CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I’m a Bird Watcher. But the Thing Watching Me Back in the Trees Wasn’t a Bird." Creepypasta

Episode Date: June 22, 2025

LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...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. 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 after that damn thrush for a week. I saw it once skimming low near the canal. It was a nervous thing with a chest like it had been sprinkled with pepper. It was nothing flashy, but that glimpse left me wanting more. I think it was the fact it wasn't meant to be here. It was definitely off course. It probably caught the wrong gus somewhere south and ended up where it shouldn't have. I hadn't seen one in this area before, not in all.

the years I've been coming out here bird watching. So, I kept coming back. Every morning I put boots on before the town woke up, shove my scope in my bag, as well as some snacks and a thermos of tea, and followed the same muddy tracks through the trees. There's a battered old notice board nailed up near the canal shelter, faded from years of sun and frost.

I never meant to make a habit of checking it, but lately I couldn't help myself. It used to be the usual mess of Dog Walker ads, but now it was littered with missing persons posters. I often glanced at it on the way in, but on Monday I spotted Gareth with his uniform jacket half-buttoned up and radio clipped to his shoulder, leaning over it with a staple gun.

All right, you old sod? Garath said, glancing side. without turning fully around. Morning to you too, I said, grinning. He snorted. Back again. You're trying to court that bird or marry it.

If it starts flirting back, I'll let you know. I stepped up beside him. Who've we got today? He tapped the edge of the top sheet. It was a woman in a mid-twenties. The printout looked like it had been taken off Facebook. Below her was a boy about eight. or nine from the look of him.

Both this week, Gareth said. He's been building real slow. One here, one there. Woman and little lads always look similar, but they're never related. We're meant to keep it on the hush, but, come on.

It feels like someone's picking them out on purpose. He rubbed to the back of his neck. Problem is, this soddle to go off on. I didn't know what to say to that. Instead, I gave a quiet hum and watched him press the paper flat with the side of his hand. I see. You got a busy morning. A few more of these to stick up around town, then back to the station to pretend I know what I'm doing for hours.

Maybe sneak a cup her if the phone stops ringing long enough. Living the dream, I said. Gareth hoft and laughed through his nose and stepped back. He squinted at the board, making sure it all lined up, then gave me a serious look. If you see anything strange out there, you let me know. Just me, but you already knew I was a bit off. He gave a dry laugh, then moved on, and watched them go, then turn back to the trees. The woods out here go on longer than most people reckon.

From the main trail It all looks neat and groomed With a couple of picnic benches And the odd wooden sign pointing out butterflies or fungus But you only have to take a few Steps off the path And it all folds in on itself

It all becomes a slow, thick mess of hawthorn, older and nettles You can't avoid Where I'd seen the thrush last Was off to the left Well past the cut of the canal And into the sort of tangle that'd make most people turn around.

But, I'd grown up out here. When I was little, these woods were my patch, way before mobile phones and the estate got bigger. I used to spend hours getting lost on purpose. Me and a couple of mates built a half-rottomed den out there once. Proper deep where the brambles got thick. We nicked a couple of planks from a skip and a bit of tarp we weren't meant to have.

Back then, it felt like a bloody, fortress. I don't go in as far these days, but that thrush wasn't going to hang about on the edge trail, not after a week of me stomping through. If I wanted another lock, I'd have to push deeper. It was just past noon when I took myself low between a couple of twisted hazels and a rotted-out log that must have been down for years. Bracken came up to my knees in spots, a nasty invasive plant that looked like it was slowly infecting the entire woodlands. Then, I heard a clink, like metal on metal. It wasn't loud, but it cut clean through the trees,

and I started to ponder what it could be. Maybe someone flytipped out here, though it had take some effort, though I wouldn't put it past a few of the scruffs that live near my end of town. Either way, you don't usually hear that sort of thing that deep in. I stayed crouched and listened. It kept coming. Clink, clink.

Sometimes on its own, sometimes in twos or three. Each one seemed to come from a different spot. First to my right, then behind me, then dead ahead. It gave me a jolt, scared me enough to stiffen me up a bit. I stayed where I was, listening hard. Then, it came again. Clink. I slowly lifted myself just enough to see over the log.

It took me a second to find it. But there, perched on a low stump, was a missile thrush. I watched as it tilted its head and opened its beak to make that same metal clink, perfect and crisp. It threw me a bit. Sure, missile thrushes will copy the odd sound. but they're not known for it like some others. And even if they were, why that noise?

Out here, in the thick of the woods, there's nothing metal for miles. They must have learned it nearby, heard it enough to copy it back like that. It shifted once more, then took off. Its wings caught the light as it darted between branches and dipped through a narrow line of alder.

I followed carefully. The ground here was knotted with roots and soft underfoot, spongy in some places where the moss was thickest. I kept low, stepping where the ferns bent smoothly, moving around the trees. Brambles caught in my jacket. Occasionally I'd lose sight of the thing, but hear it again. Clink, clink. Always just ahead. I couldn't help but admire it, even with.

everything else going on. It moved with that sharp, nervous grace missile thrushes have. The patterning across his chest looked darker in the shade, almost oily, and its eyes flickered back at me now and then, like it knew I was behind it. I'd watched birds my whole life, but something about this one held me. If he had left again, then dropped out of sight. I pressed forward, pushing through a wall of damp brush. And there it was, sat atop a rusted metal roof, wings tucked in, head turning slowly. The building looked more like an old shed. It was narrow, sunken slightly into the slope, edges softened with age and dirt.

Tops have been thrown over the top and weighed down with camo netting, but they started to rot and curl back. The thing looked forgotten, as if it hadn't seen proper use in years. The door at the front was heavy duty, bolted shut, a padlock hung from the frame, rust crusted deep into the mechanism. Then I heard it again. Clink, but the bird didn't move. It stayed still on the roof, feathers flat, eyes fixed somewhere behind me. The sound hadn't come from it this time.

Clink, clink, clink, clink. This time, more sporad. I edged closer, careful not to snap any branches underfoot. A smell, something like bleach hung in the air. The noise persisted. I circled around to the far side where one of the lower panels had warped out of the frame. A gap, maybe a foot wide. I dropped to my knees, brushed the bracken aside, and pushed myself through.

Inside, it was hotter than I expected. It felt wrong straight away. The air hit the back of my throat in a way that made me want to spit, and there wasn't much light, so I pulled out my emergency torch. A floor was concrete and sloped slightly. At the far end was six cages welded straight into the ground, proper thick steel. Each one had been lived in, no question about it. it. Blankets pressed flat from use, bits of paper and string, trays with hairs in them.

Kids clothes. One had a muslin cloth, baby-sized, another had what looked like makeup, just the stub of a lipstick and a broken comb. None of it matched. None of it made sense. The last cage had a little boy in it. He couldn't have been more than seven. He was curled up in the far a corner under a blanket, blinking slow like he'd just woken up. His face was gorns but clean. He looked looked after, in the way a pet might be. No marks I could see. Then I noticed the strip of faded cloth pulled tight around the back of his head and knotted hard enough to leave a mark. A gag. Once he got a good look at me, he started moving, quick and panicked, trying to talk through the gag, pointing to the lock, then to the floor. The cage was bolted shut. I rattled it

gently, but it didn't budge. I'm going to get you out, all right, I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Just hang on. I got up and started checking the room. There was a grimy and dented surgical table in the corner, with one leg braced on bricks. On it was a scalpel, a bony knife, thin and stained, tweezers blackened at the tips, and a jar of cloudy liquid that looked like it was meant to clean them, though it hadn't been touched in a while. Most of the metal had what appeared to be dried blood crusted in the grooves. Seeing the tools turned my stomach a bit, I kept looking at them, trying to convince myself they were just old junk and that the blood was rust.

But I couldn't, not with a boy behind me. I stepped over a length of pipe and crossed to the far wall. The freezer chest was low to the ground and held shut with a thick rubber strap. A mess of jumper cables fed out the back, still hooked into the terminals of a car battery. It buzzed faintly when I touched the lid. Inside were plastic tubs stacked tight, about half a freezerful, and each was labelled. The top one read, Shannon. scalp, Benjamin, lower left arm, Shannon, teeth.

Even through the frost. I could tell they were real. I slammed the freezer shut and held the lid down for a few moments. Then I pulled out my phone and started snapping. Flash lit up the space as I took pictures of the freezer, tools and cages. I felt clumsy doing it, my hands slick with sweat, but it had to be done. I'd make sure to delete them later. I opened maps, dropped a pin where I stood,

and fired it straight off to Gareth. Found something in the woods, bad, sent my location, get here quick, and don't come alone. I turned, looking for the key, and spotted two mannequins tucked into the shadows near the back wall. One adult-sized, one child. Pinned above them on the wall were diagrams, Polaroids of the same woman and little boy,

scrap paper with rough sketches, measurements, and a shopping list of different body parts. Then, I had a lock shift. At first, I thought the boy had been able to free himself, but as I turned, the sudden flush of light flashbanged me. The shape in the doorway stood stiff, its head tilted to its left shoulder, like they were melted into each other.

I squinted to see more, but the light from outside made it difficult. All I could see was the bulk of him, broad through the chest, with one arm hanging longer than the other. He stepped in, and I raised my torch slightly. You don't want to do this, I said. My voice came out quiet and pathetic. He kept moving. The shape of him came into view. He was burned, with twisted but healed skin.

He was big. He lunged with both weight and power. I stumbled back, caught off guard, and slammed sideways into the metal frame of one of the cages. The torch clattered to the floor, spinning, light strobing around the room. He came at me again, arms wide, trying to grab hold. I dug sideways and shoved my shoulder into his ribs. He grunted and swung one arm to the side of my head.

I shoved back, using both hands, pushing him off balance to the table. He knocked it, sent tools scattering, but stayed upright. He came at me again, clumsy but fast, leading with his shoulder. I grabbed a bit of pipe or rod and brought it up between us. It slowed him and gave me just enough room to backpedal and breathe. Everything in me wanted to run, but I knew I couldn't leave the boy alone. He charged the gain, faster this time, slamming me back into the cages. My shoulder cracked the bars and sent a jolt down my arm.

I swung the pipe and clipped the side of his head. He roared, voice all torn up and broken. Get away from them. They're mine, my Shannon, my Benji. He grabbed a hand forward my jacket and yanked me forward. I twisted, kicked hard and landed somewhere near his shin. He didn't go down, but it gave me just enough space to wrench free. My ear was still ringing from the earlier blow,

a sick throat behind my eye now as something had split. He kept coming. Every breath he took sounded like it hurt, wet and uneven. full of rattling heat. The burns had wrecked his face, but there was still strength in him, more than I had. He was desperate,

and desperate men don't stop easy. I tripped, trying to dodge his next swing, landed hard on my back, ribs flaring. My grip slipped on the pipe, and it skidded out of reach. He loomed above,

mouthworking like he was trying to say more, but all that came out was a drop, bubbling rasp. His boot pressed into my leg, pinning me. I tried to twist, to roll clear, but his weight kept me pinned. My ear was still ringing, and now my ribs were burning. I couldn't catch my breath. The pressure on my leg grew sharper, harder. He was trying to crush me. The door slammed open behind him. Down! Get the hell down! The man didn't flinch, he kept going. There was a crack of Gareth's baton slamming down.

The figure reeled back a step. I kicked out hard and caught him just above the knee. He staggered sideways. I said, get on the ground. Gareth didn't stop, got behind him fast and brought the baton down again, this time across the shoulders. The man dropped. There was a grunt, and then Gareth. Gareth was on him, pinning him, coughing his wrists tight behind his back.

The figure flinched but didn't drop. Got him, Gareth barked. You're all right? I nodded, caught my breath and sweat stung my eyes. I dragged myself upright, ribs aching, and used the cages to hold myself up. We need bolt cutters, I said, voice hoarse. Now. Back up arrived quickly.

They helped pin him properly and hauled him out, kicking and spluttering like an animal, while another stayed behind to free the boy. Gareth helped me walk back through the trees, mostly acting as a support over the rough terrain. Paramedics were waiting near the path. They took me in, sat me down, gave me something for the pain, then carted me off to A&E to check for concussion and whatever else I'd rattled loose. I gave two full statements that day, then another two later in the week.

I had to repeat some of it more times than I felt like. A few days later, Gareth swung by my place with a flask and some imported cigars. We sat in the garden out back, just like we used to when we were younger. Eventually, he said, Ugly bugger, wasn't he? Yeah, I muttered. Gareth nodded, staring into his flask. Didn't even know he was still around, thought he'd left years back.

He used to live on the fringe near the old paper mill. His wife and kid died in a house fire. Poor buggers didn't make it out. He did. He always that big, I asked. Gareth huffed. Yeah, he's a big lad. Worked in salvage, I think.

used to seem down by the skip bins, hauling stuff no one else would touch. After the fire, something just snapped. We thought he moved off. I took a sip of my drink. In that shed, those women and boys, he was storing certain parts. Yeah, Gareth muttered. He wasn't just storing them. He was trying to put them back together, bit by bit.

we both went quiet. After a while, Gareth cleared his throat. It's sick, but in his head, he thought he was fixing something, putting his family right. No fixing that, I said. Not what he did. Gareth gave a slow nod. Nah, there's no coming back from that.

Did you find that bird you were looking for?