CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I'm About To Take A Bath Please, Someone Stop Me" Creepypasta

Episode Date: November 4, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by beardify: 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►Maxim Verehin: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/2x...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-

From world-wide topmerken to entrepreneurs that net begin, million-verterower on Shopify, Vercoop online, in your winkel, on Instagram, TikTok, and more. Allers from out one platform. Beheer your products, bestellings and betalings

and let me find out of your way. Start today not your gratis-proof-periodes on Shopify.b. That is Shopify. as a homeowner. Like a lot of people in my generation, I saw having a house on my own as an impossible pipe dream. And besides, I didn't want to get tied down or take on even more debt. But the house on 242 Mortuary Lane changed all that. Of all the cringy, cliche things I did after my last breakup, the only one that doesn't hurt to think about was applying for a job in a

town on the other side of the country. It was a hail-married. but all I wanted was to get out of the toxic mess I was in and into a place where I didn't know anyone and nobody else knew me. A fresh start. The video connection must have been bad enough that the interviewer couldn't make out my hungover eyes or hear the quaver in my voice

because I got the job. Although I was intimidated by the high paying responsibility, I took to it better than I'd hoped. My new co-workers were kind, quirky people who helped me to meet people and come out of my shell, and soon I'd fallen in love with the town we all called home. I was so sure about my new life that I started looking for a house to buy after only one year.

I soon discovered that rent is astronomical in this idealic little Pacific Northwestern town, and real estate prices are sky high. Even with my high salary, I doubted I'd ever be able to save enough for a down payment while also paying rent, bills, and my student loans. Every place I found was either so expensive

or so shoddy that it became a sort of dark game among my co-workers to see you could find the worst house for sale. When I first saw the ad for the Morbury Lane House, my first thought was, Okay, what's wrong with it? The split-level ranch house with a white siding and a hard-wood deck was located in a semi-forgotten neighborhood,

sandwiched between the more developed parts of downtown. Nothing suggested that crime was a problem, and the price was so low that I was sure someone had forgotten a decimal point. I booked a walk through immediately. The place was solidly built and spotlessly clean. The friendly agent explained that it had stood vacant for a few weeks since the death of the former owner, an older woman who lived alone. Apparently there were no suspicious circumstances surrounding a death. She had simply drowned in the bathtub.

up. I wondered if that was the reason for the spotlessness of the place. It was as if the cellars had wanted to scrub away every last memory of the former occupant and her death. There on the back of my neck stood up as I peered into the darkness of the bathroom. Would I really be okay living in a place where someone had died recently? I told myself that I was being silly, and in my countless moves from apartment to apartment, I had surely shared a space with the newly departed dozens of times. Suddenly, I wasn't so sure about all this, until I walked out the door and turned around to look at the place one last time. I imagine myself walking in the door after a long day of work, homely golden lights spilling out from the wide windows, maybe a dog

or a spouse to greet me at the door. The agent grinned and held out the paperwork expectantly. He already knew. A few weeks later, I was moving in. My finances were pushed the limit, signing for my first mortgage, felt like signing my soul away to the devil, with slightly worse consequences if anything went wrong. But as my pen hovered above the dotted line, I reminded myself that I'd never find an opportunity like this again.

It warned to my heart that several of my co-workers volunteered to help me move in before I even got around to asking them. Like big kids, we skidded down the vacant hallways and socks, built stuff with my heaps of cardboard boxes, and shared pizza while we stared at the bare living room wall and joked about how I could redesign the place. With a hot slice in one hand and a cold beer in the other, the laughter of friends reverberating through the empty rooms.

It felt like all was right in the world. I'd finally made it. Dude, my manager, exclaimed, wiping his hands on his pants. I think he might have a leak. He'd just come from the bathroom. Frowning, I followed him back down the hallway. Sure enough, a steady.

Drip, drip, drip, drip, resounded from the bathtub faucet. No matter how I fiddled with a knob, nothing happened. Until finally, the dripping stopped of its own accord. I resolved to call a plumber in the morning, and before long I was leaving my friends out the door from the first party in my new home exhausted from the tension

and effort of the day I collapsed onto my clean sheets without even getting undressed or taking a shower contentment washed over me as I drifted to sleep in the blue night watching the ceiling fan spin in slow circles above

a light was on in the bathroom how strange I went to investigate my footsteps echoing down the long corridor. It was the dripping again too, but this time the drops sounded like they were splashing in water. I pushed the door open.

The bathtub was half full of beautiful, clean, aquamarine water. It looked so pure and warm. A light steam rose from scrubbed white surface of the tub. Forgetting my concern about who or what had turned on the light, I reached down with my hand. The water It was perfect for a bath The fat wrinkled hand that grabbed my neck from behind

Was bloated to twice the size of what a normal human hand should be With irresistible strength It jams my head beneath the surface of the water The more I splashed and fought The more oxygen I lost Until finally I was taking deep gulps of bath water The hot liquid was pouring into my lungs I awoke with a start

The house was silent no lights, no drips, no horrible dead hands. Just me, with my hands on my chest, soaked in sweat. I went to the kitchen for a glass of water, trying to shake the horrible dream from my mind. The sweet, crisp liquid was delicious and brought me back to my senses. It was normal to have nightmares in a new place,

especially after I made such a big deal that by the previous owner's death. I was letting my own head mess with me. After another cool glass of water, I returned to bed and fell into a dreamless sleep. It took me about a week to realize I was subconsciously avoiding my own bathroom. I usually worked out at the gym across the street from work and showered there. I brushed my teeth in the shortest time possible and took care of other necessities in the smaller, toilet and sink-only bathroom on the lower floor.

I didn't think that I was still having nightmares about it, but maybe I just didn't remember them. Maybe I didn't want to remember them. Something had to be done. I went to the local store and bought the gaudiest, most garish stuff I could find. A hot pink shag rug, a lime green shower mat, a cow-themed fluffy towel set, and for some reason, a bunch of tiny cactuses. Once I decorated, I drew myself a hot bubble bath and sank blissfully into the warm water.

I closed my eyes and sighed. If this was facing my fears, it wasn't so bad. I splashed around in the bubbles until I got bored. Then went to drain the water. As my eyes opened, I swear I glimmed something grey and swollen, floating just beneath the bubbles. When I swore them away, however, it was gone, whatever it was. I tiled off, content with my conquest. I was feeling so confident, in fact, that I'd hopped back under the dating app I'd give it up on a while back and sent a few messages.

To my surprise, I soon had a date. After a few beers and a long walk around downtown, we ended up in bed at my place. I'd never had anyone's stay the night at my home before, and even though we'd just met, it felt good to fall asleep with them, nozzled up against my chest. I woke, sometime in the night, however, to find them gone. I'd prop myself up on one elbow and scanned the blue dimness on my bedroom. Had they just left? I crept to the window and opened the blinds, peering out into the lush, lamplip suburban street.

Creaking floorboards made me spin around, a shadowy figure leaned against the doorway. Hey, my date purred. Hey, yourself, I gasped. You scared the hell out of me. You could have told me your grandma lives with you, you know? They mentioned as they came back to my bed. My blood turned to ice. What? I whispered.

Yeah, they snorted. I almost walked in on her in the tub. My eyes locked on the blackness beyond the open bathroom door at the end of the hall. A shape, somehow darker than darkness itself, loosed out from the doorway. Although it made no sound, it looked and moved like a crawling, bloated human. corpse. Eyes like pale bulbs glared at me, full of hate, before lumbering off down the stairs. You're all right, my date asked, oblivious to the horror behind them. Yeah, I murmured. Just a little spout. I quickly shut the door. I pulled the covers up high, snuggled close to my date,

and closed my eyes tightly like a child, afraid of what I might see if I looked again. In the morning, the floor outside the bathroom was soaked. When my date left, I did too. I didn't have it in me to stay home alone with a shadowy hallways and nothing to break the silence except the sound of dripping water. Instead, I went to the library. I'd always looked down on the crazes who believed in exorcisms and psychics. Now I was looking them up online.

First priest I asked about an exorcism laughed and hung up. The second told me I was paying at just price for a life of sin. The third, an older man with an Irish accent, was much more kind. He suggested I put up a crucifix, place a Bible under my pillow and pray each night before bed. And if that didn't work, call him back. Most of the psychics, oddly enough, had busy or disconnected numbers. One wanted payment just to talk to me. Another promise that she could cast out the demon without leaving a trailer, if only I'd mail $200 to a P-O-box.

Once again, the third time was the charm. Chanting and bird song were in the background sounds on my next phone call. I could practically smell the incense to the phone. The pleasant young woman had a smooth, reassuring voice and promised to meet me the same evening for a reading of the house. If she couldn't solve my problem, the visit would be free, she said. Apart from earth-tone clothes and some tasteful jade jewellery, there wasn't much of the stereotypical psychic about the woman waiting in my driveway when I returned from the library.

She looked more like a professional art instructor than a hunched crone in a shore who played with crystal balls. With a smile, she shook my hand. Her name was Amy. We took a seat on the stoop while I told my story. Amy was a good listener. I have never been around bad ones to know the difference. She seemed to be taking mental notes as I spoke.

I was neither too judgmental nor too believing in responses. When I'd finished, I stood, went inside and held the door open for my new psychic friend. It was eerie, the way Amy stood perfectly still on my porch, like she was preparing herself for something. She took a deep breath, and the shadow of her hair hid her face as she stepped inside. So the bathroom where all this started is right upstairs. I began leading the way up the carpeted steps. When I turned, however, Amy had frozen again,

like she was a statue in the middle of my living room. I sighed, then waited. Amy? I asked finally. There was no response. I trudged back down the stairs, worried that she might be having some sort of attack. Her eyes were closed. It was difficult to tell if she was even breathing. Amy, I ventured again.

I reached out to touch her arm. The screen felt loud enough to shatter glass. And it kept going. Long after Amy should have worn her throat roar or run out of air. Tears roll down her cheeks from wide open eyes. I shook her, slapped her. And when that didn't work, dragged her out of the house. The moment Amy's feet touched the porch, her face returned to normal.

She backed away, tripping from my open doorway. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, she whimpered. I can't. Amy, what's going on? I called after her, alarmed. What happened? I can't. She shook her head, walking dizzily toward a car.

She locked herself inside and started the engine. You need to get out of this place. grayish black smoke poured from the exhaust of Amy's second-hand car and she peeled out clearly eager to get as far away from me as possible. I was left standing helplessly in the driveway of my apparently cursed or haunted or something house. Fear turned to anger when I went back inside and walked through my empty rooms. This was a good house. That psychic's freak out was probably either a joke, a scam or a bid for money. What I needed to do was surround myself with light, noise and people I trusted.

I suggested a party at my place that very night in the chat group I shared with my friends and co-workers. I tied it up and ordered some pizzas, glaring defiantly at the bathroom more often than not. If the ghost thought that he could handle my drunk office buddies, it was welcome to try. I was surprised and heartened by how many people showed up, but I noticed that a lot of them gave me these lingering, worried stairs. Maybe all this business with my new house and its unwanted guest had affected me more than I thought. Carol, my boss, pulled up in a pickup truck with a football table in the back. DeMarcus brought karaoke.

Before long, I was less worried about the dead old lady and more worried about a noise complaint. Clattering, curses, and two in-depth voices brought the house to life. And yet, I was filled with a feeling of foreboding. I drank more than I should have. The wall I leaned against was smooth and cool beneath my hands. Why hadn't I always walked like this? But the hallway swayed. The bathroom felt like an infinite distance away.

The bathroom door was closed, but the lights were off inside. I opened it with my body and plunged through the darkness for the toilet. I ran right into wet, bare skin. I shrieked, jumped back and threw on the light. I think Carol and DeMarcus caught half naked in the middle of their trist were more scared than I was. We all blushed and stood in awkward silence until I raised a hand to my mouth to hold down a wave of vomit and pointed out. The bedrooms down the hall, I groaned. I'm gonna.

When I woke up, someone had laid me on my side on the couch. My mouth tasted cut and dry and sour, and the darkness seemed infinite. The digital clock flickered in the blue night. I heard the sound of running water from the kitchen. I staggered in to find a markers bent over the sink, drinking water straight from the tap. Have you tasted this stuff? He garbled. It's delicious.

Once you start, you can't get enough. I grunted. Without looking back a second time, I opened the fridge and chugged some whole milk, a cure from my college days. It was probably just a myth But I was counted on the placebo effect The tap was still running when I went back to sleep The next thing to wake me Was a piercing scream

Clutch in my head I stumbled over the kitchen And the source of the sound Carol had a hand over a mouth sobbing Demarchus Or what was left of him Was still drinking water

his belly was hideously distended the good feces covered the floor around him but his dead lips were locked in a vice grip around my foreset even so the water that escaped ran down his bloated body to join with the lake that used to be my kitchen then it was my turn to scream Carol was already in the phone with the police beside me she even stayed with me when they arrived and during the brief interrogation

Mitch might have been what saved me. I was in shock and could barely even answer their questions whether yes or no without a help. I won't go into the details of the cleanup, the investigation, or how I took some vacation to visit my parents for a few weeks. I barely remember it anyway. The only thing I remember clearly

is seeing to Marcus' twisted, waterlogged body each time I closed my eyes. Terrified as I was by the presence of my house, I had to go back. It was that, or declared bankruptcy, and lose the life I'd worked so hard to build. With everything that had happened, I'd accidentally ghosted, for lack of a better word, my date from the app. I'd had a lot of sleepless nights to think since then, and I realized that to date, they were the only person who had actually seen the presence in my house.

With that in mind, I sent them a long apology message explaining what had happened. and asking for the help. I knew that I had no right to expect a response, but I got one anyway. Call me, the message said and included a contact link. Alex wasn't the name they'd given me on the app, and the number on the app wasn't what I remembered either, but the photo was the same.

I was impressed. Alex agreed to meet me at the house when I arrived. It felt good not to be. to walk into that cool, shadowy silence alone. I looked around nervously as we sat down on my couch. The place reeked of industrial cleaner. I could swear I heard a dripping noise, but the truth was that I was afraid to leave the room

and go in search of whatever was making that sound. At first, I only thought it was targeting me, or that it would go away over time, I admitted. But after what happened to Marcus... Drip. Drip. What was that? I wondered.

Alex held a chin, thinking. We're both in a lot of danger, they finally said. If you brought me over here thinking I could get rid of whatever this is for you, you're going to be disappointed. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. But I do think it prays on people when they're alone, when they're vulnerable. I figure it got your pal de Marcus while he woke up drunk and thirsty in the middle of the night. It tried to get me while I was half asleep going to the bathroom.

So maybe if we face it together, drip, drip. Are you hearing that? I blustered. Hearing what? Alex asked. You're really freaking me out now. I stood and stormed over to the stairs. That sound, like water droplets. I pointed an accusing finger at the second-story bathroom.

It's coming from in there. I didn't dare go alone, and Alex knew it. They held my hand while we walked down the hallway. The dripping became louder and louder with each step I took until I thought I'd go crazy from it, but Alex clearly heard nothing. Eyes shut tight, I gave the door a push. The bathtub was full of pristine, crystal clear water.

One by one, droplets made ripples in the glittering surface, which seemed almost the glow with its own soothing light. As soon as I saw it, I knew that I had to plunge my head into it. The cool, clear liquid would wash all these bad thoughts. It would leave me pure and clean and innocent, like a cherub. In the perfect porcelain beneath the water, there were no shadows. The next thing I remember, I was dragging myself on the hallway carpet, soaked from the waist up. I was fighting, screaming, doing anything to get back into the bathtub.

And Alex was doing all they could to stop me. You're drowning yourself, they screamed. As I finally came back into control of my body. For a while, we both lay there, panting, the open door of the bathroom looming hungrily at the end of the hallway. Finally, Alex broke the silence. Dude, have you thought about just getting rid of the... bathtub? That was exactly what I did. I had to go into even more debt to do it, but by that point I was willing to pay any price. I found myself hovering around the workers as they did

their remodeling, full of guilt for what I hadn't told them and what I was afraid might happen. Night I spent at Alex's place, we started seeing a lot more of each other since they'd saved my life. Shours I took at the gym. The way water blasted the shower head that swelled down the drain, still filled me the kind of nameless dread, but the racket of the locker room and the presence of other people helped. So did, shutting my eyes. When I did, it was harder for my brain to imagine a grey, bloated female corpse standing right behind me in the shower box.

Finally, the job was done. The workers hauled everything to some scrapyard when they left, leaving no trace of the room where the former resident had met a sorry end. Life returned to something resembling normality, and while I continue to shower in the gym, I've been able to come to terms with the strange events at 242 Morbri Lane, enough to write about it. Until this evening, I thought I put it all behind me.

Around sunset, a junky-looking pickup truck pulled up in front of the house. I could hear its rattling exhaust from the kitchen. The driver and a few ragged passengers got out, pulled a tarp off of something and started unloading it onto my yard. It was a bathtub. Her bathtub. With horrified glances at the thing they just dumped, the trespassers sped off. I don't know if they bought it, stole it or scavenged it.

I don't know how they came to know its origin. But it's back. I find myself looking over my shoulder, out the window at it while I type. The darker regets, the more shadows seem to flood from the tub toward my front door. And I'm afraid of what I'll see in my window if I look away too long. A swollen, drowned face, round and rotten as an old pumpkin. A mouth bleeding an endless flow of water. Now that the moonlight is touching it, though, there's something beautiful about that old tub.

The way it sits there, bone white on the lawn. It looks so peaceful. I think I'll go lie down in it, feel the pale light to my skin. After all, it's been such a long time since I've had a proper bath.