CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "My father built robots in the 80's" Creepypasta

Episode Date: March 26, 2021

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I have a surprise for you, Jimbo. My father, the inventor in Plaid, stood in the middle of the living room with a blocky object hidden beneath a bed sheet. It was the spring of 1981. My mother and me had just come back from the park. What is it? I asked. Guess. His hands tightened over the cloth. Whatever the surprise was, he was excited to reveal it.

A gentle whir and a beep came from beneath a bedsheet. A skeptical smile spread across my mother's face. Brian, he didn't build a, uh-uh, don't spoil it. He cuts her off. Let him guess. Come on, Jimbo. What do you think the surprise is? The mysterious object led out a series of beeps.

Weight shifted beneath the bed sheet. I didn't have the faintest idea of what it could be, but I also knew my father well enough to know he wouldn't move on unless I made a guess. A washing machine? I guessed. They both laughed. Over the following years,

my guests will be carved into family history through funny dinner party anecdotes. It's not a washing machine, Jimbo. My father finally said. It's something much better than a washing machine. You didn't actually build it, did you? My mother asked in amused disbelief. Hun, if you didn't want a husband who builds

things you shouldn't have married an inventor. He said, with pride in his voice, and then turned to me. Jimbo, let me introduce you to your new friend. Zorbo. He ripped off the cloth covering the bulky thing in our living room. A pair of flashlight eyes stared back at me from a rectangular metal skull. Knubs and dials stuck out of the robot stainless steel chest like medals from some intergalactic war.

Its arms hung in tubing that seemed to have come straight from a vacuum cleaner. But his hands were made up of sleek shapes that suggested top-secret military technology. Hello, friend. I am Zorbo. The robot said, his voice strained through lifeless circuitry. Would you like to play catch with me? I was an only child, and by extension, a lonely child. For years, I had begged my parents for a younger brother or sister, but the medication that my mother was taking made the idea of another pregnancy

far too dangerous. That winter, I shifted my pleas for company over to a dog, and my parents obliged, but within three hours of finding my new friend beneath the Christmas tree, I ended up in the emergency room. Turns out that I am deathly allergic to dogs. With his son, unable to find companionship, my father attempted to help the only way he knew how, by inventing me a friend.

The heap of sentient metal terrified me. There was something about the sluggish way that Zorbo's eyes scanned the room that made me feel quintessentially unsafe. But I knew if I rejected my father's gift, I would break the man's heart. After the initial fear of the robot passed, our little family went outside and played catch with Zorbo. Soon enough, word about Zorbo got around the neighbourhood. You could have made an 80s sitcom about us. We were the family living in suburbia with a zany robot, except Zorbo wasn't very zany

At first he was the equivalent of a particularly friendly roomer who could throw around a baseball but as time went on and as my mother got sicker Zorbo's skill set expanded Every night as I lay awake terrified of the lifeless machine that lived with us

I could see the lights of my father's workshop burning in the darkness of her backyard Within months Zorbo could cook and clean and mow the lawn Every chore that the robot was made to do gave my mother more time to rest and gave my father and me more time to spend with her. But that time was limited

as she lay on the hospital bed getting out the few final words that a disease riddle body could muster. Zorbo was there. As me and my father wept and assured my mother that she lived a truly beautiful life, the robot stood in the corner of the room his flashlight eyes scanning his surrounding

He listened to her last words. He internalised him deep into a circuitry. For a year, the house was a place of inescapable sadness. Every room, every dish, every tiny bit of existence reminded us of the woman who was whisked away by a clump of rogue cells. Even though we were in a state of deep mourning, the house was immaculate and our stomachs were full. As we tried to make sense of the new world we were living in,

Sorbo, the robot, was there to take care of us. The memory of my mother never faded. Decades later, a day seldom goes by when I don't think of her. But as time passed, the daily soul-shattering sadness turned into quiet melancholy. Life carried on. My father went back to work for the military. I started grade school. People moved in and out of the neighbourhood,

and eventually the life we once lived as a family became a memory. The only thing that remained constant was Zorbo. He was always there, making sure we were comfortable, serving us and providing an emotional crutch when needed. That all changed in the summer of 1989, the summer of the lawnmower. Cindy, the daughter of a new neighbour across the street, was sitting with me at the living room table

outlining a five-paragraph essay on the effects of the 1968 invasion of Czechoslovakia. I was trying to do the same, but my hormone-addled mind refused to think about the Soviet tanks or the crushing of democracy. All I could think about was Cindy. It was the last week of school,

and I was hopelessly in love. Hey, how do you spell Bresnev? All of these Soviet names give me a headache, she asked, leaning over to my near empty paper. I tried to spell out the name, But the angelic smell of a conditioner made it difficult to concentrate. Zorbo, I finally said, giving up and impressing Cindy with my spelling skills. How do you spell Bresnev?

Thank you for asking, friend. The robot's flashlight eyes spun around in a half circle before he gave his reply. Leonid Bresnev, leader of the Soviet Union between 1964 and 1982, L-E-O-N-I-D, B-R-E-Z-H-N-E-V Thank you, Zobo, Cindy said. You are welcome, friend, Zorbo replied. Would you like more spelling help? No, thank you, Zorbo, I mumbled.

Cindy thought the robot was really neat, and even though my metal houseguess still made me uncomfortable, I was starting to embrace the benefits of having a sentient machine full of knowledge wearing around the house. Don't talk too much about the Soviets with Zorbo kids. Things might get personal. My father said, emerging from the kitchen with a sandwich, so precisely cut that he could only have come from a machine.

He's part Russian. I mean, most of his circuitry is Japanese, but our metal friend here might still get a bit offended if you don't tell the Kremlin political line. Cindy's laugh was like a symphony of angels, enjoying a wholesome joke. I'll be sure to keep the polite bureau in mind been talking to Sorbo, Mr. Carpec, she said.

Polo Bureau, eh? My father was impressed. Smart one right here, Jimbo. Hold on to her. She can teach you a thing or two. I wanted to hold onto her. Oh God, how I wanted to hold on to her. I wanted to surrender myself into the goddess

and scream my undying love for Cindy through my crackling voice cords. But instead, I just blushed. My father stifled a grin and changed the topic. By the way, away, Cindy, send you pops my regards about the new lawnmower. Beauty of a machine he's got there. If we didn't have Zorbo here cutting our grass, I'd be hounding him for the name of the salesman.

My father gave Sorbo a friendly pat in his troubler arm and then turned to me. Seeing the neighbour's lawnmower yet, Jimbo? I shook my head. She's a beaut. He kissed the tip of his fingers like the Italian chefs on TV. I'll pass on the compliments, Mr. Carpec. Cindy said, smiling. I'll actually do so now.

Essay is just about done. Thanks for the spelling help, Zorbo. You are welcome, friend. I left my unfinished essay behind and followed Cindy to the edge of my front lawn. I'd hoped that at some point during the 30-second walk a burst of bravery would manifest

to my chest and I would tell her how I felt. But I didn't. I just stood behind a white-pigot fence watching my one true love skip across the street. A gym? Sindh his dad yelled as he mowed his lawn. Say hi to your old man for me, will you? Sure thing, Mr. Clark, I yelled back.

Also, my dad sent his compliments about your lawnmower. Mr. Clark's old machine was a rusting, gas-guzzling beast. Whenever his lawn was getting a trim, the entire neighborhood would be alerted to the crownskeeping with a jagged metallic screech. But that was no. longer the case. The new lawnmower was a tool of sleek, metallic shapes and blinking lights that led out nothing but a soft hum as it cut through the grass. Thanks Jim, she's a but

butute, ain't she? Cindy's dad said, before returning the mower. I never inherited the fascination with machines that my father had, but watching that machine work away at the greenery, I couldn't help but recognize a hint of hypnotizing aesthetic. Looking at the calculated metallic body of the machine made me feel like I was living in the 21st century. The future had arrived in suburbia. Hello, friend. An inhuman voice next to me said, what is that? That's a lawnmower, I replied, uncomfortable to the idea of how quietly Zorba could move when he wanted to. Lawn mower, Zorbo said with an unusual softness in his jagged screech. Beautiful lawnmower.

Yeah, I said, beautiful lawnmower. My father seldom cooked, but when he did, he would deliver a symphony of spices that would make you eat yourself into a food coma. Even Zorbo, with all of his circuitry and mechanical precision, couldn't replicate the mouth-watering flavor of my father's bolognese. Yet, as delicious as dinner was that night, I couldn't bring myself to enjoy the spaghetti. Instead of letting my mind drift away on the gentle note of paprika, I was tied down to reality by my frustrated teenage heart. So, he said, is Cindy seeing someone? No, I replied. Don't think so at least.

He swallowed another forkful of pasta, and then, with his mouth still full, as if it was a matter of no importance, he asked the question that had been festering in the back of my head for the past three months. You gonna ask her out? The butterflies in my stomach informed me that I wouldn't be eating any more that night. I said, I'm scared she'll say no. It doesn't matter, Jimbo. You're 14, my father told me.

If she says no, you won't remember it in a couple of years. What you will remember forever is not asking. I was a teen. My perception of time barely reached past the end of summer break. Yet for a split second, I imagine myself at 40, my hairline thinning like my dad's, eating spaghetti with a child of my own. But I'm nervous. What if she says no? I finally asked. You'll survive, he said. I was nervous when I first asked out your mom, and it worked out fine. He smiled as he said it, but as soon as he mentioned her, his eyes dimmed.

It had been years since she had passed, but certain memories stay as sharp as. the day that they were forged. We were sitting in the living room, eating spicy spaghetti. But really, we were both back in that hospital room, sitting by the frail party of the woman who once made my father nervous. Where's Zorbo? He brought the conversation back to reality. Zorbo, where are you? At dinner time, Zorbo would usually be in the kitchen, quietly wearing to himself, waiting for dishes to wash up. But that night, the robot wasn't any anywhere to be found. We searched all across the house, but our electric servant was gone. It wasn't until a chance glance out the window that I first saw him.

The moon softly reflected of his metallic body. His flashlight eyes hovered beams of red into the night. Zorbo was staring at Cindy's house. Beautiful lawnmower. His voice was different. It was as if a roughness had been chipped away As if somewhere within his wiry viscera A hint of emotion existed Beautiful lawnmower There was a trace of longing in his voice Huh? My father said

Looks like someone's blown a fuse Come here, Zorbo We'll take you into the garage and figure out what's up But the robot refused to budge It wasn't until my father pulled his tube arms towards the workshop that Zorbo relented and started to move. But even as Zorbo's blinking body moved away from the street, his head remained turned.

Those flashlights through which he took in the outside world were aimed straight at Cindy's house. Love is the only thing that matters, Zorbo said. My father froze. The gentle note of humanity in Zorbo's voice sends a bolt of discomfort through my spine. We recognise those words.

Beautiful lawnmower, Zorbo said again. His artificiality returning. My father's face slowly gained its smile. Beautiful lawnmower indeed, buddy. Let's get your circuitry checked out. There was enough pain medication and her to tire away most of her personality. But somewhere in that bony woman was the resemblance of my mother. We sat with her for the last two days.

of her life, trying to say all the things we would regret not saying, and assuring her of what a beautiful life she had lived. Whenever she would sleep, I would go make my acquaintance with a soda machine and stroll around the hospital looking for people who had it worse than me. My father talked extensively to whoever would listen about the machines his wife was hooked up to. Zorbo still stood in the back of the room. He never moved an inch until the hour when she died. It was as if he could tell that the life was seeping out of her, as if the machines that were keeping her alive had told him that she was moving on. As we listened to my mother's final attempts at speaking,

Zorbo slid behind us. We stood vigil as a family. Love is the only thing that matters, she said. Zorbo softly word next to us as she died. That night, I was sat with the memories. and tried to make sense of everything. I saw my mom again. I felt that heat in my chest

when I thought about Cindy. I could imagine myself as a regretful, bolding 40-year-old. Love is all that matters. Outside, my father tinkered away in the garage, trying to wipe Zorbo circuits

of the notion of love. But in my bedroom, a fire of teenage passion was burning. I fell asleep, trying to compose a monologue that would make Cindy swoon. Hey, were we meant to write a summary for the chapter or just until page 48? She asked.

I had no idea what she was talking about. All I knew was that we were sitting in her living room, and I was about to tell her. I really like you, I blurted out. Like, as a person, Cindy, I think you're pretty cool. But also, I like you as, like, a romantic partner. Like, I think you're cute, and I think about you all the time. I like you. I'm sorry. It came out to me like a rushing waterfall,

but my face felt like it was the surface of the sun. A confused look turned up the heat. Uh... Her eyes kept on filtering. For a split second, she looked a bit like Zorbo, if you have asked him what time it was. I... I...

I'm sorry too, because... Um, I like you as a friend, but, yeah, no. I stared down at my textbook. Leonid Bresnev was glaring at me from the page. I should go, she whispered. I'll walk you out, I said, immediately biting into my cheek. The walk to the edge of the yard couldn't have taken longer than 30 seconds,

but, as we quietly made her way out of the house, I aged the decade. my mind was wholly consumed by the sting of rejection, the tragedy of it, the unfairness of it. I was a little boy getting an allergic reaction to a Christmas puppy again, but this time, instead of a rash of my skin, there was a rash on my heart. I walked past Sorbo without locking at him. From the whirring of his hand blades, I presumed that he was just mowing the lawn. She didn't say anything. Cindy walked across the street and passed the front door.

without a single glance back. Sure, she apologized a week later, and a couple months down the line, I was all struck with someone else. But, in that moment, in that searing moment, my world was on fire. Beautiful lawnmower, Zorbo said. Soil clung to his metallic body.

The blades that extended from his hands tore him to the ground, shooting bits of earth sprawling across the sidewalk. He stared across that street with the same longing I had in my soul. Love is the only thing that matters. Yeah, I said, as I shuffled off to my room to mope,

my father found Sorbo shortly before the sunset. He walked out, calling to the robot about the dirty dishes that he gathered in the sink, but as soon as my father saw his creation digging into the ground, his tone changed. He spoke to him in calm, soothing words. The robot, had been working like precise clockwork

since the day that he was constructed. My father was worried to see his creation descend into glitch-filled madness. I knew I should have told him as soon as I found the malfunctioning robot, but there were more pressing things on my mind. As my father rode Zorbo into his workshop, my love for Cindy consumed me.

The life we would have had if I had just waited, if I had just phrased my confession of love differently. Snapshots of an alternate reality burn into my mind like an angry film reel. The visions in my head grew sharper. I didn't just get rejected by some teenage girl. I got rejected by my future wife. Images of me proposing, of us having a first child,

of me sitting by a hospital bed as she died of old age. They squirmed through my mind, accompanied by a booming replay of the couple of dozen words with which I wiped them from the future. I was 100% sure I had reached my first lifelong regret. I writhed with mental discomfort until I couldn't be alone. The lights were on in my father's workshop. Dad? I asked, standing in the door.

Hey, Jimbo, sorry, going to skip over dinner tonight. I think there should still be some bolognese in the fridge though. He said, not looking away from his work. My father's workshop was always a mess of disparate electronics and scattered tools. But that night, all other projects were cleared away to make room for Zorbo. Our robotic family member lay in a wooden table, his sleek metal skin removed, revealing a chaotic mess of wires and computer chips. Was Zobo acting any different when you came home in school? He asked while digging out a stack of microchips from behind the robot's eyes with a screwdriver.

Yeah, he, uh, was digging a hole in the front yard. All right, well, my father buried the frustration in his voice with a sigh. Next time you see him doing something weird, Please tell me. Right, Jim? Zorbo's inner workings are very fragile. If something is wrong, it needs to be fixed. I don't want to lose into some loose wiring.

Sorry, Dad, I said. He mumbled something and went back to tinkering with the robot's skull. I was going to leave him to his work, but the sadness in my chest was far too potent for me to be alone. I knew I needed to talk to someone. So, I asked Cindy out. As soon as the words left my mouth, his hands stopped moving. I didn't have anything to say.

As soon as he turned around, he could tell. Before I knew it, I was wrapped up in a bear hug, with my eyes growing wet. It's going to be okay, Jimbo. There will be plenty of others. Proud of you. Proud of me? Of course, you put yourself out there, and that's the most important... Love is the only thing that matters.

wires were hanging off his raw body. His flashlight ice spun around the room, searching for an exit. Zorbo was gaining off the table and moving towards the door. Beautiful lawnmower, he goggled through a partially dismantled voice box. Sorbo? My father let go of me and walked up to the staggering mess of electronics. Where are you going, Zorbo? Love is the only thing that matters, Zorbo said.

shuffling his way past my father. Beautiful lawnmower. Now, now, Zorbo, my father said, grabbing Zorbo's arm, slightly above the mud-caged blades. I think you need to lie down for a bit. There's something wrong with you and... Beautiful lawnmower.

Zorbo boomed as he ripped free of my father's grip. Love is the only thing that matters. He continued walking out of the garage, each step filled with crackling defiance. "'Saubo, you stop right this instant.' My father yelled in a tone that was only familiar to me from early childhood. "'If you keep behaving like this, I will shut you off.'

The robot's body froze midstep. He didn't turn around, but his head did. "'You want to stop Sorbo from love?' My father gently pushed me aside, placing me away from the disobedient robot. "'Sorbo,' he said, his voice growing cold. Come back here and lie down on the table.

The beams of light focused in my father. The wiring of Zorbo's body twisted and turned until they were face to face. The blade in his hand started to spin. You want to stop Zorbo from love? His voice load in volume. He was almost drowned out by the sharp whirring of the mud-covered knives. Goodbye, friend.

Zorbo's tubular arm came down like a chop. on my father's shoulder. Hoplard splashed all over my face. Pain screams filled my ears. The blades cut through my father's skin like butter. I could hear the crackling of bones breaking. Through my father's throat-taring agony, I could hear a single word come through.

Run! He wanted his only child to get away from the manic robot that was soaring at his arm. He wanted me to survive. But I couldn't move an inch. I just stood there, pressed up against the tall cabinet, watching my father be murdered by a robot. I could see myself running across the street to Cindy's house. I could see myself trying to explain to a police officer that an unhinged robot killed my dad.

I could see myself standing at my father's funeral, watching the dirt over his casket solidified my status as an orphan. But I would never actually see my father's funeral. Instead, I felt the cold steel of a monkey wrench in my head. hand. I summoned a battle cry from the depth of my lungs. If I let my father die in the hands of a robot, I would regret it for the rest of my life. The adrenaline coursing through my veins gave reality a jagged edge. Everything moved in a neck-breaking speed, but each time the blunt object made contact the Zorbo's wiry brain, time dissolved into a short-lived eternity. Zorbo's intricately

woven mind was reduced to a mess of cables. Soon enough, my wrench may contact. with the floor of the garage. Zorbo was dead. Everything after that is a blur. I remember stumbling out into the street, covered in blood, barely able to muster up more strength

to yell for help. I remember Clark, holding down a torn shirt over the geyser of blood and was streaming out of my father's shoulder. I remember sitting in the back of an ambulance, watching my father linger on the edge of life. For two days, I survived

and a diet of pop and chocolate from a familiar fending machine. He had lost a lot of blood. Even at 14, I could sense though the doctors were preparing me for the worst. But miraculously, on the third day, I was allowed to see my dad. He was weak, desperately weak,

but he was alive. All that cost him was his arm. He spent the entire summer in a state of exhausted shock from his creation turning on him. But by the time the four leaves filled our yard, he was outside with a rake, cracking jokes. By Christmas, he had a new metallic arm, courtesy of his workbench. By new years, he was washing dishes.

Mr. Clark was more than happy to give him the number of the lawnmower salesman. Life carried on. I graduated high school, moved out of state for university, and then continued moving every couple of years depending on where my job took me. I had my fair share of rejection and breakups. But no heartache ever reached the mythical proportions of the rejection of 89. With all said and done though, My father was right.

Knowing that I had asked and got shot down was considerably easier to live with than having to wonder what could have been. I grew into an adult and my father shrunk into an old man. He continued to do work for the army well into old age. But as time went on, he was phased out by younger minds they were more in touch with modern tech. In retirement, my father continued to tinker with electronics and built himself contraptions to help him with the tasks that old age made difficult.

But eventually, as Tremas set into his human hand, an age chipped away at his human brain, he stopped coming to his workshop. I found myself thinking about his funeral again. But this time, it wasn't just a panic snapshot forced into my head by a franted robot servant. This time I knew that somewhere down the line, I will be standing in a church trying to summarize what the man meant to me in a speech to his old co-workers and family who I hadn't seen for years. But I never did.

I never saw my father's funeral. The fact that I belonged to a whole generation of people who were robbed of a funeral makes the pain sting less. There were plenty of other children of the 80s who lost the parents during the pandemic of 20. Who didn't have weekly Skype calls with her father's, who had unresolved issues, we'd fallen out of touch. But knowing that I'm not the only one who lost the parent during the corona outbreak only lessens the pain slightly. The thought of him dying alone, feverish, connected to a respirator he could have built in his workshop, still cuts into my heart with a fiery force. By the time I was able to travel back to my hometown, the house had been empty for months.

I walked through the rooms who wept as the memories watch. over me. Even though I was filled with sorrow, there was a catharsis to it all. The two people who'd brought me into the world were gone, but they gave me the tools to survive in it. They shaped the person who mourned them. Each room was filled with evidence that I was loved, and I have it on good authority that love is important. But my father's workshop was different. When I turned on the lights, I wasn't reminded of the afternoons I spent keeping my father company while he worked on his projects, or of all the toys that my father built me when I was a kid. No, there were no memories at all. All I could focus on was the object hidden beneath a bed sheet in the centre of the room.

A part of me wanted to turn around and leave whatever my father's project was a mystery. But I knew myself well enough to know that the... question of what was hidden beneath a bed sheet would still sleep away from me forever. I gripped my hand around the cloth and pulled. It was the same lawnmower that Mr. Clark had back in the 80s. It, over-the-top impression of the future, seemed nearly comical by modern standards. But there was something attached to its sleek, metallic frame that chilled me to my middle-aged core.

Two red flashing lights focused on me. Love is the most important thing. Zobo's voice box whispered out of the core of the machine. Beautiful lawnmower.