CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I'm a therapist. My client won't stop talking about Mr. Grin" Creepypasta

Episode Date: May 23, 2025

LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Saint ZanderCreepypastas 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

His voice broke the silence between us. There's actually something I've been hiding from you. I looked up from the notepad on my knee, my pen resting between my fingers. He sat with his spine drawn inward, shoulders slightly collapsed toward each other, and palms pressed flat against the tops of his thighs. A man always trying to make himself smaller.

His eyes, shadowed by fatigue, were fixed on something on the ground. I didn't say anything right away. I'd learned over time that interruptions could break fragile moments like these. I'd been his therapist for a little over a year. From the very first session, I had sensed that his pain ran deeper than most.

He had peeled it back slowly, as if uncertain whether it was even worth sharing. In that time, I'd come to know him as someone who had endured a kind of persistent misfortune that no rational explanation could account for. The world, it seemed, had made a project out of breaking him. I leaned back slightly in my chair, careful not to make the movement abrupt. The window beside us caught a thin wash of afternoon light, spilling across the rug between us. I folded my hands and asked, keeping my voice low.

What is it that you've been holding back? He shifted in his seat, fingers tapping against his knee. Whatever it was, it was hard for him to say. But something had changed. There was a weight to the moment, attention in the room that hadn't been there before. I've been able to see him for a long time, he said. But I didn't tell you because I thought you'd think it meant I was really, losing it. I didn't want you to think I was crazy. There was a brief pause. Then...

His name is Mr. Grin. Oh, well, that's what I call him. I stayed quiet and nodded slowly to encourage him. There had been no mention of him before, no allusions to a stalker or a delusion this specific. I was certain of it. There was a different presence in the room now. One shaped by the tension in his voice and the stillness in his eyes. And I remember thinking, as he kept his gaze averted and began to speak again, that whatever this was, whatever missed the grin meant to him, it had been festering for decades. It started the night my mother died, he said, I was sitting in the waiting area with my father. He took a shallow breath and kept his gaze down.

There were two vending machines in the hallway and a pay phone across from them. My father and I were just waiting for them to tell us. I already knew, though. She'd been out of it for days. He paused for a moment and scratched at the skin on his forearm through the fabric of his jacket. When the nurse came out and said it, I don't know. I guess I didn't cry.

I just sort of sat there. She gave me this little squeeze on the shoulder and walked away. My father told me to stay still while he finished something up, and that everything is going to be okay. I remember going outside. I couldn't breathe inside anymore. I went out the side entrance. There was a metal bench near the ambulance bay.

That's when I saw him, His voice cracked faintly when he said it. I leaned forward just slightly. There was a fence that ran along the edge of the lot. Past it were trees, but the hospital kept a floodlight above the utility building, so it was never completely dark out there. The light was flickering that night.

You know, when it doesn't fully cut out, just buzzes and dims. That's how it was. He was standing there, just beyond the reach. of the light. I thought maybe he was a janitor or a security guy, but he wasn't wearing a badge, just this pale white jumper, looks soft, almost fleece. The arms were long. They hung past his waist, almost to the tops of his knees. His shoulders were dropped, but curved forward,

like his back was pulling inward. I couldn't see much of his face at first. The light was behind him, but there was this, grin, I guess. The corners of his mouth stretched nearly to the side of his cheeks. His skin had these lines carved and deep, like he'd been smiling for years, and his face had just given up trying to do anything else. He lifted his hand briefly and touched the corner of his own mouth, drawing an invisible shape in the form of a smile. Then his hand fell back into his lap. I looked away for a rest of his mouth. I looked away for a second. I think I was wiping my eyes or maybe just trying to shake it off. But when I looked back, he was gone. I hadn't slept. My mama just died. I didn't even mention it to the nurses or

anyone. I just went back inside to my father and left. He raised his head slowly and met my eyes for the first time since he started talking. A strange man, right? That's all. But then I saw him again. The next time it happened was after my father passed, but the time after that would come around a decade later, he said, his voice now steadier.

It was a few months after I'd started college. I'd worked my butt off to get in, had no backup plan. Then, out of nowhere, I got this notice from the administration office saying my financial aid had been revoked. There was a discrepancy in some paperwork. They said it was a clerical error. I remember thinking, no one makes that kind of mistake, at least not by accident.

He scratched the inside of his wrist again and blinked. But he wasn't really with me in the office anymore. That night, I couldn't sleep. I was up reading emails, trying to figure out who to contact. My roommate was passed out, headphones on, snoring. I got up and walked over to the window. My dorm overlooked the quad. And there he was, his voice dropped.

Standing right in the middle of it, in the dark, arms at his sides, just the same as he had looked all those years ago, almost glowing in the moonlight. I didn't know what to think at the time. I hadn't seen him since I was a kid. I thought he was just something like a kid's delusion. He didn't move, he said. Didn't do much of anything.

Just watched. I closed the blinds and sat back of my bed, told myself I was just tired like I always did. His throat barbed slightly as he swallowed. His eyes were glassy now, though no tears came. It kept happening. Every time something fell apart. When my roommate stole from me, clean me out and vanished overnight,

I came home and found him standing at the end of the hallway outside my dorm room. He was closer then. I could see more of him. His hands moved to his temples, pressing gently. He's been there through everything When I got fired for my first real job When my girlfriend left me When I couldn't pay rent anymore

And had to sleep in my car for two weeks Always watching As these things were happening I hadn't even noticed They'd been getting closer each time I opened my mouth to finally speak But he beat me to it I don't know how long I can keep talking

I have to say this before I lose my nerves my nerve. If I think too much about it, I won't finish. I'll back out and then it'll keep eating at me. He leaned back in the chair and stared toward the floor for several seconds, then reach slowly into the front pocket of his coat. He pulled out his phone with a slow, hesitant motion. His fingers trembled faintly as he unlocked it and tapped through the screen. Here, he said, I filmed him last night, for you. He turned the screen toward me and pressed play. The footage began with a camera pointed toward the carpet.

The audio picked up a shallow breathing, occasional rustling, and the faint sound of floorboards creaking underfoot. It was dark, but the glow from the digital clock provided a faint illumination. The video shifted as he raised the floor. phone. It panned up and centered on a doorway, with the edges of the frames slightly out of focus. He said nothing while it played, just watched me and my reaction. When the video ended, I glanced back at him. He leaned forward and whispered, that's where he stands. Every night. He doesn't show up on video, but I see him. I see him.

I swear to you, I see him. He had a kind of pleading beneath the exhaustion of his expression. He wasn't trying to convince me. He wasn't even looking for validation. Have you ever considered that Mr. Grimm might be a kind of projection? A figure shaped by everything you've been through. Your grief, your isolation. Maybe something your mind created to contain the pain.

His jaw tightened. It wasn't an angry reaction. but something deeper. His fingers clenched the edge of his chair. He looked down and gave a small, sharp shake of his head. I've taken pills, he said. Resperidone, haloperidol, quidipine, for years off and on. I've seen neurologists, psychiatrists.

I even stayed in a clinic upstate for a month. Nothing touches him. He stays. His voice had gone thin, with a breathless quality, as if the words were trying to outrun something behind them. I thought about suggesting another specialist, someone who could re-evaluate his medication regimen. But before I could speak, his voice broke through again, lower now, uncertain. Would you come over tonight? he asked. Just for a bit.

Please. The word sounded awkward coming from him, as if he'd rehearsed them and was still unsure whether he should be saying them out loud. He rubbed the side of his neck, eyes fixed on the carpet. I haven't had anyone stay over in years, he continued. I don't even really talk to anyone anymore outside of here. I just... I don't want to be alone tonight.

I know he'll come. I always... know when he's going to, I hesitated. Every part of my training told me this wasn't appropriate. It blurred boundaries and created complications. I had spent a career keeping my clients at a careful distance for this exact reason. But the expression on his face disarmed me. He looked like he'd surrendered.

I nodded slowly. All right, I said. But just for a few hours, he didn't thank me. He just looked away, and I knew he hadn't been expecting me to say yes. His building sat wedged between a shuttered laundromat and a currency exchange that had lost half the letters on its sign. The sun had started to sink behind the skyline, casting long, reddish streaks across the narrow sidewalk. I buzzed his unit, and the door clicked open before. I could step back.

Oh, come in, he said, stepping aside. The space was small. The smell of dust and paper filled the air. The blinds were halfway drawn, casting broken shadows across a threadbare rug and a sagging love seat. There were stacks of books on the floor. He gestured to the kitchen table, and we sat.

He had already brewed tea, though I could tell from the wall. way he moved that he didn't usually make it for more than one. We sat quietly at first, sipping from mismatched mugs. After some small talk, something about the vulnerability of this situation made me talk about my own problems. I moved into a new place a few months ago, I said. After the divorce, it's quiet, which I thought I'd want.

But now it's there all the time. I don't know. Meals feel wrong. I still find myself reaching for her side of the bed in the morning. He looked up, surprised. I never thought about you having stuff going on. He said, I guess I always pictured you going home and just, I don't know, being fine. We both laughed.

He leaned forward a little. You know, I feel guilty sometimes. I sit here and pour all this out on you. I don't think I've ever asked how you're doing. You're not supposed to, I said, and took another sip of tea. We sat in silence, but it was no longer uncomfortable. We finished our tea just after the sky turned dark. The orange streaks along the window blinds faded into a dull, stale blue,

then vanished completely. He got up and moved towards the sky. the bedroom, gesturing for me to follow. The bedroom was sparse, a low mattress pressed into the far corner, one nightstand beside it, scratched along the edges. And a pairing knife, I looked at him. He was pulling an extra pillow from the closet, placing it at the foot of the mattress, as if he had already decided that I'd take the chair in the corner. I nodded toward the knife. Do you usually sleep with that there? He glanced back, his face neutral.

I don't use it, he said. It's just for comfort. If something ever happens, if he ever does anything. It helps me sleep knowing it's there. He wasn't defensive, but his tone didn't invite further questions either. I stared at it a moment longer, then sat down. in the chair. People kept all sorts of things near their beds. Flashlights, rosaries, baseball bats. Everyone had their own form of insurance. Still, a small ripple of unease moved through

my chest. He dimmed the lamp and sat on the edge of the bed. The room fell quiet, apart from the faint sound of traffic beyond the window. It had been nearly 15 minutes of silence. It had been nearly 15 minutes of silence when he spoke again. He's close, he whispered. I can feel him. He was staring at the far wall. His shoulders had began to curl inward. His hands gripped the edge of the mattress.

I wasn't even really sure what to say to him after this so-called Mr. Grin doesn't appear. I was sure he wouldn't, of course. My thoughts always go fast when he's near. They don't make sense. It's like I'm drowning in them, and they're pulling me lower and lower. He was describing depression kicking in. A heaviness settled across my shoulders, followed by a pressure in my chest. It felt like humidity, but without warmth.

Goose bumps rose across my arms. I rubbed to the back of my neck, trying to shake it off, but the feeling only deepened. I don't know when exactly he appeared. One moment, the corner of the room was empty. And the next, the space had changed. There was no footstep or any other indication of movement. There was only a distortion, something off in the shape of the room itself.

Not physically, but optically, as though the light around that spot had lost direction. Then he stepped forward. He was tall, his spine bent forward unnaturally, his neck stretched out, forcing his chin low toward his chest. His skin had a waxy pallor, but lacked the sheen of sweater oil. The surface looked stretched, almost preserved. His lips never parted, but they stretched wide, deeper at the corners than what should have been possible.

And his eyes, they didn't belong in a human face, clouded, milky white, with pin brick pupils buried beneath. I couldn't breathe. My body had gone still, frozen in place, or my thoughts scattered. He was real? My patient's breathing had turned jagged. The mattress creaked beneath him as he reached toward the nightstand with a trembling arm. I can't, he whispered, I can't.

He was gripping the knife. His fingers closed around it. He held it low, the blade angled toward the floor, as if unsure whether he intended to use it at all. His other hand clutched his thigh, gripping through the fabric of his pants. The muscles in his arms spasened as he tried to lift the knife. higher. But it was a weak motion. I wanted to call out to him, but my voice felt buried under a weight pressing into my chest. My legs refused to move. Every part of me had locked up. Mr. Grin, however, had no issues moving. When he reached the bed, he extended one arm. His hands closed around my

patient's wrist, the one holding the knife. The fingers wrapped around it completely. The joints of his hand flexed as he adjusted his grip, and I could see that his fingers were disturbingly long. They curved downward, wrapping over the knuckles. He didn't yank the knife like I thought he would have. Instead, he seemed to guide my patient. He led out a soft gasp, his body resisted, but his hand kept moving.

The blade rose, hovering near my patient's wrist of his free hand. I... His words fell apart beneath his breath. Mr. Grin tilted his head further, eyes fixed on the man's face. His grin never wavered. He stared as if memorizing every feature. His eyes remained unfocused, but still locked onto him. My patient seemed to try for him.

fighting back, but to no avail. Then Mr. Grin forced my patient's hand, and he started slicing the knife back and forth. The knife slid across the skin, gliding through the soft flesh and veins of the wrist.

The motion was smooth, almost tender. His body jerked as a wet gasp slipped out of his mouth. My arms felt numb, but I still couldn't move from the chair. Blood poured from the wound in waves. The patient's chest heaved once, then twice, and his eyes rolled upward. He made a sound desperately wet. The handle of the knife trembled in his hand. Mr. Grin remained still. His hand lingered on the patient's wrist for a moment longer,

then slipped away. He stepped back into the corner from where he'd come from. Then he was gone. The space he occupied simply ceased to contain him. One moment he was there, and the next, there was only the wall. I rose from the chair with a violent jolt that knocked it backward. My knees buckled for a moment, and I stumbled toward the bed. My patient was slumped forward, chin lowered. The floor beneath him had turned dark red and glossy.

I dropped to my knees beside him and reached for the knife. His fingers were still wrapped around the handle. Blood dripped from his eviscerated wrist onto the floor in thick rivulets. Hold on, I said, my voice cracked. Stay with me, please. I thought about pressing my hand into the wound to try stem the bleeding. But I heard the sirens going off in my head. My thoughts raced forward

Faster than my breath The room closed in around me I thought of the knife They would never believe I wasn't there I stood up backing toward the door The floor creaked under my feet As I reached for the handle Using the sleeves of my clothing to open it

As to not leave any prints I looked back at him once more His body had gone still His mouth hung slightly open The knife remained in his hand Then I turned And ran I spent the next day my car

I didn't go home I didn't call anyone I parked a town over in a lot Behind a closed antique store And sat with a windows cracked Until the sun went down When it got dark I drove around for hours, taking roads I hadn't used in years, trying to find intersections that didn't lead me back to anything familiar.

When I finally walked through my front door, it all felt so cold. I kept the lights off. I didn't want to see. I didn't want to look at my phone. I knew what story would be there eventually, and I didn't want to see his name in a headline. I told myself it wasn't my fault I told myself no one could have helped him But those words didn't land anywhere solid inside of me They passed through and left nothing behind Three mornings after I stopped returning calls

I stood in my kitchen and made coffee I had run out of sugar The creamer had gone sour I stirred the black liquid in slow Distracted circles my body moving through the ritual while my mind wondered. It had started raining some time before dawn, and the sidewalk across the street shone under the low light.

I glanced through the kitchen window. A man standing still beside the bus stop, half hidden behind the frame of a tree. He stood facing the window, facing me. He wore a white jumper, his shoulders sloped downward, and on his face was a wide grin. I stood motionless for nearly a full minute, then I stepped back from the glass and closed the blinds. I couldn't sleep after that.

I stayed awake with every light in the house on. I sat in bed with my laptop open, searching for something. anything that could explain what was happening. I found myself in obscure forums, threads filled with phrases like psychic contamination and shared trauma apparitions. One post mentioned a woman who claimed her husband's hallucinations had followed her after he died.

I reached out to psychics, paid a woman $200 to burn herbs in my living room. She said my home had thinned energies and left a pouch of salt under the window. Nothing changed. I visited a priest, told him I was asking for a friend. He gave me a small silver crucifix and asked if I had repented. I thanked him and walked out.

My assistant stopped calling after I missed the fourth appointment. I knew I wouldn't go back. I had no answers anymore. Nothing I could say to clients about hope or progress would hold any truth. The clinic eventually sent an email. I opened it and read the first few lines. My license would be placed under review.

My caseload had been reassigned. I closed the laptop and placed it under the bed. I sat in the hallway that night and stared at the dark space near the bathroom door. I knew he was standing there. I could feel the air pulling. Two plain-clothes officers came the following morning, one younger, soft-spoken with a notepad in hand, and the other, eyes heavy from experience. I invited them in because I didn't know what else to do.

We sat in the living room. I hadn't cleaned in days. The coffee table was cluttered with unopened mail and an empty glass with a film of dust collecting near the rim. one of them apologized for the visit before we even started We're just trying to get a sense of what you might know The younger one said We know he didn't have many people in his life But your name was one of the only ones that came up

We figured if anyone would know something It'd be you The word struck deeper than I expected I nodded slowly forcing my eyes to stay level It was hard to get him to open up, I said, but he was working through a lot. Childhood trauma, long history of loss. He always carried it alone. He ended our most recent session, telling me it would be our last one.

I was almost proud of him. I thought he'd finally made the progress he'd come here to make, but I was shocked when I heard the news. I lied. The officer wrote something down, then locked up. Hmm, yeah, it was clearly suicide. He added, clean scene. He'd recorded some thoughts and notes we found. Didn't mention you directly, but he talked of a man he spoke to,

one that helped him immensely. I stared at the grain of the table and felt something crawl into my stomach. I wish I could say I saw it coming. I lied again. The officer didn't press. They stood after a few more questions, thanked me for my cooperation. The older one paused at the door and said, You're probably carrying some of this with you.

These things, believe a mark. You should talk to someone. I gave him a smile. I will. That night, I tried to sleep on the couch. I thought maybe the change in rooms would help. I left the hallway light on. I closed my eyes for less than a minute.

When I opened them, he was there, in the corner of the room, half-shadowed by the edge of the curtain. His grin carved through the dark. My body folded in a fetal position. I pulled the blanket up to my chin and pressed my back against the cushions, as if that thin layer of cotton could shield me from whatever his presence meant. My eyes watered from the strain of keeping them open, but I didn't blink.

I missed my wife and everything I had not that long ago. He stayed there until the sun began to rise, and even then I didn't feel him leave. I made the appointment the following morning. I didn't think it through. I clicked a name on a list I booked the first available spot I just needed to speak to someone

whose voice I hadn't memorized She met me in a small office downtown I converted dental suite Judging by the layout Young, maybe early thirties I sat on a couch and started from the beginning I told her about the divorce About the years I had spent

convincing others that healing was linear about the nights I stared at the ceiling unable to name what I was feeling she wrote very little mostly she just listened and when I could no longer find ways to avoid it I looked her in the eyes and said

there's actually something I've been hiding from you a pen stopped I said it before I could talk myself out of it I told her about Mr. Grin, and then, Would you come over, just for one night? He's going to appear tonight, and... I don't want to be alone.

My voice was low, empty. All the emotion had burned out of it. She didn't answer right away. Her fingers danced slightly around the pen. Her brow furrowed with uncertainty. I could see the conflict behind her eyes. She knew the boundary I'd just crossed, knew that she should say no, but then her face softened, and she nodded once.

All right, she said, but just for a few hours.