CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "Just a little hole" Creepypasta

Episode Date: November 7, 2020

It's only little... I swear... CREEPYPASTA STORY►by mindless-feed: 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►alexandreev: https://www.deviantart.com/alexandree...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-

Before you call me stupid, I want you to think about your skin. It's not rare to find little marks or blemishes that you don't remember receiving. Nothing major. Maybe a paper cut-sized mark on your arm or a bruise on your leg. Stuff no one thinks about. It just happens. So, I wasn't concerned when I saw the blood under my fingernails. Anything could have caused a little scab to form on my arm,

and it didn't hurt when I had carelessly scratched it off. The only reason I noticed did at all, was because it wouldn't stop bleeding. And I didn't want to stay my shirt. So, after almost half an hour of dabbing at the cut with the tissue and noticing no decline in the volume of blood bleeding out, I got a Band-Aid from the first-Aid kit buried under my sink and stuck it on. Then I continued to live my life.

When I woke up the next morning, I found that the Band-Aid had almost soaked through. And yeah, that freaked me out. But what was I supposed to do? Go to the doctor and tell us. about the tiny scrape in my arm. So, I used the thicker band-aid the second time, and it took hours for the blood to soak through that one.

I cleaned it with alcohol and a cotton swab, and covered it again. It really had no effect on me. It was just a little cut on my arm, and I hardly even thought about it after the first day. I became accustomed to switching out the band-aids at morning, noon and night. I stopped cleaning it, but cleaning it didn't seem to be helping anyway. Eventually, it just became part of my routine and whenever I left the house, I made sure I had a band-aid in my pocket. The few times someone asked about it,

I told them it was just a tiny cut of my arm and I didn't even remember how I'd gotten it and they'd understood, because who hasn't experienced that? I think the problem really boils down to routine. I took the band-aid off and slapped a new one on quick before anything leaked out. I stopped really looking at it. and when the bleeding started to let up a few weeks later, I was relieved.

One day, when I was at work, I was interrupted halfway through switching the bandage out by one of my co-workers, a man named Mark. Jesus Christ, he said, what is that? Mark and I were co-workers, friendly but not friends. Oh, just a little cut. I don't even know how I got it, I said casually. I don't know what that is, he said, but it's not. not a little cut. The thing was on the back of my arm, a place where it wasn't very accessible to my eyes without the help of a mirror,

but the look on Mark's face made my other hand unconsciously feel at the place that was usually covered by a bandage. Where I expected to feel a rough and healing scab. I felt nothing. The skin was smoothed and stretched tightly, right up to a hard ridge, and then my fingers sank into a space in my arm.

I felt thin, dry membrane brake underneath the light pressures as they sunk deeper, but I felt no pain. Mark gagged, watching me. Then he started sniffing the air like a lunatic. Oh God, that's sick, he said. I was wondering what that smell was. You need a doctor.

I didn't respond. The cabin in my arm had left me speechless. I excused myself and headed for the restroom. There, I used the mirror to get a better look. It wasn't really that bad. The skin was fine around it. Maybe a little pale, but otherwise fine. The hole itself was small.

Inside the flesh was black, but there wasn't any blood. A faint ranted smell emanated from it. I replaced the bandage and went back to work. It was just a little hole. Mark was overreacting. In the weeks that followed, it began to get a little bigger and a little deeper. But my arms still felt fine. It didn't even hurt when I stuck my finger inside of it, but the smell was becoming a problem.

I could see the people around me scrunching up their faces and wondering where the stench was coming from. At first, few realised it was me. I was always very clean looking, but eventually its strength made the source easier to pinpoint. Someone, probably Mark, had complained about it to my boss, who called me into his office and told me to sort it out. I started covering up the stench with different substances. I tried using a cotton swab drenched in alcohol, but it wasn't completely effective. Once, before a meeting, at which I knew,

I would be in close proximity to others for an extended period of time, I resorted to using a small piece of lemon. But even that didn't seem to do the trick, and I was reprimanded a second time. But, in my desperation the next morning, I actually found a convenient solution. I filled it with toothpaste. The label said that baking soda was the main thing,

ingredient in the arm and hammer kind that I used, and I think that's why it works so well at absorbing the odour. So, every morning, as I got ready for work, I would squeeze the toothpaste into the opening until it was flush with my arm before I covered it. There were no more complaints about the smell at my work. This solution, however, was becoming more expensive. It seemed like every day the hole in my arm was absorbing more and more, and once I started going through over a Shoe a week, I knew it was unsustainable. So, I finally decided to see a doctor. I live in a small town, and the doctor I've had since I was a kid is an unreliable guy

at best and a minor addict at worst, greatly assisting the spread of the opioid epidemic in his own small corner of the rural Midwest. I made an appointment anyway, because at this point, I knew that I might have a problem. That morning, I didn't fill the hole in my arm with toothpaste, so it would be easy. for him to see the inside. The smell was terrible, and it made the drive there very unpleasant. When I entered the waiting room

and saw the lady at the desk immediately make a face and lock me up and down, I knew I had made the right choice in coming to the doctor. If the smell had crossed the room that fast, who knows the problems of my cause for me in the day to day? She smiled and handed me the sign-in sheet.

Maybe it wasn't that bad. I was probably just psyching myself out. Everyone in town knew about the wait times in Dr Murphy's office. It was so legendary that people had taken to bring in thick novels and discreetly leaving them on the waiting room tables, as if they'd finished them. It was a very mid-western way to complain. I was there barely a minute before being called back. The lady at the desk took my vitals with a tight smile

and sent me to the exam room, where I was promptly met by Dr. Murphy. What seems to be the problem today? He asked, but his eyes had already trailed to the gauze around my arm. This sounds silly, I told him, but I had a little cut to my arm. I don't even know where I got it, but now I think it's infected. When I started to remove the wrap, the smell got impossibly worse. Actually, I acknowledged, I'm pretty sure it's infected. Dr. Murphy's face twisted, repulsed by the thing of my arm.

It was very unprofessional. He looked at it, then at me. Son, are you feeling okay? He asked. The man was despicable, and I didn't appreciate being patronised. I'm feeling fine, I said, even if the hole in my arm was deep, its diameter was barely larger than my fist. Okay, the man said, let's take a look.

The way he moved towards me was hesitant. His disgust was clearly evident in his posture. He was a doctor, for God's sake. Was he really incapable of handling such a small injury? It probably had something to do with the fact that he couldn't just throw a prescription at me and send me on my way. Lay it up here, he said, gesturing to the arm of the examination chair.

I cautiously obliged, and, when I did, he started to pick at my arm with his sharp little tools. I felt a tugging, tearing sensation, like peeling back a roll of packing tape. Dr Murphy made a noise in his throat as I glanced at my upper arm He had peeled back the skin The perfectly healthy skin

The skin of my upper arm Was now dangling from his instruments Like used tissue paper There was a sickly, minty smell And I saw goops of dark-colored paste dripping onto the floor between us I caught it in my hand and tried to rub it back into my arm That stuff was expensive

What did you do? I demanded leaping from the chair. Dr. Murphy, pale and speechless, watched me with horrified eyes. Calm down, he pleaded. But how could I be calm when I could look down

and see the ligament of my arm? The bunches of yellow fat and networks of capillaries right down to the gleaming white bone. Get away from me! I shouted, grabbing my gauze and recovering the area. He was panicking now.

You need to get to a hospital, he said. I'm going to call an ambulance, No way, I interrupted. I'm not going to sit here and let you take off the rest of my skin? I barged out the examination room. He called after me, but I was already out the door. The drive home was even worse than the trip there.

The smell was horrid, and when I opened the windows, the cold winter air sent sharp pain to my newly exposed flesh. That's the medical system for you. For all of his fancy degrees, the man had only managed to make the situation worse. I stopped at the drugstore to pick up more toothpaste But as I walked around I noticed looks from the other customers

And even some of the workers They whispered and pointed In a way probably meant to be discreet At the place of my arm where the course could not completely cover Why can't people mind their own business The smell wasn't that bad I bought the toothpaste quickly In such a hurry to be out of there

That I didn't even wait for my change The next Monday as I got ready for work, I found that not even an entire tube of toothpaste could cover up the smell. Thanks to Dr. Murphy, the rest of the flesh had started to peel, and it had finally affected the mobility of my arm. I could barely twitch my fingers anymore. Worse, I think something might have gotten into it

when I left it exposed on my way back from the office, maybe even in the office. The place was hardly sterile. I couldn't be sure, but I swear some of the white bits were wriggling around. I knew what I needed to do if I wanted to keep my job. The arm had to go. I called out sick.

I know that doing it myself seems like a bad idea, but I hardly trust Dr. Murphy, and it's a fact that amputations aren't hard to perform, especially since I don't have any feeling in the arm. Think of all the people who've had their arms sewn off on the battlefield. At least no one will be shooting at me while they do it. I told my boss, I'll be out for a bit. a few days and he didn't seem to mind very much. Hopefully he'll understand why it was worth it

when I get back in. It really isn't that big of a deal.