CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "Itsy-bitsy spider crawled up the lonely man" Creepypasta

Episode Date: April 22, 2021

AUTHOR'S CHANNEL►https://www.youtube.com/c/MikeJesusLa...​CREEPYPASTA STORY►by MikeJesus: 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►YOSUKE ISHIKAWA: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/mD...​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/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-

For the longest time, all I could think about was how lonely I am. Every morning started with the soft rumbles of whatever audiobook I decided to put on to help me sleep. My job, being work from home, ensured that I could work from bed if I was ever tired. Even though I knew it was terrible for my back, I made that luxury, the status quo. I barely ever got up. I didn't eat much, and, on a long enough time scale, showers became a distant memory. for the longest time all I could think about

was how lonely I was but I don't anymore now all I think about are the spiders they say that Jesus' biggest miracle was having 12 close friends in his 30s even though I was 29 the sentiment echoed through my head

on a regular basis in an effort to pay rent after a round of layoffs at the bar where I worked I picked up a job managing the social media presence for a big clothing brand You've probably wore them at some point of your life And chances are that the Instagram and Facebook posts That I curated for them

Have slid across your newsfeeds once or twice over the past year You probably didn't think about those posts too hard Neither did I I I stayed in touch with some of my old co-workers from the Pavok Lounge For a couple of weeks We had a lively group chat where we reminisced about how trashy the lounge was I wasn't a bartender at the cobweb covered dive bar anymore

but at least I had a group of digital friends that I could reminisce about the good old times with. For a while, we even talked about all getting together and opening our own bar. But as time went on, and the stories ran out, we all realized that Pavok Bar was the only thing we had in common. By the time the lounge closed down, the chat was completely dead, as was my social life. My new bosses were happy with the work I was doing on the Instagram captions, but they wanted more interactions with the customers of their product. I thought that having a quota of how many comments I had to respond to a day would make me less lonely, but it did the exact opposite.

Have you ever read the comment section on a random clothing brand's photo? No normal human being feels like they have something to say about jeans in a public forum. The vast majority of the people I interacted with on the brand profiles had the social skills of frented insects. Every day I would crawl through the... the webs of the internet, and talked to the husks of humanity that just reminded me how far divided I was from real life. Every second that I spent scrolling on my phone dragged on into endlessness, yet the weeks passed in the snap of a finger. My life had become one long, lonely stay in bed

with occasional bathroom breaks, but then an investigative journalist crew snapped me out of my depressive spiral. The role of slave-waged labour in modern consumerism isn't exactly a secret. The expensive minerals in our smartphones don't just happily pop out of the ground on their own. The suicide nets set up around the third world factories aren't there for aesthetic purposes. Cheap clothing brands are an outlandish luxury to the people who weave them. People know these things, but they shrug them off with a, that sucks, but what can you do? The excuse works, but

is a lot harder to shrug off when you're watching hidden camera footage from the sweatshops. The fact that the expose about the fact was dropped during a boiling hot summer added an extra glint of relatability to the footage. After the videos went viral, my bosses scrambled to put together a response regarding the allegations.

Within a couple of hours, there was a black and white statement on all of our social media pages promising to do better, and I was given a two-week paid vacation while the corporate spin doctor to stabilize the situation. I spent the first week of my vacation sweating in bed on a never-ending catatonic scroll through

the interwebs. My entire newsfeed was filled up with automated car factory content that the algorithm presumed I liked. I didn't. I just hoped that somewhere along those videos of many armed spider god machines, I would find some semblance of social interaction, a live concert, a birthday party, anything. head, I scrolled across an advertisement. A dinky facsimile of a rainforest,

limp finds hanging from jagged plastic rocks, tufts of mist flown down from a fluorescent lit ceiling. Maseric's butterfly garden. But it wasn't the garden that caught my attention. It was the address. Butterflies lived where the Pavok lounge once stood. As I lay on that gross mattress, I decided it was.

time to get up. The rest of the world was moving on. I figured I would go check out the incessant march of time. The afternoon sun scorched everything in its path and I was drenched in a new layer of sweat within minutes. But there was a cool melancholy stirring in my veins. Even though I was going to see some dingy butterfly garden, I was taking the same commute that I would take back when I was working at the Pavok Lounge. The subway wind ruffled my hair as I rode down the escalator. The tram was just as packed and sweaty as it had been the previous summers, I could recognise the mundane bits of a happier life I had once lived. When I got to the butterfly garden, I recognised another part of my old life.

All the decor from the Pavok Lounge was gone, where neon lights and graffiti once loomed, there were conservative light fixtures and pixelated pictures of exotic butterflies, the crisp sound of classic rock that would bounce to the under, ground halls of the bar were now replaced with soulless meditation music that would fit right into a three-hour YouTube playlist. But as I walked towards the ticket stand, I could recognize a familiar hulking face. Amel! When I entered, his shaved head was bowed in complete concentration, trying to understand something on his tiny phone. Yet, as he heard his name, Amel looked up. For a split second, there wasn't a hint of recognition in those dark eyes. But, but,

But finally, A meal smiled, his chip-toothed smile. Hey, you, he said, you're one of the bartenders who used to work here, right? On some nights, back when the only bugs at the Pavarck lounge were the flies in the men's bathroom and the hungry spiders that crawled across the ceiling, I would stick around for drinks after my shift ended. A good chunk of those nights was spent hanging out with a meal, the mammoth Moravian bouncer, and chatting about life. I distinctly remembered how the man could freely transition between headbutting the groom of a drunken stag party

to excitedly talking about the puppy he had at home For a second I was hurt he didn't remember my name But I was just happy to be talking to a familiar face How's her doing these days? I asked Mentioning the dog made the mountain of muscle melt Ah, she's grown more of a horse than a pooch now starting to think that maybe I'll leave this whole security life behind me and just go live with her in the countryside.

He shifted around on his tiny chair that he was sitting on. The amount of tattoos that a meal had on his neck seemed wildly inappropriate for a butterfly garden. So you work... Uh, security here. Ah, yeah, definitely calmer out here than in the bar scene, but the bosses needed someone to take care of the crazes. The flimsy chair creaked as he leaned over to.

to me. There's some loony guys out there. Don't look any different than a regular customer, but as soon as I let them into the garden, they just start smushing the butterflies. Jesus, I said, remembering how swiftly Emil would choke out dudes who got too grope on the dance floor. Yep, recession brings out the worst in everyone, he said, cracking his swollen knuckles. What have you been up to these days? I run the social media accounts for a clothing brand, about as entertaining as a Monday night at the lounge. Social media.

The meal let out of a frustrated grunt. I don't get it. I got one of those Facebook accounts to look up tips on how to train Zoe, but he said my phone is filled up with weird factory videos. Weird factory videos? I asked, breathlessly reaching for my phone, excited that our eerie news feeds were tying us together. I have those two.

I have no idea what... Excuse me, sir. Me and my son have been waiting in line for at least five minutes. The sharp-faced woman standing behind me had a hair cut. her, a firmly put her into stereotyped territory. She looked like the type of person who enjoys talking to managers. I want to see the butterflies, Mommy. I want to see the butterflies. A snop face, gobbling yelled as he held her hand.

Would you two gentlemen mind having your personal conversation on your own time? The Karen hissed. Emil smiled and motioned me towards the butterfly garden entrance. Ex-pavoc employee discount. Enjoy. Don't smush any of the butterflies. and let's grab a beer sometime soon, Jake. My name is not Jake. But the free entry and promise of future social contact

elated me enough to let the wrong name slip by. I made my way past the corridor filled with dry academic descriptions of the butterflies I was about to see and entered the garden. The news feed advertisement didn't do Messier Egg's butterfly garden any justice. Sure, the plastic stones looked as fake as one would expect

and a few bits of natural foliage were in desperate need of a gardener, but the garden itself was in a wasis of calm in a sweaty world. A cool mist flowed down from the ceiling that made me completely forget about the heat of the summer. The artificial waterfall, intermixed

with the droning meditation music that played off the loudspeakers, saturated the garden with a legitimate feeling of peace. Bright-colored butterflies drifted through the underground room without a care in the world as I started to fantasize about a blossoming social life. A meal and me,

would eventually go grab a beer. He'd stop calling me Jake. We'd become real friends, and he would introduce me to his own social circle. A bright future tugged at my imagination. The bratty kid that the Karen had brought in kept on yelling stuff about the butterflies, but his shrieks dissipated into the cosmic calm radiating from the garden. A gentle bug adorned in regal purple landed on my wrist.

The legs of the butterfly gently crests my skin as it explored my body. I found myself thinking about how butterflies taste with their feet. I wondered how I tasted. I wondered what the alien creature thought of me, what it thought of our interaction, what it thought of humans in general. But then, as the fragile bugs sucked at my moist skin,

I felt another set of insect feet to my body. It moved down gently from my neck to my shoulder. By the time its hairy appendages caught my attention, the creature was crawling down my arm. eight skinny legs and eight black eyes. The thick bellied arachnid was creeping towards the unsuspecting butterfly on my wrist. I tensed up and reminded myself that grown men don't scream in butterfly gardens and tried to casually brush the spider off to the floor.

The creature clung to my body with an imperceptible tightness and as soon as my hand passed over it there was an octet of black marble staring daggers into my soul. I didn't want to move. I didn't want it on my hand. We were at an impasse. I tried to brush the spider off again, but before I even raised my hand, the creature retaliated.

Hairy fangs pinched my skin with the intensity of a branding iron. Ah! I yelled. My reflexes kicked in. A sharp slap cut across the meditative mood of the garden. The regal butterfly fled frantically from my wrist towards the fluorescent lights above. Mommy, mommy, that man killed a butterfly.

A scream came from behind me. The contents of the butterfly sack were oozing beneath my palm. It wasn't a butterfly, it was a... You're sick. Why would you kill an innocent butterfly? Why would you come here and murder those beautiful creatures in front of my child? The Karen screamed in a shrill voice. You should be ashamed to yourself. Freaks like you should be locked up.

Security! Before I'd explain that I held no hatred towards butterflies, the door to the garden burst open and a raging bull of a man approached me. Did you smush a butterfly, Jake? Emil screamed with the type of fury in his eyes that I thought was reserved solely for the people who vomit on the bar.

Yes, he did. Throw him out, call the cops. He's a butterfly-killing psychopath. The Karen screamed almost joyfully. What did I tell you about smushing the butterflies, Jake? My name's not... Amel ended any chance for me to explain myself when his thick school connected to my fragile nose.

we were not going to be grabbing a beer any time soon. I bought some frozen peas to ease the pain that was burning in my nose and arm. I also grabbed some rice and a couple of chicken fillets in the hopes of treating myself to a home-cooked dinner. But by the time I got home, any aspirations of having a nice evening had become a pipe dream. The taste of my own blood wouldn't leave my mouth, regardless of how much Listerine I washed through it. Each breath that I took through my nose sent echoes of the head butt down my neck and the spot. bite a bite on my arm had swollen to the size of a ping pong ball. Instead of cooking, I ate a couple handfuls of stale chips and laid down in my sweat-drenched bed.

The melting pack of peas I draped over my face eased the pain in my crooked nose, but it amplified my misery. I was friendless and bloated and resigned to breathe through my mouth while everyone was enjoying their summer. The sun had barely set, but sleep came easy. I convinced myself I could turn my life around as soon as I woke up I didn't Everything around me filled it itself through a fever dream I couldn't tell whether I was awake, asleep

or a mixture of the two But I was confined to my bed by gentle, an irresistible force Just as I was trying to make sense of the reality I was in A group of short silhouettes manifested itself around my bed At first they observed me, giggling like children, but soon they broke into song. Itty-bitsy spider crawled down the lonely man, crawled from his head and bit him on the hand. The itsy-bitsy spider was smushed under his skin.

The mother might be dead, but long live her kin. The figures let loose another round of giggles. They sounded like kindergartners, but as the features sharpened under the moonlight, all thoughts of humanity left my head. Their bodies were short and stubby. The bodies of children, but their heads were covered with thick bristles of hair and fangs.

Mucous dripped from their mouths as the shapeless eyes grew closer. From a fit of laughter, one of the uracnoid figures launched its fangs at my swelling arm. I woke up. The packet of peas in my forehead had grown damp and warm. The hot summer night had coated my entire body in a slick layer of sweat. Yet, as disoriented as I was, as bewildering as my dream was, the bloated spider bite gripped my attention with sobering fear. Even in the dim light of the moon, I could tell that the skin of my arm had turned a dark red. The swelling had grown. A baseball-sized growth hung from my forearm like a paralyzed baby,

limb. I felt my way towards my nightlamp. The mass of flesh throbbed with each beat in my racing heart. I sat up on my bed, looking for a phone, trying to figure out whether I was calling an ambulance or an Uber. Yet, as I shifted around, the fleshy ball pulsated. Something beneath it was moving. Something beneath my skin was squirming, trying to get out. In a mystified curiosity, I touched the solem bite. It burst forth, a wave of blackness that squirmed its way across my body. I was covered in spiders. They were crawling towards my mouth.

I sprung up to my feet and swung my panicked arms around, trying to get all the spiders off me. They fell to the floor in heavy clumps of writhing life. But for each fistful of spiders I swept off me, there was at least one that held firm to my skin. The survivors on my sweeps bit, and they bit hard. It was as if I was being pelted with buckshots at a distance. My sweaty body exploded in a hot burst of clustered pain.

The spiders made their way to my head. They crawled across my bruised face, gnawing down to my flesh for every bit of resistance I attempted. As I screamed, a wave of a thin-legged life made its weight on my throat, biting along the way. I ran into my shower and grabbed the bottle of Listerine. I drank a good half of the bottle before the stinging pain in my neck eased. The current of rigid water from the showerhead washed out the eight-legged horrors that were crawling all over my body. My feet stood in a pool of pink, the dead spiders had clogged the drain. There was no one that I could tell about the terrible experience that I had just gone through.

There was no one that I could share my horrible life with. Even past the freezing water, my body still pulsed with hot foreign bites. The growth of my arm that had just given birth to a thousand spiders was now just a flap of skin. impotently dripping puss and blood into my shower, but the new bites were starting to blune up into nests of life. I... wet. I stood in the shower, rocking a listering buzz, and wet. And, from the back of my head, as if in response to my tears, I heard the spider children of my dream continue their chant. Itsy-bits' coming from the wound, down the sked-scapey-es.

Man's body and all across the room The itsy-bitsy spiders won't go anywhere Crawling in his mouth and through his body hair As the melody creaked across my mind a wave of new discomfort traveled through my body The bloated spider bites erupted in an itchiness so demanding that I fell out of the shower trying to attend to it My nose met the bathroom floor with a blood cushion crack But within seconds the burning of my stomach skin overpowered any other perception of pain. I slammed my swollen back against the wall and rubbed

as hard as I could. I needed to scratch the itch. A twinge of relief crawled down my spine, but the rest of my body still burned with unimaginable discomfort. It just wouldn't stop. The bites kept on bloating up. The inside of my throat was roaring with the need to be scratched. I was trapped in an unimaginable wave of discomfort and horror. My back grew up. wet. Blood and pus. And in that blood and posse, tiny spiders. I slid off the wall into the hallway. I desperately rubbed my naked spider-covered body against the carpet, but the searing itches persisted. The bites, the pain, the sheer suddenness of my suffering. My body transcended the moment and entered a universe purely built on misery. Any hint of a personal past before the spiders or hope of a

future when my skin wasn't burning in a thick, incomprehensible wave of torment. As all-consuming as the pain was, however, in the back of my burning skull, a faint echo of a nursery rhyme took hold. A thousand spider children spoke to me with laughter in their voice. Itsy-pitsy spiders don't want you to be scared. Don't be a selfish, sally, your body can be shed. Itty-bits-spiders crawling through your skin With itty-bitty spiders You won't be alone again It took me until sunrise to figure out

That the spiders would only bite me If I tried to fight them off Once that horrible eternity of pain Started to fade away I crawled over to my bed Wrapped my bloody body in sweaty blankets And fell asleep It's a record-breaking summer day

but the soft silk of the webs keep me cool. People are out there, having picnics, hanging out at water parks, eating fancy vegan ice cream and chic cafes, and for the longest time, that would have bothered me. I would have laid in bed, letting myself get consumed by thoughts of a life I wasn't living. But I don't anymore. Now, all I think about are the spiders.

They crawl around my body and live there. little insect lives. They breed and weave, and when I'm feeling hungry, they crawl into my mouth. It's not optimal. I'd rather be out in the city, meeting new friends, forging new relationships, falling in love. But if I ever think about getting up, they start biting. I couldn't go through that pain again without losing what little sanity I have. It's not optimal. It sucks, but what can you do? At least there's a silver lining to it all. For the longest time, all I could think about was how lonely I was.

But I don't anymore. Now I'm not alone. Now. I'm covered. In spiders?