footage and stories of the tunnel communities under Vegas is how much infrastructure the semi-permanent residents have managed to create. Water, power, even rudimentary messaging service to get news or requests between the various pockets

of subterranean activity. My contact, Trish, had access to a cell phone and, arranging for Ralph and I to meet her, was much less hassle than the process of slowly gaining a trust had been the first time around. When she met us at the entrance, I was greeted with a hug.

Ralph was greeted with a sidelong, untrusting glance. This was even after I introduced him and explained why he was here. Most of the tunnel dwellers find themselves there after living less than legal lives. Some are wanted. Cameras aren't exactly

welcome sights, so it took me a while to assure her that Ralph and I were only there to find and interview a specific person. She still seemed skeptical, but agreed to show us around. Trish was skinnier than when I saw her last, although this isn't really surprising. For all the amenities, they've managed to Jerrig down in the damp and dark. A steady and reliable supply of sustenance was never a guarantee.

These days, Trish was little more than a mess of black hair and slack skin draped across a wireframe. The track marks in her arms painted the rest of the bleak picture. Ralph was lucky he contacted me when he did, I thought. Another few months, and she may not have been around to Grandis Amnesty in the world beneath the strip. Ralph had a photo of his old schoolmate. I'll be honest, I don't remember what they look like. Ralph showed me the photo several times too.

After everything that happened, once we'd made our way deeper into the tunnels, I guess my brain felt it had more important details to hang on to. I'd happily trade any of the flashbacks and nightmares for that trivial memory, but it was just that, trivial. If you know what a MacGuffin is in movies, you'll understand why trying to scrape together what I can remember of the details Ralph gave me, as we followed Trish down the pitch-black passages. It's a waste of time.

Trish didn't know Ralph's missing person, but she told us she knew people who were. As I said, the tunnel communities had a rudimentary infrastructure, as well as communications channels. You can imagine that in such a community, safety was always a concern, especially for Trish and the other women and more vulnerable denizens. If anybody took up permanent residence in one of the dozens of pockets of encampments, the other under Vegas settlements would know your name soon. Trish decided that the best thing to do was to take us to hers and ask around. I won't romanticise it. The tunnel villages aren't all the bohemian counterculture communes

some filmmakers like to paint them as to make a statement about consumerism. Trish found a way there because her dependence on intravenous highs made life on the surface impossible during the daytime. Hers was a story of despair, a sympathy-inspiring perfect arrangement of unfortunate circumstances.

The others, though. Some of the others hid from the world above for reasons devoid of innocence, or decency. I'd had to warn Ralph about this. There were settlements which had never been filmed because people who went there never came back.

Between the 1970s and 90s, there were consistently more than 100 serial killers operating in the United States at the same time. Over 150. That's before you factor in the other real-life monsters.

A lot of people commit horrific acts and a lot of them are never caught despite years of intense searching Let's just leave it at that. It was for this reason that I instructed Ralph to stick close to me and to never shine a torchlight away from Trish. You can understand why I was so furious when, after 20 minutes of following her through the dark,

Ralph dropped the torch. Damn, he whispered. Sorry, dude, hang on. I heard him splashing and fumbling in the inches of water that lapped at her ankles. Don't worry, bro, it's waterproof. It better be, I muttered under my breath, then shouted. Trish, hold on a minute. Rouse dropped his torch. How come she doesn't need a torch?

The sound of Rouse's voice asked. Because she lives down here. She's used to it. She can basically see in the dark, right, Trish? Freaky, Rouse voice replied. Before I could listen for Trish's jokey anecdote about needing to see in the dark to find your way home when you were less than sober. It was a click, followed by the momentary blindness caused when bright lights invade pitch-black spaces.

I winced. Trish, I repeated, shielding my face from the torchlight to give my eyes a chance to readjust. Ralph continued jabbering away to himself. Dude, I'm glad I sprang for the waterproof one, you know. Wouldn't want to be stumbling down here in the dark. Can't make an award-winning documentary if you knock yourself out on a low-hanging pipe and drown in ankle-deep drain off. He laughed at his own joke, then scanned the passage with a torch beam. The light revealed stained concrete walls, scarring rats and patches of moss

cleaning to the cool moisture away from the desert. As Myers adjusted to the brightness, I realised what it hadn't revealed. Trish? I hazarded again. This time my voice faltered. The pitch at the tail end of the question, rising to pre-bubescent levels. Don't worry, bro, Ralph said, piercing the darkness in either direction with sweeps of the torchlight. She can't have gone far.

She couldn't have gone anywhere, I replied. The light had only been out for a second or two. Before it did, Trish had been stood right in front of Ralph, casting a stick-thin shadow on the rippling water as we trudged on. The water was still now, though, and Trish was no longer in front of us. She was no longer anywhere. Trish. The question bounced down the long tunnels, ricocheting off the pipes and vents peppered along the walls and ceiling.

The darkness echoed my voice back to me a few dozen times, taunting me with it, but it offered no sign of our guide. Wait, Rouse's voice came from just behind the torchbeam, the absent-minded bravado now gone. Has she actually gone? She can't have done, can she? I asked. although more to the shadows than to the ears as uninformed as Ralph's. The torch is only out for a few seconds. We'd have heard the splashing if she'd run, surely.

Ralph used the beam to poke and prod the darkness ahead some more. Aside from the occasional beaded reflections in the eyes of rats watching from various hidden cracks and holes in the walls, the way ahead was void of life. Showing the way we'd just come the same attention yielded identical results. Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it, Ralph whimpered. He shone the torch under his chin so I could see his face.

His inner brows are raised, cocky smirk gone. His trust-me-brough expression was replaced with bright eyes and a clenched jaw. I then realised the real reason he wanted an experienced guide. He'd been scared, afraid of something exactly like this happening. Listen, I told him, Don't worry. Driss probably just got spooked when you drop the torch. Let's just wait around a few minutes.

If she doesn't come back, we'll just turn around and walk the way we came, right? Ralph nodded, gulping. He didn't look too convinced as he went back to patrolling our small section of the waterlogged tunnels with the reassuring illuminations of the torch. I'll be honest, there wasn't much I could say to placate him. I'd been fully aware of how dangerous these tunnels can be before coming here. here, more so than Ralph. All my experience did for me was turn my stomach in knots. Ralph was worried we may be in trouble, but he'd sweat were forming on my hands and palms, because I knew

we were. I decided to do my best not to let him see that, though. Being stuck down here with a panic and Ralph was a much more frightening prospect than a calm one. Screams carry down here, and you don't always know who will find them. After ten minutes of waiting, Ralph shown the beam under his chin again. She's not coming, he said, his eyes still wide and darting. Take me back, now. Yeah, let's go, I replied, ignoring the barked order of his tone. It's crazy to think that, at that point, I still fully believed I'd go back to the hotel,

then return tomorrow to meet Trish again, accept her apology, then find Ralph's friend, and make a good film enough to get on Netflix. My genuine concern, as we waited back through the dank, echoy way we'd come, was making sure Ralph didn't get too spooked, he called off the project. Considering how things panned out once we reached the first splitting of the tunnels, reading out loud that those were the kinds of concerns I had, feels ridiculous. Jesus, I'm actually laughing. What an idiot I was.

Is it left or right? Ralph was stood in front of the junction where a tunnel split along two paths. He hadn't spoken since we'd set off on our return journey. The quiver at the edge of his words told me all I needed to know about how he was holding up. To be fair to Ralph, I was in exactly the same position. The sight of the tunnel forking off made me realize getting lost down here was becoming an increasingly likely outcome. Um, left, I replied. trying to mask the wavering in my own words and utterly failing.

We didn't turn any corners when we came down here, I think. Yeah? The right ones at a weird angle. We'd have noticed the turn like that, wouldn't we? Yeah, of course. Yeah, of course, yeah, of course, we'd have noticed. I admired Ralph's attempts to talk himself into confidence. The truth is, I had no idea whether we'd turn any corners before Trish vanished.

I'm pretty sure Ralph knew that too. Perhaps he was playing the same game I was. Maybe he still thought the only thing at risk was the project and our working relationship. The bobbing light ahead of me took a few steps forwards, then shot vertically towards a ceiling. Ralph yelled and there was a loud splash from the same direction. I could see in the strobe lighting from the torch spinning through the air that he'd slipped onto his ass and must have thrown it into the air as he fell. I tripped on something.

What the hell? Ow! The torch landed on Ralph's head, bouncing of his skull and landing somewhere in the water. As with the time before, the impact shocked it out of working. We were again in total darkness.

What happened? I asked, ears prickling as they started to perk up and compensate for the sudden blindness. Are you deaf? I said, bloody how that torch is heavy. I said I tripped on something,

something in the water. I could hear the splash of him fumbling around in the underspill, searching blindly for our light source. Hold on, I said. My camera is a nod attachment. You mean night vision? If you're 12, I muttered under my breath, rummaging around my case and praying I didn't drop any of my definitely not waterproof spare batteries or memory cards.

After a few minutes, I managed to hook up the nod lens, in total darkness on my ad, and with sweaty ponds. There was a ping as the camera worded. to life, and then I was bathed in the faint green glow of the LED viewfinder. I screamed so loudly, cement dust fell from the damp ceiling. At the moment the screen swam into focus, the lens had been pointed at Ralph. He was sat in the ankle-high river, sifting through the opaque liquid and a fruitless bid to find the torch.

It was also pointing at something else. Something long and slimy and pooling in the water around Ralph. Hair A tangled mess of jet black Obviously human hair At the centre of the mass A few feet away from where Ralph was crouched Was a lump

A lump that my brain Desperately tried to convince me Wasn't the back of somebody's head Unfortunately I knew this was a lie I recognised the back of that head Only half an hour ago I've been staring at it

As its owner led us through the tunnels What the hell? Ralph yelled in my direction, rising to his feet. As he did, some of the hair caught around his ankle, yanking the lump in the water. Even through the grainy view, I knew the face that turned over, staring pale-eyed and slight jawed at the ceiling. It was Trish. But it wasn't all of Trish. Other than ahead, an unkempt mass of hair. The rest of her was missing.

gone from the neck down. I registered the bile prickling the back of my throat long after it was too late to start myself puking. I bent over, retching into the wet void. Man, are you okay? What a... I grabbed Ralph in the dark and yanked him towards me away from the floating web of hair. I fumbled around for the back of his head,

pushing his face towards a screen to prove myself that I wasn't going mad. It was Ralph's turn to scream and screamy did. A piercing howl several octaves above what one would expect from a grown man. He also ran. Before I could stop him,

he bolted down the right-hand fork of the tunnel junction. I yelled out in the direction of his footsteps, but before long, the splashing and his unrestrained wailing were a distant echo on the audible horizon. To be fair to Ralph, he wasn't alone in running. Believe me, when I say though, I had no intention of spending any time around Trish's severed head.

The reason Ralph managed to disappear into the darkness before I could follow was simple. Ralph was faster than me. I pounded down the tunnels after him, my diaphragm ached, both from running faster than I have ever done, and from the unleashed panic coursing through my system. I was empathetic toward Trish and her life there in the tunnels, but I'd only met her once.

She wasn't what I call a friend, barely even an acquaintance. I know it's cowardly, but no part of me was concerned with hanging around to find out how she met her unfortunate end. I had one drive and one drive only, getting the hell out of those tunnels. Unlike Ralph, I had my camera to guide me

as I ran through the inky depths. Outside the screen, the darkness grew thicker, more crushing. The clawing smell of damp cement and stagnant water swirled and brawled in my lungs, making every pant feel like drowning. I held onto the small LED screen, latching onto it through the haze of blackness and the light spots forming at the edges of eyes. It's at that point when, by sheer accident of thumb-brushing the button, I started recording. Here is when the footage I never want to see starts. I didn't know where I was going, just that I had to get away from where I was.

The most primal, untainted human emotion. The raw fear, only those attempting to flee their own end experience. If you watch the footage, the first ten minutes is probably an almost unviewable blur of dark green as I ran to the endless pitch-black tunnels. Once you hit the eleven, maybe twelve-minute mark. You'll know what I sound like when I literally peamers. myself and call out for my mom. That's the point

I found Ralph. I only noticed him because I had to stop to catch my breath again. I was scanning the corridor ahead through the viewfinder, hoping I catch a glimpse of daylight when I noticed a dark shape on the wall. A long, organic-looking object

crudely nailed into the cement with a thick rail spike. He was a human arm. Slowly, and despite protest from literally every instinct I have, I continued to pan along the wall. It was at the third object, a dismembered leg hanging from an ankle, that the crotch of my jeans started to feel warm. It was the last object I saw, the one suspended above the other four, that I started begging

the dark to summon my mother, to make this all go away, for her to come and chase away the reality the only way a child believes her mother can. It was Ralph's face. Not his head, just his face, torn from wherever his head was and hanged from the wall on a nail, the grotesque trophy of a hunter I never wanted to meet. It's fun to put them back together afterwards, but they never move. I felt a cool breath on my left ear. The whisper ripped every scream from my lungs.

You'd probably hear it as though it was whispered right into the mic, like an air. SMR clip. It belonged to a child, except no child should speak that monotonously. No child's voice should have undertones of a blunt cleaver hacking through roadkill. You'd now be at the part of the footage I need, for my own sanity to believe isn't real. You'd see the view from the wall, hearing nothing but my rapid fire shallow breathing. Then something white would block the screen. You'd hear the faint splashes as I walked backwards away from it. You'd have to turn the volume down as it swam into focus, as my screams no doubt reached the volume that made the audio peek and distort. You'd be looking, the face of a baby, except that you'd know that it wasn't a baby.

No baby is so large that its head squashes and bulges against the ceiling. No baby's face is attached to a long, maggot-like body that fades into darkness, further into the tunnel behind than you can see. and no baby has four needle-thin arms sprouting from beneath each of its ears. You'd know what you were looking at wanted you to think it was a human baby. You'd know, deep in the most primal part of your brain, that what your eyes were seeing

wanted you to think it was a human being because of the red, dripping sack it carried in one hand and the rusted stained tools it carried in the seven others. You'd look into its lifeless, glassy eyes and you'd know in your bones why we'd evolve to fear the dark and the deep. Most of all, you'd know that it was looking right at you. And you know it knew you knew that, and that that's what it wants. You'd also count yourself lucky, because you'd only have to look at this thing for a few moments.

You'd have mere seconds of existential terror before the footage ended. Because that's when I dropped the camera. I didn't stop to think about what I'd seen. I don't think I could think. Not anymore. All I knew. All I was was run. Run now.

Don't stop. I heard old full pelt through the dark, stumbling and tripping as I went, all while trying to ignore the sensation of a cold breath on the back of my neck. Somehow I made it to the surface. I must have found an access hatch ladder or one of the other ground-level entranceways. I'm not really sure. When I came too, I was ranting to a police officer about everything I'd seen from behind the bars of a cell. They honestly didn't care about Trish's disappearance.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't expect any different. Ralph's remains were found a few days later, and he was chalked up to a victim of one of the aforementioned unsafe tunnel communities. They found none of my DNA on him or the nails holding him in place, and it was ruled I don't have the strength to drive iron into the concrete. So they let me go. I got the first flight home. That was eight months ago. I tried to forget Vegas for several weeks to move on with my life. I'd nearly managed to convince myself it had never happened that Ralph had been dismembered by a serial killer and that my brain made up the rest as a defense mechanism. It was seven months ago that I started drinking. The reason? Because one morning When I was out for a jog in my small, cold and sleepy Michigan town, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. There was a sewer grate by my feet.

On the other side of the bars, I saw something. A classy, lifeless surface reflecting the grey Michigan morning light. A face-sized baby's eye. I stood, watching it for a few moments. I just about managed to convince myself. It was my mind playing tricks in me. that it was just water at the bottom of the train. When the mirage did something unforgivable, it blinked.

Since then, I've been struggling with not drinking myself to death. I leave the house to get booze on the good weeks, attend AA meetings on the bad. I need to believe it isn't real. I need it not to be. I need the pudgy white face following me from the bottom of the river as I walk across the bridge to not exist. Even if a small kid pointed it out to his mom

I need the bus-sized maggot husk A hiker found in the forest last week to be a coincidence Or an outdoor modern art installation I need the recent disappearances of both my neighbours To be because of a nice, normal, harmless serial killer So please, if you find my camera Don't follow the instructions in the case Don't email me the damn footage

I don't want to see it I can't see it. If I see that footage, it means all of this is real, including the needle-thin arms pushing their way up through the floorboards in my basement.