CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I'm a Crane Operator on a Remote Tower Build. Something Started Climbing Up After Me" Creepypasta

Episode Date: June 26, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by goose.jpg:   / posts  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 always brought two drinks up the tower crane with me, one thermos for coffee, and a bottle for the strongest stuff. I kept it tucked deep in my rucksack, half wrapped in an old flannel to keep it from clinking. I sipped it slowly, just enough to keep the shake out of my hands as the moon rose. And up there, above the trees, no one could see. The shakes had gotten worse since I came out of. here. I wasn't proud of it, but you sit up in a steel box 140 metres off the ground with nothing but wind and birds for company. Eventually, you'd need something to pass the time. I had a book my daughter Ellie gave me on my lap, a stiff little paperback called

Field Guide to North American Cryptids in bright red lettering. It was clearly a kid's book. She'd handed it to me during my last visit back in Truro and said it was to keep me company. I laughed and told her she was nuts, but she just rolled her eyes and said, You'll read it when you're bored. She was right. When I first opened it, there was a yellow sticky note in a handwriting stuck on the front page. It read, Don't get eaten, Dad, you're too grumpy for that. Her mom doesn't let me see her much.

Not since the hearing last year. I missed a couple of pickups while working out West and couldn't get back in time, and she used that to file for full custody. She's not wrong to want stability for Ellie. I get that. But I'm trying. I really am. I take these jobs so I can pay what I owe for child support and legal payments

and maybe show the court that I'm not some deadbeat in a hard hat. The best paying ones mean common. Coming all the way out here and sleeping in a trailer six nights a week. But it's worth it if I can pick Ellie up with something new in the back seat and take her for ice cream without checking my balance first. The past few nights have been colder than expected. I pulled the bottle from my pack and took a swig. The whiskey did the trick and settled in warm under my ribs.

We were ahead of schedule. I leaned back, thumbed the edge of the book, and looked out the glass. The radio mumbled in and out. Tighten that corner. Where's that extra bracket gone? Rob, check the clearance by Tower 3. Same old stuff.

I didn't listen to most of it. I only kept my ear open for anything meant for me. Then, a new voice cut in. Hang on, there's something down by the tree line. Another voice crackled back What do you mean? I sat up, frowning Lights near the equipment trailers were still on

stretching long shadows into the brush It could have been a moose, maybe a black bear But the voices on the radio didn't sound calm Movement by Tower 4, you guys seeing that? Then came static "'Geeze, what is that?' It cut off. Panic bled through.

"'There's something out there. Something's moving. Mark, pull back. Now!' I said pull. I stood so fast the book slid off my lap and hit the floor. I leaned over the controls, fingers smudging the glass, breath fogging the inside. I wiped it with my sleeve and squinted hard, too far to see faces. But I saw movement. People were running.

One figure took off past the prefab stack, then something else broke out of the dark behind him. Low to the ground, fast. It tackled him, limbs flying. I couldn't see much, but the thing looked nothing like the workers. Someone else came running into help. The thing intercepted, lifted the guy clean off his feet, and slammed him into the floodlight tower.

It collapsed with a clang, smashed into the fuel cage. Then there was fire, bright and fast. Flames jumped from top to tire, tired to trailer. The crew scattered, the thing followed. It tore through the camp, and even from up high, I could tell it wasn't just chasing. It was hunting. More screams crackled over the radio. One was just the name over and over, another came through crying for help,

then a wet, cracking noise, and silence. Then I saw it stop, just for a second. The thing was crouched near the last standing fuel drum, half lit by the flames, and it lit it up. Elbow joints too high, there were no clothes or gear I could make out. It looked like it had huge antlers. It stayed low, almost coiled, but when the fire crept closer, it reared upright, took one step back and crawled forward again on all fours. As the fire surrounded my tower, that thing backed up to my ladders and was so far below me, I couldn't see it anymore. I stepped back from the glass, heart pounding, then moved to the rear door.

the one that covered the ladder access. I flipped the lock and pushed it open a crack. There, way, way down the steel spine of the tower. Was something moving? It climbed, slow but steady, hooking each limb over wrung after rung. Smoke hit me in the face. It was thick and full of heat. I doubled back, coughing.

My eyes watered and slammed the door. shut. My hands slipped on the latch and I locked it again. I wiped to my mouth and searched the cabin. Strapped to the side panel was a fire extinguisher. One of the heavy steel canisters dented at the top. I thought if I could get a clean hit from this height, it might cave the thing's skull in. The fire would die down eventually or help would come. I could wait it out, climb down once the smoke cleared. I snapped the clips and pulled it loose, cracked the hatch again, and leaned out. I lined up with where it was on the right side, aimed for that spot, and dropped it. I snapped the hatch shut, stopping the smoke from pouring in and watched through the glass

as the red cylinder fell briefly before it ricocheted off one of the support bars and spun once in the air. Then it clattered like a coin down a drain and tumbled somewhere out of sight. Near the bottom, the creature was frozen. One long limb hooked on the ladder rail, the other hanging loose at its side. I could see its head tilt slowly, until it was looking up. Its face, if you could call it that, was bone. From the colour, I could tell it. had no skin, no muscle.

The shape was too long and narrowed to be anything human, and it appeared more like a deer skull, but longer, with black sockets I couldn't see from here. The antlers weren't wide like a buck. They clawed back, thin and spun like charred branches. Even with the smoke and distance between us, I knew it had only just noticed me. I stumbled back.

My shoulder cracked into the wall. I searched the cabin for anything heavy like my rucksack, the radio box, even the goddamn swivel chair if I could get it loose. But there was nothing here that would hold against something like that. My hands shook as I snatched the radio and clicked the receiver, already backing toward the front window. Anyone copy? I swallowed hard.

This is Marcus up in Tower One. Is anyone there? Only static came back, and there was a slow clicking of hiss. I tried again. Anyone alive down there. Someone answer me. Someone, no, something is climbing the goddamn tower. I turned and looked down again, hoping, just hoping for some movement,

some sign of life among the smoke and flames. But there was nothing. Then Kyle came to mind. Three days ago, we'd been eating the lunch out behind the trailer, sitting on the edge of a pite stack with our boots in the dirt. He was younger than me by decades, with fresh boots and fresh gloves,

and still called the foreman sir like it was his first camp. He nudged me with his elbow while I was halfway through a sandwich. You ever see teeth in the soil before? he asked. I glanced at him. Like an animal's? He shook his head and pulled a crumpled napkin out of his jacket pocket, hesitant. He unwrapped it and held it out. Inside was a yellow tooth.

It was sharp in one end. Christ, man, I said. Is that real? He nodded. Founded by the West Tree line under some roots. Kept this one. I figured no one would believe me otherwise. I took a closer look.

Looks human. That's what I thought. There are a bunch of them in the same spot. You report it? Yeah, he said. Radioed it in as soon as we uncovered the first view. They told me it was probably old dental waste, said there used to be a field hospital up here during the war.

That doesn't explain some of the weird bones I found out here. I remember squinting past him out toward the tree line. The company had his clearing a stretch near the back boundary of the site. Apparently, the land had been untouched for decades. Some investors out east picked it up cheap and wanted the foundations for condos before ski season. The last real record was from the fire crew in the 70s and even they didn't go far.

Too steep, they said. We sat quietly for a minute after that. He wrapped the tooth back up. and slipped it into his jacket again, looking like he wasn't sure if telling me had been the right idea. That morning, Ellie called just as I was ready to sleep. See anything cool today?

She asked. I smiled. You mean besides frostbite and rusted steel? She groaned. No, like cool, cool. Animals or anything. This place is full of wildlife, right? Actually, I said.

One of the guys found some old bones, teeth actually, out by the tree line. There was a pause. Then a voice got a little sharper. Wait, really? What kind? I didn't want to spook her. Probably a coyote. Could be a fox.

We get a lot of weird stuff out here. She hummed. That's kind of gross, but also cool. Can you keep one for me? Not sure your mom would love that. She doesn't have to know. Just hide it like I do with that frog school. We'll see, I laughed.

It might be a while before I'm back. That's okay. Just don't get eaten, all right? Wouldn't dream of it. Good, she said, cheerful again. I promised I'd call the next morning. Then I stayed sitting there long after the line went dead. I checked down the ladder again.

The thing had made a lot of progress. It was maybe a court of the way up now. I wiped my damp hands and my jeans and reached for my pocket, finger shaking as I pulled out my phone. One bar, then none. I held it higher, angle toward the window. Then I unlocked the screen, thumbed 9-1-1, and hit call. There was a crackle and some words in between.

Emergency, hello? My stomach flipped. Yes, yes, I'm here. My name's Marcus Holt. I'm at a tower site off range 6. There's something down here. People are dead. It's coming up the crane.

I need help. Location. Say again. in your... Alberta, north of Jasper. It's a lease site, tower install. You need to get someone out here now. There's a fire, and something is climbing.

The line fractured. There was a low pulse of static. There's nothing but random words. You repeat? Climbing? I press the phone tighter to my ear. Yes, it's climbing. I'm at the top.

I'm trapped. You have to... Hello? Can you hear me? Hello? I stared at the screen, and after a few moments of silence, I hung up and tried again. This time, I couldn't hear anything. I lowered myself onto my chair, let the phone drop in my lap, and stared at it. My chest was tight, and I couldn't seem to breathe right. My hand trembled as I reached for the bottle again and took a small.

sip. It didn't help much. Everything was shaking now. The glass, my legs, the whole damn cab felt like it was trembling under me. I slumped back in the chair, letting it turn slightly on its swivel. The cab creaked, faint and hollow. I stared past the glass to where the fire had started, trying to find shapes in the dark. my boot knocked something and I glanced down. The book. It had landed face down in the corner. The edges were bent and some pages had fanned open underneath. I reached down, picked it up slowly and brushed the cover off with my sleeve.

The page was still dog-eared from earlier. That little yellow sticky note stuck out. I'd been using it as a bookmark. Don't get eaten, Dad. You're too grumpy for that. I ran my thumb across the handwriting. She'd use one of those thick purple pens she liked, the ones that always seemed to bleed through paper

and made her notes look messy. It hit me harder than I expected. I thought about the last time I saw her. She'd asked me to take a skating, but I didn't have enough gas money. I'd promise the next time I'd take her up to the big rink and let it rent the flashy white skates,

the ones that made it look like a figure skater. Now, I didn't know if I get to keep that promise. I stared down at the book and my eyes blurred. I wiped them with a heel of my hand, sniffed, and let the book fully fold open. Through the tears, I noticed a hand-drawn illustration, rough, like something copied from an old woodcut. It was tall, thin, crawling on all fours with a skull face and sharp antlers that twisted like burnt branches.

I stared at the drawing and my body ran cold. That skull looked exactly like what I saw on the ladder. It was in the book with a page titled The Wendigo. I read the paragraph under the name. It talked about the creature being put. born of winter starvation and cannibalism. It could never be full. It only stretched thinner the more it fed.

I traced my finger across every word. It said it brought the cold with it and left a rot smell that never faded. My hands tensed. I remembered. We had a stench following us all week. The first day, I thought maybe someone hit a buried fuel drum or septic leak.

We even talked about it over a cigarette. God, that stinks. I think we had a sewer line, Kyle asked, pulling his collar over his nose. Hell of a sewer system for the middle of nowhere, I shot back. But the smell never left. It was sour and meat sweet like wet hide in a hot trunk. No matter where we dug, it came with. We never found a pipe.

Now, I know why. And the cold. Jeez, the cold. I remember checking the weather on my phone a day before getting here. When I climbed up the first night, it was supposed to be mild, sweat or weather. Ten, maybe 15 degrees, a little breeze coming off the ridge. I left my thick gloves in the trailer and zipped my coat only halfway. By the time I hit the cab, my fingers were.

was stiff, and I had to rub them together to grip the throttle. I thought maybe the height was doing it, or that I was just run down. But even in the cab, with all that glass trapping heat from the floodlights, I stayed cold to my bones. I peeked back down the hatch, nervous. It was closer now. Its hunger seemed to have fed its speed. The shape of it came through clearer now, just like the picture.

It was more bone than skin, all joints and angles, limbs that bent in ways that made me feel sick just watching. Its spine stuck out like a ridge of knuckles and its ribs strained under something thin and grey that might have once been flesh. Its head would tilt unnaturally to the side every few rungs like it was sniffing me out. My body went soft all over. my hands were wet with sweat but still freezing cold. I pictured the thing making it to the top, but I quickly got that idea out of my head. I had something to do.

I reached for the book and I frantically scanned through the pages. Come on, I muttered. Come on, come on. My eyes dropped to the next paragraph. My fingers gripped the page tight, almost tearing it. I was desperate for anything that might stop it. Folklore varies by region, it read, but many accounts agree the creature has an aversion to fire

and can be stopped by burning it to death and or carving out its icy heart. I blinked, reading it twice. I'd watched it tear through those men like paper, wild and frenzied. But then it stopped, just for a second, right when the flames roared and surrounded my crane. It hadn't just turned away. No, it had recoiled from the heat, and now looking back.

God, it hadn't been climbing the crane for me. I've had the sick pull in my gut. The fire had been closing in fast, licking through the trailers, pushing smoke through the treetops, and circling the base of the tower. It didn't charge straight for the ladder until after the flames got too close. It had gone up the crane because it had nowhere else to go.

I stood there, book in one hand, mouth dry, and suddenly wanted to put my fist through the glass. If I hadn't dropped the goddamn extinguisher, if I just stayed quiet, maybe it would have climbed halfway up, then waited it out. Maybe it would have crawled back down once the flames died. There was a chance it never would have known I was up here. I stared down at the hatch door, my chest rising too fast, my breath catching every time it hit the back of my throat. I kept looking for something, anything I could use. The extinguisher was gone.

The radio was useless. The fire outside had started to smother itself in smoke, but it still burned hot along the south edge just below. Maybe I could time it, wait until the thing was close enough, and then shove something heavy down, knock it off the ladder. It had fall a long way, bounce off every steel bar on the way down. Maybe the fire would finish the job. But what the hell did I have to use? The chair wouldn't fit through the hatch, and even if it did, I wasn't strong enough to swing it without the thing grabbing me first.

My rucksack was too soft, and the toolbox was bolted to the floor. I had nothing solid enough, nothing sharp enough, nothing that wouldn't guarantee it tore through me before I got the chance to lift it. The truth hit me then, real and raw. There was no fighting this thing head on. I raised my bottle again, hands trembling, and took a swig in hopes it would calm my nerves,

but the second the liquor hit my tongue. I stopped. My jaw clenched. I spat it back into the bottle and coughed hard, then stared at the bottle in my hand. There was still at least half left, and for the first time, I really looked at it. It was flammable.

I held the glass tighter. Could I? Would that work? I'd seen Molotovs and movies through broken up riots on the news. I remember seeing dumb kids and balaclavas throwing them at squad cars. It was just alcohol, right?

Something strong with a rag and a flame? Was it that simple to make one? Would it explode? Just burn? Could I even get it lit fast enough before I blew up? I pulled a lighter from my pocket. I'd swiped it from Kyle earlier in the week

when he left it on the trailer step It had a scratched up image of a girl in bikini All glossy-lipped I hadn't meant to keep it But it reminded me of the old lighters from the early 2000s And I had lost mine earlier For the first time since this all started A plan began to form

Not a good one But it was something Okay, I whispered to myself. I pulled the flannel from my rucksack and dug a knife from the side pocket of my bag. I hacked a strip from the tail of it and jammed it into the mouth of the bottle, pushing it down far enough to soak up the whiskey. I tilted the bottle, watching the liquor run down the cloth, watching it darken and cling. I heard it get closer. It screaming got louder and louder.

as it pulled itself up. I would have to work quickly. I fumbled with the lighter. My fingers were too wet and shaky to keep it a light long enough. I'd erupt it on my pants that get dry enough to catch. Small but steady,

the flame bloomed, and I turned to the hatch. I flung it open and leaned out, nearly gagging from the heat and smoke that rolled back in. I looked down, and saw it very close. It would be up in minutes.

My hands moved before I could think. I held the lighter to the soaked cloth. The flame caught fast, rushing up the rag. Come on, I whispered. I raised the bottle, aimed, and threw. It fell for maybe two seconds. That was all. Then it exploded against the side of the creature's skull.

The glass shattered and flames surged. A whiskey caught and ran down its neck and shoulders in rivulets, clinging to the skin like oil, and the fire soon followed it. The Wendigo screamed a high, gurgling howl that punched up and bounced off my cab's walls, bursting my eardrums. I watched, terrified, as it slipped. caught itself again and clung tight. The fire didn't stop.

The flames crawled over its back, igniting it all over. It shrieked again, and I held the edge of the hatch with both hands, knuckles white, praying it would let go. It looked like it might climb through the fire, like nothing could stop it. For a second, it just hung there, limbs twitching, and every tendon stretched and screaming. One hand lost this grip first, then the other. The leg slid off the rail. And then, like something snapping loose in its mind, it dropped. I watched it fall.

Its limbs caught the steel on the way down, bouncing, spinning, ribs snapping loud enough to hear through the wind. It cartwheeled end over end, trailing smoke and sparks where the fire still clung to it, until it disappeared out of sight. Below, the fire still surrounded the steel of my crane, slower now, choking itself in its own smoke. I could hear pops from the tires going off in the equipment yard, one after another like dull firecrackers. Then, just the wind, the creek of metal cooling,

the low distant wine of something electrical shorting out. I closed the hatch. lean back with my head against the cold wall and let myself shake. Every inch of me felt wrung out like I'd been running a fever for hours and finally crashed. My hands smelled like burnt cotton and cheap whiskey. My mouth was dry enough to crack. And somewhere in the back of my mind was the thought I couldn't push down. That thing might not be dead.

I sat there trying to slow my breathing, listening for even the smallest noise. A clang, a footfall, anything. Nothing came. I don't know how long I sat like that. It could have been five minutes. It could have been 50. Time didn't matter much after what I just lived through. My thoughts started to drift again to Ellie.

Don't get eaten, Dad. God, what would she think if she knew how close I came? Maybe I'd win some father of the year award. The glow had shifted from violent to tired. A dark smoke column stretched into the sky like a signal flare. Anyone within 20 miles would see it. Maybe someone already had. A ranger, another sight.

Hell, one of the workers' families might have called in when they didn't check in. Emergency crews had to be on their way. They had to be. I just had to wait. Just had to stay awake. I pulled my coat tighter and curled into the corner of the cab, watching the hatch, until my eyes burned. The sky was beginning to lighten when I heard the first sirens. It was faint at first, just to rise and fall on the wind.

But enough to jump me up. right. My back cracked from being hunched too long. I crawled to the window and pressed my forehead against the cold glass. Flashing lights cut through the trees below, bouncing off smoke and debris. A few figures in Haver's jackets moved through the wreckage with flashlights and radios. I could see a fire crew trying to smother the remaining flames and someone pointing toward the base of the crane, but none of them looked up. Once I was sure it was safe, I grabbed the hatch handle and stared down. The steel rungs dropped away beneath me, some slick with dew and ash.

The whole ladder felt smaller now. The first few rungs were agony. My knees were jelly. My palms slicked twice, and each time I froze and clung tight, breathing so fast I felt like I might pass out. I forced myself to count. 10 rungs, pause, 10 more. When I was maybe halfway down, one of the responders looked up. Hey, we got someone on the tower.

Voices multiplied. Lights turned upward, suddenly blinding. A paramedic ran to the base, radio in hand, calling for a backboard. Another firefighter moved beneath me, arms raised like he could catch me if I slipped. I kept going. Ten, then five, then three. And finally, boots on solid ground. The second I touched down, my legs went out. They caught me before I fell completely,

but I hit my knees anyway, coughing and trembling. I remember someone shouting for oxygen, a hand on my shoulder and a warm blanket. But all I could do was look past them, toward the base of the ladder. It was there, crumbled in the gravel and steel debris. A blackened body, long, twisted and curled. The antlers had shattered against the lower bar.

One leg was missing entirely. The flesh had gone waxy and grey fused to the bone. It wasn't moving. It would never move again. One of the crews stepped into my line of sight, blocking the thing from view. We didn't know anyone was still up there, he said, gently, crouching. Real lucky.

I shook my head, voice horse. Not luck, I said. Just fire. He didn't get it. That was fine. I let them lift me onto the stretcher and wheel me toward the waiting rig. I got a good look at the damage. the fire had caused, and they loaded me up and reached into my jacket and felt the edge of the book

still tucked there, and I rubbed the lucky yellow sticky note between my fingers.