CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "My dead brother spoke to me through a walkie-talkie" Creepypasta

Episode Date: April 21, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Frequent-Cat:   / my_dead_brother_spoke_to_me_through_a_walkie  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...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creep...  ►"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

I hadn't been back to the house in almost two years, not since I left for college. The siding was more weather-worned than I remembered, and the porch steps creaked louder under my weight. Everything about it looked smaller, sun-faded and tired. My parents didn't live there anymore. After the divorce, they held onto it out of some quiet, mutual guilt, neither one wanting to be the way. one to let it go. But now that I was technically an adult, they said it was time. I was only there to collect what was mine. A few boxes, maybe a crate of old clothes, some books, and whatever junk I had left behind in the attic. The idea was simple. Go in, pack, leave. But nothing about

stepping through that door felt simple. The living room still had that high, hollow smell, a mix of dust and old couch fabric. Most of the furniture was already gone, but my feet still knew where to walk, where not to. I climbed the attic ladder slowly, not because it was steep or broken, but because I didn't want to see what was up there. The attic had always felt stuck in time. Boxes were stacked along the walls, all of them labeled in my mom's handwriting, winter clothes, kitchen stuff. There was one that just said, toys. The marker had bled into the cardboard from years of moisture. I peeled it open and sifted through it lazily. The first thing I saw was an old set of plastic binoculars, bright green with one cracked lens

and a faded strap. I remember using them in the backyard with Daniel, calling out pretend 10 sightings of exotic animals, shouting through the brush like we were explorers. Beneath them, I found a handful of scratched hot wheel cars, still chipped in the exact same places I remembered. A wooden puzzle with a few pieces missing. Our old rubber snake, the one Daniel used to hide under my pillow when he wanted to mess with me. My throat caught for a second, and I smiled without meaning to, but then I saw it.

Buried under a pile of action figures and a plastic dinosaur was the old walkie-talkie. My hand froze before I even touched it. I didn't know why. It was just a piece of scratched metal, dusty, long since broken. But my stomach twisted anyway. My mouth went dry. I hadn't thought about it in years. since Daniel. I picked it up. It wasn't as heavy as it used to be when we were kids,

or maybe I'd just grown that much. The antenna was bent sideways and the entire thing was a mess. But something in my chest folded inward the second I held it. There was no reason for the panic that came with it, no reason for my hands to start sweating. I sat with the walkie-talkie for a long time, cross-legged on the attic floor, staring at it in my palm. A memory floating up without warning, Daniel's voice coming through the static of foggy recollections. This is Eagle 2 to base over. His voice was always too excited for the game.

I used to roll my eyes at how seriously he took it, but I never told him to stop. I'd play along ducking behind trees and whispering into my own walkie-talkie, pretending I couldn't see him even when he was in plain sight. Our games of pretend worked so well because we believed each other. We spent hours out there in the woods behind the fence where the trees grew close and the ground was soft with old leaves. There was never a question of what to play. We always went straight for the woods, always with walkie-talkies.

We were explorers and soldiers, but most importantly, we were brothers. I remember his laugh carrying through the branches. Then came the accident. I don't let myself think about it. Daniel snuck off into the woods alone, maybe chasing a bird, maybe just playing by himself. My parents always wondered why he'd go off on his own. He slipped near the creek, fell into the water and couldn't get out. He died of hypothermia sometime in the early hours of the morning before anyone noticed

he was missing. I say it the same way every time, even though my voice gets tighter with each telling. My parents were shattered. They held it together for me. it was never the same. After the funeral, everything felt quieter. Nobody used the word haunted, but I felt it in the way they looked at the woods, and how no one ever stepped past the back fence again.

I put the one I found in my backpack and climbed back down the ladder. I didn't look back at the box. I didn't want to see anything else. The drive wasn't long, but my head felt heavy. the entire way. I kept glancing at my backpack in the passenger seat, half expecting to hear something from it. The walkie-talkie hadn't left my mind since I pulled it out of that attic box. I couldn't explain why. I dropped the keys on the counter, kicked off my shoes, and sat on the edge of the couch with a walkie my hands again. It looked even older under the apartment light.

I flipped the switch on out of habit No power, it seemed at first But when I held the talk button down There was a faint hiss of static It buzzed for a second, then cut off I let go, pressed it again Same thing, just a faint buzz The batteries should have been dead

That was the first thing I thought I opened the back panel and slid them out. The battery compartment was corroded. A sort of green-white crust fell out of the battery compartment. I let the batteries out, but out of some weird curiosity, I pressed the talk button again. Static. It was quiet and broken, but it was there.

My thumb hovered over the button again, but I didn't push it. I just set the thing down on the edge of my desk and rubbed my eyes. Maybe the walkie was damaged in some way, feeding on leftover static from nearby frequencies. I didn't want to think about it too much. I didn't know. I didn't care to dig deep into it. It was just a ghost of a toy, nothing more. I left it on the shelf near the window.

At night, I brushed my teeth, plugged in my phone and got into bed. The room was quiet, except for the occasional cars outside and the hum of the fridge in the kitchenette. I was drifting when I heard it. A low crackle, just for a second. I sat up, listened. Nothing followed it. I didn't even press the talk button this time. Still, I laid back down and tried to sleep.

I told myself not to overthink it. I woke up to static. Not loud, but enough to stir me. I turned my head and saw the walkie-talkie still on the shelf right where I'd left it. A thin, shallow hiss. Again, I hadn't touched it. I sat up and stared at it for a minute, thought about unplugging it even though it wasn't plugged into anything. I laughed to myself as I reached over and dropped it into the top drawer of my desk, closed it gently, out of sight, out of mind.

I tried to start my day. Classes were fine. I half listened to lectures and nodded in the right places. I didn't want to admit it, but the sorrow of losing Daniel was hitting me all over again. I met up with friends in the afternoon, hung around campus, grabbed drinks at a place near the quad. I laughed at jokes I didn't fully hear. By the time we were stuffing our faces with greasy sandwiches from a cart that only opened after the dark. I'd nearly forgotten about the walkie-talkie altogether.

I stumbled back into my apartment just before midnight. I dropped my bag, kicked the door close with my heel, and leaned against the wall to get my balance. Everything felt hazy in that warm way that comes with drinking. Then, before I could even get my thoughts straight, I heard it again. The drawer was closed, but I heard the crackle. This time it wasn't soft. It had an edge to it, a sharpness, like something was trying to come through. I stood there and listened with a focus I didn't know I could have while inebriated.

The sound shifted. The static dipped and broke apart, like wind through a microphone. There was something else under it. Just a murmur, something too stupid. soft to make out, but too exact to just ignore. I practically ran over to it, opened the drawer, and stared down at it. The walkie-talkie was cold in my hand. The noise didn't stop. It might have even gotten louder. It whispered under my fingers. I gripped it tighter, waiting for something more, but it just kept crackling.

I put it back in the drawer and went to the bathroom to splash water my face. I dried my face with a towel and leaned against the bathroom sink. My head was buzzing, but not from the drinks. Something about that sound from the drawer had stuck with me. I hesitated before stepping back into the main room. The apartment was so quiet it felt loud. I closed the bathroom door behind me and walked back toward the desk. The drawer was still shut.

I stared at it for a long second, then turned away to grab a bottle of water from the kitchen. That was when I heard it. Clearer than anything before. Jackie? Now it stopped. It came from the drawer through the static. A child's voice, soft but watery. I froze in the middle of the room, bottle still in my hand.

My name. No one called me that anymore. Not since I was a kid. I took one slow step toward a desk. The voice didn't repeat itself. The crackle faded. But the echo of the word was still alive in my mind. I opened the drawer and stared down at the walkie-talkie.

It hadn't moved, obviously, and even the static was not present anymore. But I swear the air around it felt different. I reached in, picked it up, and almost immediately dropped it. It wasn't hot, but it felt wrong in my hand. Off, like it remembered something I didn't. I sat down and just stared at it on the floor. My pulse was hammering now, and I still gave myself a million excuses. Old electronics did weird things.

It was probably feeding off static interference or some forgotten frequency band, maybe even a neighbor's baby monitor somehow. I put the walkie-talkie back in the drawer. But it didn't stop. Every time I was alone, the sound came back. Sometimes it was faint static, barely audible unless the room was silent. Sometimes it was louder, the crackle building into a voice just at the edge of understanding. I'd be brushing my teeth or pouring coffee, and I'd hear it behind the door.

A soft, rising hiss. Then sometimes... words that one came through clear I stood frozen in my kitchen when I heard it the voice didn't sound angry it didn't even sound confused just hurt after that I moved it to the whole closet

I didn't want it near me when I slept after it sobbed quiet and fragile I stood outside the closet and listened to the sound of a child crying through layers of static, not sure if I wanted to open the door or run. I didn't do either. I just pressed my hand to the wood and stayed there.

One night I walked past the closet to get to the bathroom and heard it again, soft and unmistakable. I'm scared. I didn't go back to sleep after that. I needed to shut it out. I picked up extra shifts at the coffee shop. I went out whenever I could. I stayed in motion. Worked through lunch, met up with friends in the evenings, smoked when I was alone, drank when I wasn't.

I told jokes. I laughed harder than I felt. I hooked up with someone I didn't really want to see again, just so I wouldn't be alone in bed. But every time I came home, the apartment felt heavier. I would avoid the hallway, wouldn't even glance at the closet when I walked by. It was now constantly mumbling. I could hear it through my front door before I even entered. Not loud enough to make out, but constant.

always there. I couldn't even tell anyone about it. What would I tell them? I was hearing children through a walkie-talkie. I wanted to throw it out. I wanted to drive to the edge of town and leave it in a ditch. But I couldn't. Because it was ours.

Because no matter how broken it is, no matter how wrong it felt, it still held pieces of him. We loved those walkie-talkies. I remembered him carrying his everywhere. I remembered the look in his face when we got them. I still loved him. I always would. So I left it there.

Even though I knew something was wrong, even though I could feel it getting worse. The dream started again without warning. I hadn't dreamt about the forest in. years, but now every night it pulled me back there. The trees were always tall and imposing. They leaned inward, bending in ways that made the sky vanish. I heard rushing water, constant and fast, but I could never see the creek at first. I would just wonder aimlessly until it came into view. Daniel lay in the middle of it, face down, motionless. The water moved around his

legs, dark and fast, tugging at the hem of his soaked shirt. His arms hung stiff at his sides, elbows slightly bent, fingers bent in unnatural ways. The skin on his hands looked swollen, loose around the knuckles. Eventually, he would lift his head, his foot, face was pale and sunken in strange places, as if parts of it had softened and slipped beneath the surface. His cheeks bulged around the edges, pockets of water pressing under the skin. His eyes were clouded, no light in them, just the dull grey sheen with no focus. His lips were split, stretched back from the gums, teeth showing through like they hadn't been clenched for hours. Small pieces of hair clung to his forehead in wet clumps plastered flat against his

skin. Sometimes his jaw would shift slightly, twitching as if he was trying to speak but couldn't remember how. Other times, he would scream. The sound didn't match the motion. His mouth would barely move, yet the noise came out loud and sharp, tearing through the forest. One night, when he finally did speak, it was a whisper pressed against my ears. It's not funny anymore, I woke up gasping, drenched in sweat. My sheets were damp, my hands were clenched into fists so tight I had to pry them open. I left the lights on for the rest of the night. Still, I could hear the water sometimes, not just in my dreams.

The thing that would forever change me happened after a long night out, not long after the dream started. I'd stayed at a friend's place too late, drank too much, and talked to people I barely remembered by the next morning. I wanted to feel normal again. I wanted to laugh and pretend things were fine. That night, I almost pulled it off. But when I got back to the apartment, something felt off, worse than usual.

The hallway light was on, though I couldn't remember leaving it that way. I walked past the closet and paused, half expecting to hear the usual quiet mumbling. Instead, the walkie-talkie started screaming. Not a voice, not words, just screaming, raw and wet. It sounded full of water, full of pain, stretched thin across static. My knees buckled. I opened the closet, reached in and grabbed it without thinking. The sound poured out of it, too loud for something that small.

I slammed it against the wall. The screaming stopped. I stood in the middle of the hall with my chest heaving. I felt sober in a way that made my skin itch. Bits of plastic and wire scattered across the floor. The casing was cracked in two, one half still buzzing faintly. I couldn't sleep. I felt guilty and so with shaking hands I picked up the piece.

and brought them back to my bedroom. I taped the body back together, wrapped the antenna with duct tape, did whatever I could to make it whole again. It didn't take much. The second had held shape even loosely. The speaker crackled. Then came the voice. Please come back, Jackie, and the screaming started again. It blared through the speaker so loud I nearly dropped it. Not words, just a wet, broken scream, stretched until it didn't sound human. It tore through the room and pushed into my skull. The sound of someone drowning with a mouth open.

I tried to turn the knob. Nothing happened. I flit the switch off and on again. No change. It kept screaming. I stumbled backward, clutching the thing like it might burn me. The scream dipped for a moment, then shifted. It didn't stop, but it changed into something worse.

Where are you, Danny? The voice was sharp now, a child's voice trying to speak through water. The speaker gurgled with every syllable. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold the walkie. I set it down on the desk, but the noise didn't stop. I'm scared, it said again. I'm scared, again, I'm scared. I backed away.

My shoulders hit the edge of the doorframe. My chest felt tight. I could hear my own breathing rising over the static. But the voice kept going. Then. Everything stopped. Silence. Three slow knocks against my bedroom door.

My bedroom, just inches from where I stood. The knocks came again, slower this time. Then came the dripping. A soft, steady tap, tapping on the floorboards right outside the door. I couldn't see it, but I could hear it. and somehow that was worse. I imagined bare feet standing on soaked wood. I imagined water running down the other side of the door.

I stared at the handle, convinced it would start turning. And right before I felt it would, the memories all came back in a rush, not as a clean memory or a full scene, but as a sinking way to my chest, a sharp crack in the middle of my thought, that forced everything else to fall through. We...

Had snuck out that night. I was the one who planned it, the one who whispered the idea across the room while our parents slept behind the wall. Daniel had been hesitant, always more careful than I was. But when I showed him the flashlight and told him it would just be a few minutes,

just a quick game in the woods. He nodded. and smiled and followed me without asking any questions. He always followed me, even when he shouldn't have. We went through the back fence the way we always had, through the loose panel near the shed, and stepped into the woods with our lights flicking ahead of us. Our sneakers pushed through wet grass and the sound of night pressing in from all sides. I remember the way his laugh bounced.

between the trees, how it made everything feel safe for a little while. He and I love the idea of sneaking out, being mischievous. He kept his walkie-talkie pressed to his mouth, calling out dumb nicknames, trying to sound official, trying to make it into a real mission. I teased him for it. Tell him he needed to stop acting like a baby. He just laughed again. At some point, I think he'd.

told him we should play hide and seek, that he'd count to 30, and he had to find me, and that we wouldn't leave until he did. I promised I wouldn't make it too hard for him. He grinned at the idea and bolted into the underbrush with his flashlight swinging side to side, shouting, I'm going to start counting now, as his voice disappeared behind the trees. I turned off my flashlight and walked in the opposite direction, not into the woods, but out, through the fence, across the yard and straight into the house. I wanted to mess with him, just a little. I wanted to scare him, let him call through the walkie-talkie and get no response, let him think I was hiding from him while I lay warm in my bed.

At the time, it felt harmless, funny even. I remember thinking I was teaching him something that he needed to toughen up. I left him out there. I climbed into bed, pulled the covers over my head, and waited to him to break character. I expected to hear the door creak open, hearing come stomping in with fake anger in his voice. I thought I'd hear the walkie-talkie chirp with one of his goofy catchphrases, some dramatic line about how he'd survive the mission. Instead, I heard static.

The walkie-talkie was in my hands, turned to his frequency. It was just fuss at first, cutting in and out, but then something else pushed through. I couldn't make out the words then. It didn't sound clear. just wet and broken, full of wind and distance, a voice trying to climb through a storm. I fell asleep listening to it. I don't remember when the sound stopped, only that I was holding the radio when the sun came through the blinds.

Now, standing in my room with a dripping still faintly echoing from the other side of the door and the walkie-talkie pulsing with heat in my hand. I understood exactly what it had been saying. Those broken phrases, the things I had been hearing for weeks, they weren't new. I had heard them that night. I had just chosen to forget. I didn't realize I was crying until my voice cracked so hard it collapsed in my throat. I dropped to the floor with a walkie pressed against my mouth and shouted into it.

I screamed until spit-filled the corners of my mouth, and my voice came out hoarse and shaking. I screamed his name over and over. Told him I was sorry, told him I was a coward, told him he didn't deserve what I did, told him I never stopped thinking about him, even when I tried to forget. I told him I was wrong, that I knew I was wrong, that I left him there because I thought I was better, thought I was clever, thought it was just a joke. My face was soaked, my cheeks, my chin, my neck. Snot ran from my nose without stopping, and I didn't wipe it away.

My chest ached, my stomach folded in on itself, and I kept crying until I couldn't breathe right. I clutched the walkie, like you could hear me better if I held it tighter. I held it until my knuckles were pale. until my palms started to cramp. Every apology came out heavier than the last, every word spilling through clenched teeth, my body shaking onto the weight of it.

The walkie-talkie went quiet. And outside the door, the dripping stopped. I sat there in that silence, gasping for air, pulling it in through teeth, as if oxygen, could push down the guilt, as if Sainzari one more time could rewind anything.

I don't know how long I stayed like that. Minutes, maybe hours. Time didn't move the same. I didn't notice when the world went still. I only knew I hadn't moved and didn't want to. But I kept speaking. I kept whispering into the walkie even after the sound died. I whispered apologies until my throat gave out.

I said his name until the word didn't sound real anymore. I begged him not to hate me. I begged him to believe I didn't mean it, even though I had walked away on purpose. The tears kept coming until I had nothing left, until the word stopped forming. My lips moved without sound. my head slumped forward against the floor

and somewhere in that endless, awful stillness I fell asleep. When I woke up, my eyes were crusted shut and the light bleeding through the window was cold and grey. My mouth was dry, my back stiff and the walkie-talkie was still pressed between my fingers. I sat up slowly, wiped my nose with a sleeve from my shirt and stared at the bedroom door.

I didn't want to open it, but I did, right outside the threshold. The wood floor was soaked. A single puddle stretched across the boards. No trail, no source, just water, clear, still, and shining faintly under the morning light. I wiped the morning from my eyes. and finally decided to confront it all.

I went back to our family house one more time. I didn't turn any lights on when I stepped inside. The air was stale, and the carpet still held a scent of whatever candles my mom used to burn near the holidays. I walked through the quiet halls, past the photos on the wall, past the coat hooks that held nothing, and into the living room where the furniture. had already been taken out. The only thing left was the echo of what used to be there. I sat down on the hardwood floor.

My legs ached from the walk. My chest heavier than it had been in days. I set the walkie-talkie on the floor in front of me. I'm sorry, Danny. I was a fool. I walked out into the woods the next morning. The fence behind the shed was still loose. The board still sluice.

slightly detached where we used to sneak through. It hadn't changed, though the yard behind me had turned brown from neglect. I slipped between the trees with a walkie in my coat pocket, stepping over fallen branches and patches of soft, sun-choked moss. I found the spot easily. I pulled the walkie out and held it for a while without saying anything. The plastic had softened from the cracks. the tape holding it together beginning to peel at the edges.

I looked down at it and said his name. Then I said I was sorry one last time. As if he heard me, the static finally stopped. And it felt like it had stopped. For good, I knelt and dug a small hole beneath the root of a tree. Not deep, just enough to play. the walkie inside. I covered it with soil, pressed the dirt down with my hands, and sat there with my back against the tree trunk. There were no prayers or closure. Only silence. A wind moved

through the branches. The leaves overhead swayed gently, the sound brushing the top of the trees. I sat there until I couldn't feel the weight in my chest anymore, and everything inside the of me, emptied out. I go back there sometimes. Not for guilt or out of fear. I sit with a tree and the dirt, the same ground where we once played, and I talk to him, and when I do. I imagine he's somewhere close by. Listening.