CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I'm a Driver for a Food Delivery App. There's a Reason We Avoid Certain Addresses" Creepypasta

Episode Date: April 18, 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 ...  ►"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

I've been driving for a food delivery app for a little over two years now. Nothing glamorous. Just one of those apps where you tap a few buttons, grab a paper bag, and drop it off at someone's doorstep. Quick money, if you don't mind the gas prices, and the occasional stress-induced ulcer. I treated it like a side hustle. Deliver a few burritos, maybe a boobity or two, and be home by midnight. But after I got laid off from my last real job, it became my main gig. The shift never technically ends.

You just drive until your body gives out while your tank hits empty. Most of it's what you'd expect. Fighting for decent tips, cursing at building numbers that don't exist, or walking up five flights of stairs for an order that says, leave at the door, do not knock in all caps. Some instructions get stranger than others I once had a guy asked me to leave his sushi Quote, in the shadow of the mailbox Someone else left a note that said

If the front door opens by itself Just leave the food and walk away Do not acknowledge her I left that one on the welcome mat And didn't even look back I wasn't about to find out if it was a prank or not A lot of us drivers talk There's an unofficial group chat we use

Nothing huge Just a few hundred regulars who post about traffic Bad restaurants And weirdest stuff the app doesn't warn you about Loose dogs, fake addresses Customers who try to pay cash And then grab the food and bolt Some drivers even swap screenshots of creepy houses

Are instructions that feel Off Most of us chalk it up to trolls or lonely people looking for attention But there are certain addresses that come up in conversation more than others Once they make everyone go quiet You learn pretty quickly which places to skip And which ones to never ask about at all There's one address that kept showing up more than any other

Same house, same street, always boosted, always ignored. Every time I opened the app late at night, there it was, highlighted like some cursed loot drop, promising three times the usual payout. Ten bucks turned into 30, 30 into 50. And still, no takers. The first time I noticed it, I asked. in the group chat. I dropped the pin, said something like,

anyone know what's up with this place? A reply came through. Don't. Seriously. The message came from a guy named Craig. I met him once when we both happened to be picking up from the same Chipotle. Nice guy, bit twitchy. I remembered him because shortly after I'd seen him there,

he stopped posting altogether. Quit delivery work completely, according to someone else in the chat, said the job was frying his nerves. I figured it was just burned out. We all get there eventually. Then one night it was slow, dead slow. My tank was half empty, my wallet even worse. Rent was due at the end of the week,

and I was already rationing breakfast into the same. two-day intervals, the address popped up again. Triple pay, only a few miles out, clean order. I stared and tapped except, I told myself, if Craig did it and lived the tell the tale, however cryptic, then so could I. The guy was clearly a little paranoid. There's no way that a house that is on this app and has been on there for as long as it has is dangerous.

You spend enough time dropping off food to people who treat you the way you would treat a vending machine with legs, and it starts to mess with your head. The order came from a local burger spot I knew well. I'd picked up from there

a dozen times before, no issues. Fry's double cheese burger, large drink. Everything was packed up tight in a stapled brown bag. I almost didn't think about it again until I was walking out the door

and one of the line cooks called out behind me Did someone finally take it? The cashier looked at the receipt Then looked at me Be safe man He muttered I delivered to a lot of weird places over the years Half-finished basements that smelled of mold

RVs parked illegally behind gas stations One guy who made made me leave a pizza on top of a tree stump. But this place felt different, for whatever reason. The neighbourhood looked like it had been tacked onto the edge of the city as an afterthought. The road was clean and newly paved, but once I turned off it, the asphalt gave way to gravel, then cracked concrete. The street signs were faded, barely legible.

Every mailbox I passed looked like it hadn't seen a delivery in years. Tilted, rust-streaked, one even dangling by a single screw. My GPS stopped giving turn by turns and just dropped a pin. No house number, just a blinking blue dot and a note that said, You've arrived. I slowed the car to a crawl and finally spotted it, wedge tightly between two larger houses like it had been squeezed in after the fact. It was narrow, with peeling siding and no numbers on the door or curb.

The porch light blinked in a lazy, irregular pattern. A set of wind chimes hung from the awning above the door, clinging together, even though the air was completely still. No visible motion inside, no shapes being. behind the curtains. But I had that prickling sensation in the back of my neck, the kind you get when someone's staring at you from a second-story window. I scanned the house once, then again. The windows were dark, the blinds drawn tight.

I sat in my car for another moment. I'll be lying if I said that all those messages in the group chat hadn't done a number on me. I was definitely feeling anxious, but I grabbed the bag and stepped out into the silence. The instructions were blunt and impersonal. Leave on the porch, do not knock, do not wait for acknowledgement. I'd seen worse. I'd set the bag just to the left of the welcome mat, careful not to block the door, took the confirmation photo, uploaded it, and marked the order has delivered. As I turned to leave, I half expected something to happen, but nothing did. No creak behind me or so much as a breath, just the wind chimes tapping lightly above my head.

I walked back to the car, slid into the driver's seat, and waited for the payment notification. It came through clean, full fare and tip included, more than I expected honestly. I pulled away, relieved, drove a few blocks, parked near a gas station and cracked the window, planning to eat something before taking another order. And that's when the app pinged a new delivery on the same address. Triple pay again. I hesitated thumb hovering over the screen. Then, I accepted it.

If I had done it once, I figured I could do it again. It wasn't like anything bad had happened. The house was weird, yeah. But weird didn't pay rent, and I was behind. The pickup was fast, one neatly packed brown bag. I made sure not to forget. anything, checked twice. The receipt was stapled at the top of the new instructions printed in bold. Leave at back door. Do not use front entrance. So, I drove back. Same street, same

dying streetlights, same wind chimes knocking together in the still air. I followed the gravel driveway around the side of the house. The grass was knee. high and busted plastic chair laying its side near the back porch half sunken into the ground, making it clear that it had been there for years. The back door was unpainted and had no handle, just a latch on the inside, akin to something from an old cellar. I set the bag down gently, snap the photo and hit complete. The payment came through almost instantly.

Tip included more than the last one. I got back in the car and drove off. I was getting tired and it was already way too late. That night I went to bed without overthinking it, slept harder than I had in weeks. The next morning I rolled over, checked my phone as always, and opened the app out of habit, and the address was there again.

No driver assigned to it. It had already been sitting in queue for 20 minutes. Double pay this time. No takers. So, I took it. The hours in that day blurred together real fast. Each time the address popped up, I accepted it. Sometimes the pay was higher, and sometimes it was the normal amount.

Yet still, It was so easy and uncomplicated that I felt like I had just struck gold. But the instructions also kept changing. Do not ring doorbell. Do not make eye contact. Place food on porch and step back six feet. Use gloves. Say nothing.

I started joking with myself about it. I told myself it was some eccentric shut in. Maybe an older person who didn't. trust the outside world. The bags were never moved, however. Every time I came back, the food I'd left earlier was still there. The containers still sealed, the receipt still stapled. Some of them had gone soggy from the morning dew. I counted 11 bags stacked on the front porch, all of them from me. That was when something in me shifted. And I started wondering,

What if the person inside was dead? What if the app was just said to auto order, schedule meals nobody ever cancelled? What if they had family who didn't check on them? What if I'd been delivering to a corpse? The idea borrowed into me. That night, when the order came through, I didn't hesitate and didn't really care how much they were paying.

I had to check if the person inside was okay. When I stepped onto the porch and placed the bag besides the others, I didn't walk away. I reached for the front door as anxiety was trying to burrow a hole into my stomach. I knocked three times. Food delivery, I shouted. No answer came. And so I decided to take matters into my own hands.

I opened the door. with a painful groan and stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind me the moment I stepped through. I didn't even touch it, didn't hear wind or pressure or anything that might have caused it. It just closed, smooth and silent. Then I heard the deadbolt slide into place with a low mechanical clunk. I turned around immediately, heart jumping in. into my throat. I tried the knob, nothing, it didn't even rattle. I jiggled it harder

than put my weight into it to no avail. I also tried getting the deadbolt unlocked at least, but I failed every time I tried. Are you serious? I muttered, half laughing but with no humor behind it. I pulled out my phone. No bars. Not a single one. The little spinning circle on the screen felt like it was mocking me. Of course.

Hey, I called out, raising my voice a little. Hello, food delivery. Silence. You would think every single home would have some sort of ambient noise. But this one didn't. Just dead air and a deafening silence. I waited for a few more seconds, trying to listen out for any movement,

or maybe even someone calling out to me from deep inside the house. But there was nothing. I didn't want to go any farther, but I told myself it was probably an old person, someone hard of hearing. Maybe they fell, maybe they had a stroke. Whatever the case, all I wanted to do was leave and call the police or the ambulance.

So I stepped forward with a full intention of getting out as soon as possible. The entryway opened into a short hallway, carpeted in a faded brown that was matted down in uneven patches. Like certain spots have been stepped on too many times and others not at all. The walls were yellowed, maybe from smoke, maybe just time, and the air smelled faintly of ammonia, layered over something harder to name, like meat left out too long in a warm room. The ceiling looked weird, strange marks have been left in the material, circular holes dotted the entire surface.

I took another step, shoes sinking slightly into the carpet. The floor creaked beneath me, slow and high-pitched. Hello, I tried again. I don't mean to intrude, I just, your door locked behind me. I reached the end of the hallway and leaned slightly to peek into the kitchen. Pale tile, mostly clean, a few dark stains near the sink. The fridge was humming and a little green light on the microwave was blinking 12 o'clock like it had never been set.

The place wasn't messy, but it didn't feel lived in either. It had the hollow, too quiet energy of a model home. Something built to look like someone was there. I hovered there for a second, right at the edge of where tile met carpet, trying to figure out what to do next. That's when I heard it. A noise from deeper in the house, a sort of raspy breathing. I leaned in just enough to get a clearer view down the hall.

That's when something moved. It wasn't loud, definitely not a crash, but I felt it more than heard it, a sudden fast shift low to the floor. I caught just the briefest flicker of it. pale skin sliding out of sight around the corner, like something had darted across on all fours. I jerked back instinctively, a cold jolt ripping through my chest. My heel slid across the linoonium, and I nearly went down. I caught myself against the wall, palm slapping into the drywall with a dull thud.

I barely noticed. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might choke me. For a second, I didn't move. Just stood there, frozen in place, the air in my lungs too tight to let out. Something was here, and it wasn't sick, and it wasn't human. I started backing toward the front door without thinking. Each step light, careful, like I didn't want the floor to know I was leaving. My eyes stayed locked on the hallway. I didn't even blink. The doorknob was slick under my hand. I twisted it hard.

I felt like a kid checking the fridge every five minutes to see if anything has changed. I kept tugging and pulling, each tug making a sound that pierced the silence. Then, I heard it again That sound But this time

It was softer Wetter The steady drag of something moving Along the floor It wasn't coming from the hallway anymore It was coming from the kitchen Right behind me

I turned around slowly And saw it It was crouched low behind the kitchen island Half-shadowed but close enough now that I could make out its shape. The thing was down on all fours. Bare, chalk white skin stretched tight over a long, rail-thin frame. Its limbs were too long for its torso,

and they bowed slightly, like they had too many joints. Its fingers, if that's what they were, scraped along the floor in slow, deliberate arcs, each tipped with yellowed, cracked neck, nails that curved like splinters. Its head moved slowly, swaying side to side like it was sniffing, but it had no nose, no eyes, just a sunken face with a slack, wet mouth hung wide open, as if it had been caught mid-scream and then forgotten how to close it.

I froze for half a second, maybe less. didn't lunge or make any aggressive gestures. It just inched forward with that same awful calm, dragging its body across the tile with a sound like wet towels sliding through broken glass. It was close enough to reach me if I hesitated. I didn't. I sprinted, angled my shoulder and drove straight into the kitchen window with everything I had. but it didn't give. It cracked, spiderwebbing beneath the impact, but held. My arm folded wrong, pain shooting through it like an electric wire.

I dropped hard, the breath knocked out of me, my back slamming against the cabinets with a dull wooden bang. I gasped for air, vision swimming, and when I looked up, it was already there. The thing was crawling toward me, fast now, faster than it had any right to move. Its limbs clacked against the tile. One of its arms flailed blindly, catching the helm of my jacket. The sound it made, somewhere between a gurgle and a rattle, was directed at me. It didn't just want to hurt me.

It wanted to feed. Nobody had stepped foot in this house for God. God knows how long, and I was the first one it had seen. I kicked hard, my boot connecting with his chest. His skin felt soft, almost spongy, but underneath was something solid. The thing recoiled slightly, but didn't stop. Its hand lashed out again, skimming my knee this time, nails grazing skin. I felt warmth, but I didn't check.

I pushed myself up with a grunt, got my hands under me and surged forward with everything I had. I slammed into it head on, my weight driving into its chest, and for a moment I thought it might hold its ground. Its limbs curled around me like cables, one of them wrapped around my forearm, pulling tight. Adrenaline surged through me as I pulled against it with everything I had. my elbow smashed into what passed for its neck once twice until it let go just enough for me to shove it sideways it crumpled onto the floor limbs tangling beneath it like a sack of broken sticks still running on whatever adrenaline i hadn't burned out in the scuffle i doubled back toward the window the crack i'd made earlier was still there spired across the glass like a frozen explosion This time I didn't brace myself, I didn't aim, I threw my whole body into it. The glass gave with a sharp staccato burst. It came apart all at once, not with a clean break, but in a thousand small shards that cut through my sleeves, my forearms, the side of my neck.

I didn't feel it right away. Just the sensation of air hitting exposed skin as I spilled through the frame and landed hard in the patchy, uneven grass outside. The fall knocked the wind out of me again, but I scrambled to my feet without thinking. Blood was running down my arms in thin, erratic lines, and my shirt stuck wet against my ribs. But I didn't stop. I didn't check behind me. I just ran.

I don't remember the drive home. Not really. Just fragments. My hands slipping on the wheel from blood. The streetlights looked brighter than the sun as I drove in the days. By the time I made it back home, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely open the first aid kit under the sink. I tore it apart trying to find gauze, tape, anything to make the bleeding slow down. I didn't try to explain it to myself.

Not anymore. I wasn't going to sit there and rationalize what I saw or what it tried to do. I called the police Not 911 Just the local station I told them I delivered to a house And found someone inside Maybe someone dangerous

I said I thought there might be a break in Or someone in need of medical help I didn't know what I was saying I just needed someone else to go there They sent a car I waited by my phone for over an hour hands bandaged in layers of gauze and paper towels. When the call came, the officer sounded...

Annoyed. He told me the resident was an elderly woman, lived alone. The cop asked me if this was some sort of internet trend. This house has been called in for things for months now, yet the police never find anything. He asked me why I felt the need to make a false report, warned me that filing again without cause could result in charges, suggested maybe I was overworked. I didn't argue.

I just apologised, hung up, and sat there in the dark. The next morning, I did what I always did. I opened the app, and there it was. Same address. No number, just the pin. Same block behind the strip mall, same flickering porch light in the preview photo. Triple pay. Order waiting to be picked up.