CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I’ve been completing some deeply disturbing crosswords" Creepypasta

Episode Date: July 21, 2020

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by ChristianWallis: 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►Nikola Yordanov: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/nQWE6SUGGESTED 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-

I latch onto specific problems, and when I do, everything else around me diminishes into nothingness until I complete the task at hand. I line these problems up and solve them, one by one, and I find updating the task list awfully difficult. If I'm on my way to do a job, breaking off to attend to something else is almost impossible. I once finished buttering my toast before putting out a fire by the stove. I once lost a girlfriend after she trapped her fingers in a food processor. and I quietly went over to the fridge and put the milk away before turning to help her. She couldn't believe that I hadn't rushed over straight away. But of course, it wasn't really like that.

I was unable to review or address my priorities until my mind had freed itself from the current task. I have to manage these tendencies, and I learned at an early age that it helps to focus on discrete tasks that, if things get really bad, I can remind myself, don't matter. That, at least, limits the anxiety of abandoning them. I have my work, and that gets me through the day.

But outside of those hours, I need other things to pull me through. I can paint and read, and they're involving for sure. But they don't tend to have the sense of completion that I get from a simple puzzle. Jigsaw, Sudoku, word searches, video games, these all make up part of it. But oddly enough, it's cross. words that have taken over my mind. It started because they weren't too taxing,

and if I was pushed to cheat, then it didn't really matter. They let me say things like, Right, I'll do nine across while on the toilet and that's it. Like most things I put my mind to, I quickly turn the hobby into an obsessive pursuit of completion. The harder they were, the better. If I had to watch a film, read a book, or even visit a real-life location to get an answer,

I would. And I credited it all with pushing me out of my comfort zone in order to experience new things. I would never have watched breakfast at Tiffany's, read little women, or visit to the London Museum of Natural History without needing to get answers from them. And there were all new experiences for me,

some better than others, but I enjoyed the feeling of expanding my little bubble with each new puzzle. Crosswords, like everything, have communities surrounding them, and I even found a few online friends. For some, the compulsion to get obscure answers was a vital lifeline to the outside world

and you'd be surprised at some of the cultures lurking at the fringe. A good crossword is more than just a puzzle. It's a curated string of experiences picked to evoke a deliberate journey. A common example might be the kind of thing some tourists could use to guide them around a city. Below the phoenix of a blinded saint, 8 down.

Ressogam. The answer can be found carved on a stone beneath a statue of a phoenix at St. Paul's Cathedral. But what about something like the following? The final song of a thunderous singer Five a Cross. The answer was toxic.

The final song lip synced by a drag queen, Daytona Thunder, and a popular club in Manchester. I went a long way for that one and had a surprisingly good night albeit one a little outside my wheelhouse. But still, I got the answer, and it wasn't like I'd find it just by reading the forums.

Posting answers is a no-no if you want to get into the best clubs. The creator was a well-known queer academic, working out of London who was a popular following in the community. I appreciated their work, but perhaps not as much as those by one anonymous Bellina. A companion's lips tasted through the locking glass, six across. Her name was Alice

and she was an escort for an agency called intimate companions. She was wearing cherry lip gloss something I found through a process of elimination. Over the last few years I've discovered more about myself

than I ever would have at home. I have learned that I can lie very well that when I know who I'm meant to be, who others want me to be, I can be confident and even charming. I have learned that I am not a jealous person, that I am not a vain person, and that there are times when I can be as reckless and adventurous as anyone else.

I just need a reason to, a job to complete with roots to success I understand. The name of a one-eyed watchman's gun, 12 across. There was a policeman, with two eyes on my add, but the unfortunate Christian name of Dick. And the answer was the serial number of his. gun converted to letters. That was an odd one, but absolutely invigorating. The crossword had been made with clearly defined geographical boundaries which helped. Many of us attended it as a communal event, although I largely acted alone, and for a moment

I almost thought the policeman was in on the game, right up, until he tried to shoot me. Like I said, the experiences can be invigorating, but the good one was. ones, the really good ones, they can be a struggle to find. You have to be accepted into the right groups. Often you'll be vetted, even tested, but the reward can be worth it. I'll never forget the day I had a hand-delivered envelope deposited at my doorstep and the anticipation I felt opening it, unnotting the brown twine so delicately tied around the heft. God, some of them even had wax seals. I like those the most. I found the violet and crimson seals delicious to look at.

But they were so, so much more than simple puzzles. A principled affair. Five down. The headmaster of a local school was having an affair with her sister-in-law, Sarah. It was hard to find that out. It wasn't exactly public knowledge. Frankly, I had to resort to stalking, and it wasn't a good luck. But it was a new experience nonetheless.

and the few times I nearly got caught were quite exhilarating. But what was truly amazing was that this was at the school just a few blocks from my house. You have to understand, it wasn't just a template handed out to everyone. I still don't know how big any of these communities really are, but I imagine they're quite small and evolved people from all over the world. It was truly remarkable to think someone had laboured over a tailor-made puzzle just for me. There are quite a few groups I belong to now.

Some aren't even organized online, instead requiring you to ferret them out, sometimes as clues in other puzzles, sometimes as their own elaborate games. But there are always more to be found and in the best circumstances they find you, choosing you out of all the people in the world to rise to the challenge at hand. The right ones will push you to do things you never thought possible. A Baker's Jewels 7 Down Harriet Baker, who died in 2012 at the age of 86, and was buried with an emerald necklace in the local graveyard. I still have it, kept away somewhere in a special drawer, along with news clippings of the crime.

It even has some of the soil from the grave still muddying its shimmering gems. And admittedly, they do still smell a bit. But I bet that I know something most people don't. And that's what happens to little old grandmas five years after being sealed up in a box beneath the earth. Not just the abstract either. I know the specifics. I know exactly what she looks like, smells like, and even what a cold lump in flesh feels like. I spent years as a child wondering what happened to the many relatives of mine who passed away.

But it was as an adult I finally found the answer. People have lived their whole lives looking down at me. Teachers assumed I was slow at learning My parents mourned that I cared more about organising my wargame miniatures than I ever did about girls or friends Everyone around me treated me Like I was a timid mouse

In a world of thundering giants But I've lived a more exciting life Than they could ever imagine And it hasn't been in spite of who I am Only someone like me Could pursue these clues to such dogged ends And I gladly take the bat with the good The colour of the tea plate served by the Bielia Historical Society, 9 Up

Don't let the name fall you. The society is a private organisation for some rather unusual gentlemen who serve tea after their annual conference is finished. Crazy guys, I can see why they need a drink once they've finished and I'm not surprised half of them didn't take a seat during refreshments. I'm just not sure I'll ever be able to look at a farm animal in the eye again. Oh, and turquoise, by the way, that was the answer. I know things very few people know.

That's a rare privilege, and, like I said, it comes with a price. It would be ridiculous to think one might look upon the fraying edges of our world without having to face some uncomfortable sights, and you might think the worst of it is a leather-bound or a dungeon or perversions you can safely find on Wikipedia. But there are other lingering truths buried in the earth, and I am one of the few who have seen them. There is always more to learn, always another word to find, another puzzle to complete. And I have come a long way in my education since I first received that letter on my doorstep years ago. The inheritor of Mason's old home, Sixth Down.

Albert Albert was a named inheritor of the first house built and diseased. designed by obscure architect Harold Mason. It was not, as almost everyone first expected, the current owner's firstborn son named Alexander, but instead, the old man's male interest, Albert, who was a rather unwilling 17-year-old. Perhaps the old man thought it made it for his actions towards the boy

he had kept around as a family friend for years, disguising his abuse as mentorship. Either way, it caused a tremendous uproar, and poor Albert wasn't exactly thrilled to have his family. face all over the papers. No one could have possibly known he would be the inheritor. The will was written up in total secrecy, something I spent considerable resources finding out. Credit where it's due, the old man put up a fight, but his death was the only way I could get my answer. I can't speak for others, but I found the experience quite a revelation. I felt as if I learned

profound, hidden knowledge, a truth about reality found. in the glassy bloodshot eyes of a man violently dying. There's something in there, you know, something that lies just beneath their own reality. I saw a glimmer of it that night, just like I had so many others before it. It's quite beautiful. A confusing, glittering mess of contradictions

and unknowable madness. It is, by definition, beyond our ability to ever truly know, but you can still see facets of it, One bit at a time. It's beautiful. But, well, it's not always so painless. The missing piglet counted right to left, five up.

Eight. That was the answer. I spent all night researching fairy tales and children's rhymes, only to fall asleep at my desk sometime around two in the morning. When I awoke, I had been moved to the sofa, and my left foot was raised on the armrest and bandaged heavily. The whole thing tingled from anaesthesia, and it wouldn't be until noon before I could walk in it again.

Anxiously, I ended the white swaddle of blood-tinged gauze and winced at the sight of my mutilated foot. The middle toe on my left foot had been amputated cleanly, the wound sewn up neatly like a cross-stitch grin. Counting right to left, I noticed it was the eight-year. the teeth tone missing, and I have to admit, I pumped my fist in the air and rejoiced at having the answer. But the experience caught me off guard, and it might not surprise you to know that I have since

looked into slowing down and maybe even taking a short break from this hobby. I've had to manage these tendencies in the past, and I suppose this one should be no different, but there have been some difficulties. For one thing, they won't stop sending new puzzles to me, and it's all but impossible for me to ignore them. And for another, the clues are becoming increasingly pointed. A sea of white and flakes of gold to flood a castle of ivory. Six down.

Serial, right? That's what I thought. At least, until I had the unpleasant surprise of discovering a needle hidden in my cornflakes. it turned out, was the correct answer, and I was lucky to catch it before it wound up anywhere near my mouth. The thoughts of having that thing sliding down my throat or

catching in the roof of my mouth, spearing the gum and cartilage, left me riddled with an ever-growing anxiety. Clubs have pushed things in the past, boundaries take a back seat when it comes to pursuing the absolute limit of knowledge. But it felt like such an odd

inclusion for the latest puzzle, one that didn't necessarily teach me anything. If I had the ability to trace it to a single group, I might have a better sense of what it was meant to mean. But then again, anonymity was always kind of the point. The currency of strategic withdrawal, three up. I initially thought of the military, but in fact the answer was yen, and it turned out that about 50,000 pounds worth of them had been withdrawn from my account, by myself somehow, at the bank. God knows how that was possible, but it happened, and there's not a lot I could really do about it.

I've written to some of the groups, but as far as I could tell, they're playing coy. I'm sorry, one replied, but our puzzles are sent out as part of a weekly newsletter via email. We're not sure we've ever offered bespoke crosswords, but we'd be fascinated to hear more if there's anyone out there who does. It had interest quite a few of our members, myself included. I received similar variations to this message from just about every organisation I had listed in my ledger and frankly I found the suggestion ridiculous I'd always assumed those newsletters were part of a front making it appear as though the focus was on the banal little puzzles about obscure military defeat

while secretly directing us to brothels and illegal casinos it made sense perhaps that they would maintain the ruse but an acquaintance I called wasn't exactly reassuring. Well, of course they're a front, he said. Don't you get the packages? I've had a few seedy adventures with those. Oh, that's good, I laughed while breathing a deep sigh of relief. I was beginning to think, well, I'm not sure what I was thinking.

Oh yeah, the packages are very real, he replied. The spring edition was quite a naughty affair, don't you think? Invigorating, I smiled. I didn't even know where to buy a burlap... Strawberry! Can you imagine? The Mrs and I had a delight trying out the different flavors. What?

Oh, come now, man. No need to be shy. It's quite normal to use. He whispered it like a dirty secret. Agnes suggested we tried on toast. I hung up with his laughter still bellowing down the other line. My spring edition of our shared club was not anything like his. I told myself that it made sense it wouldn't.

They were meant to be custom made for each participant, but it allowed me to hear that his activities were so dreadfully banal. Most of the clues in that edition had directed me to the consumption of a range of meat, including something I scraped off the side of a suspended bridge. Nothing my friend had said to me rang true. Rightly, I should have stopped there. But... But the thing is...

It was never really an option. Not then and not now. I'm sure you think it's a silly compulsion or anxiety, but it's not. I can't do it. It's simply not in my nature, especially not now I know God knows what could be lurking around the corner. I've explained this to myself and others before.

I am task-focused. I needed to finish the job at hand. Pio Box. 19777. Open it from within. Nine down. I found the box with ease, but there was no key nor any means to open it from within. Whatever the rationale was behind the puzzle, I thought at the time that the whole affair was beginning to frustrate me.

I didn't see any significant challenge to tracing the address, aside from finding the key, which, it turned out, was very much part of the clue. In fact, I'm still not in terms. entirely sure how they did it. I awoke to a sort of gagging sensation one night, dreaming that I had swallowed a tangle of wet hair. Only the terrible retching sensation wasn't entirely dreamed up.

Tied to my canine was a line of floss that I painfully had to pull from my stomach. It was a necessary long, spawning out of my throat in a bloody tangle for a good few meters while I vomited and cried from the struggle. It took nearly half an hour to injure it out while I choked and wretched. But eventually I regurgitated the key, collapsing afterwards to the floor to heave and sob as I recovered. There was a teddy bear in the locker,

and I didn't find it particularly amusing. And yes, okay, there was a mild satisfaction to get in the answer, but the rest of me was filled with a deep begrudging. I felt like the punchline to a joke that wasn't funny. A starry orchid's window of choice, seven down. The answer was eyeball. And it turns out the consumption of the flower in question causes bloody secretions from the tear ducts,

not to mention renal failure. It wasn't easy to explain that one away, and I didn't much appreciate the stay at the hospital. The price for that answer may one day be dialysis, but for now I hope that I still see myself clear of such things. The doctors couldn't say for sure what the chances were. At the very least, I hoped that I might find some respite all interred in the hospital. But, if anything, it made things worse.

I was not prepared to be incapacitated for so long with the knowledge that the puzzle was but one clue from completion. I was itching furiously for the last few days, and my doctors were confounded by the state of my heart and were blind to the other tell-tell signs of anxiety. There would be no rest for me until I had finished the puzzle, and I swore to myself, swore blind at my mother's grave, that it would be the last. If things got much worse, I reminded myself, it might not be me who decides what would be my last

puzzle. When I arrived home, it was with a kind of relief I never thought possible. I am forever learning more about myself, and those first few steps through the front door made it clear to me, I was in the thrall of some kind of addiction. No matter what the price was, I told myself over and over again, that I would pay it

and move on. I would change addresses if I had to, or pay someone to physically slap the pencil out of my hand if I went to complete another crossword. God knows I have the money. I will climb this final hurdle, I told myself, and see it through.

And yet, I don't know. I half expect there to be some ghoulish double entendre hiding in the words, but for the life of me, I cannot see one. It seems more like a hideous joke, one I don't really understand. I have a possible word choice, and it certainly fits, but it's been weeks, and I can't bring myself to write it in. This is the final clue, the final step at the end of this increasingly desperate adventure, and I can't figure it out. I'm half tempted to say

that I won't see another answer because I don't want to finish it. That might be it, surely. I'm an addict. I'll admit that all too readily and this wouldn't be the first time I took things too far. It's just...

The handwriting these clues have been written in four down. I keep expecting some terrible interpretation to come true. to find a severed hand at my door or to awake missing most of my fingers. It's a strange thing,

but I have come to find myself ruminating often on the look of the old man's eyes. For, while I'm sure that I saw something terrible and beautiful, deep, within the popping veins of those suffocating retinas, it had not occurred to me until now that something was looking back

and was waiting for me to write in the final answer, though God, knows it must be wrong, for it simply cannot be possible that the answer is mine.