CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "My Great Grandpa Was A Medic During The War. He Told Me About An Undying Soldier" Creepypasta

Episode Date: January 1, 2025

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

My great-grandfather was the kind of man who always seemed unshakable. He had lived through a world war, raised four kids of his own after his wife passed, and ran a small town diner until arthritis stole his grip. He was a figure of quiet strength with the eyes of someone who'd seen the world and survived. Growing up, I knew he'd served as a nurse during the war, but that was about all I knew. Most of his stories gathered dust in his memories, just like the medals that stood on the living room shelf. He'd sometimes joke about trading cigarettes for coffee while patching up cowardly soldiers who shot themselves in the foot.

But there was a line he would never cross. He always kept the heavy memories locked out of sight. It was late, past midnight, and the house was quiet except for the hum of the old refrigerator and the kids. kitchen, accompanied by a grandfather clock. Great grandpa and I sat at the table, the dim yellow light above us casting long shadows across his worn, weathered face. He poured himself a whiskey, the one indulgence that remained, and handed me a Coke, a gesture that made me feel much older than I was.

He was quiet at first, staring into his glass like it held something he'd been trying to figure out. Then, without looking up at me, he spoke. You ever wonder why something stick with you, boy? He asked with a low and steady voice. I blinked and adjusted my posture, caught off guard. What do you mean? He took a sip from his glass and set it back down carefully, his hand lingering on it. The war. I've seen a lot of things. lot of people up, buried more than my share too. He paused and glanced at me before setting his gaze back down to his glass. But there's one man I've never been able to forget. He leaned forward, careful not to break the moment. Great grandpa rarely talked like this, and I respected him

too much to even think about interrupting. Private Andrew Mallory, he said. His grey eyes sharp but distant, as if reliving the memory in front of me. I waited, letting him find his words. He came to us in the winter of 44, Grandpa began. We were stationed at the hospital just behind the front lines. It was freezing, the kind of cold that would kill you if you stopped moving for too long. The air stank of smoke, blood, mud and guns. powder. He paused, his jaw visibly tightening. The hospital wasn't even much of a hospital,

he said with a dry chuckle, a few canvas tents and a whole lot of desperation. We worked with no breaks, patching up the ones we could and making the others comfortable until they no longer needed the comfort. He picked up his glass again and took a slow sip. That's where I first met Mallory. They brought him in late one night, carried on a stretcher by two boys who didn't look much older than he was. Shrapnel wound to the gut. It was bad, son, real bad. We tried to save him, but his voice trailed off and his hand tightened around the glass. He died on the table.

I was holding his hand when it happened. I remember, clear as day, the way his grip loosened. The look in his eyes when he realized he wasn't going to make it. He was just a kid, scared, alone, dying in the middle of a frozen hell. He fell silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the table between us. What happened after that? I asked quietly. Great Grandpa exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping as he leaned back in his chair. The same thing as always.

We cleaned him up as well as we could, tagged him, and sent him to the morgue tent. Then we moved on. There wasn't time to dwell on anything back then. Too many men coming in and not enough hands to save them all. We had no time to mourn. We just did what we could and hoped it was enough. I nodded. Even though I couldn't imagine what sort of

pressure he must have felt. The next morning, he continued, his voice softer now, almost ghostly. I walked into the triage tent, same as always, and there he was. I frowned, who? Mallory, my great-grandfather said, his eyes meeting mine, standing there like nothing had ever happened. It was fine. better than fine even. No wounds, no blood, not a scratch on him. Just standing there, confused as hell, but in better condition than anyone in that hospital. A slight chill ran down my spine. I never heard my great-grandfather tell a story like this. I didn't even think he believed in anything supernatural. And, what did you do? What could I? He said.

I thought I was losing my mind. I went over to him, my eyes wide as dinner plates. I clearly scared the kid with the way I walked up to him, but I have expected him to collapse or disappear into thin air the second I touched him. But he didn't. He was solid, as real as the kid I'd watched die the night before. He rubbed his hand over his face. The other nurses thought it had to be a mistake,

that we'd misidentified the body or mixed up the tags. It wasn't too uncommon. But I knew. I held his hand when he died. What did Mallory say? I asked, curiosity gripping me tightly. Not much, he admitted. He was confused, disoriented,

said he didn't remember anything after the explosion. The doctors checked him over and he was fine, with no wounds or signs of trauma. They got him ready and sent him back to the front. Just like that? I asked, my voice rising. Just like that, boy, great-grandpa said with a bitter tone. Orders were orders, and he was a soldier. If he could stand, he could also fight,

then that's all that mattered. He fell silent again. his gaze drifting toward the darkened window to our left. The kitchen felt colder than it had a moment ago, and I realized I was holding my breath. I couldn't let it go, he said with a subdued tone. After I saw Mallory there, alive and well, I couldn't just move on.

I tried to talk about it. Hell, I had to. Who did you talk to? I asked. Mary Ellen, he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. She was one of the senior nurses. She was hard as nails, but she had a good head on her shoulders. A damn fine woman she was.

I figured if anyone would listen, she'd be the one. He let out a long sigh. I caught her between shifts. She was smoking behind the supply tent, trying to get some minutes to herself before the next truck pulled up. Great Grandpa's voice softened once more, and I could also see the scene in my head as he described it. She stood there, leaning against the tent pole,

staring at me like I told her the world was ending in just a few minutes. What do you mean he walked back in? she asked. I told her everything, just as I had told you. What did she say? I asked, louder than I'd meant to. She laughed, he said flatly, the kind you give someone when you're too tired to deal with nonsense. I told her I wasn't crazy and I knew what I saw. I said, Mary, that kid was dead. He died in front of me.

But she just shook her head and said, Dead men don't walk, Harold. Maybe you tag the wrong boy. We've all made mistakes. His hand trembled slightly as he reached. for his glass, the liquid inside never seeming to end. I asked her if she'd at least take a look at him, see for herself. She took one last drag of a cigarette, blew the smoke out and said, We don't have time for this. There's a truck coming in with 20 more boys, and a doubt half of them will make it longer than a night. I frowned, trying to picture the situation in my head.

That's it? She just shrugged it off like that. War doesn't leave room for questions, kid, he said with a heavy voice. Not questions like that. Anyway, I knew that myself. We were barely keeping up as it was. Soldiers pouring in faster than we could treat them. Supplies running out.

When you're drowning, you don't stop to wonder why the water is rising. He set his glass down hard. that sounds sharp in the quiet kitchen. She told me to get back to work, and that was that. Mallory was just another name, another body. Nobody cared where he'd been or how he came back. They just cared that he could hold a rifle. The bitterness in his voice cut deep,

and I didn't know what to say for a moment. Did he come back? I asked finally, already knowing the answer. He nodded slowly. Yeah, he came back. He stared at the ceiling for a moment before looking at me with kind eyes. But that's enough for tonight.

I'm tired. I open my mouth to protest, to ask just one more question. But I realized great-grandpa wasn't asking. He was dead. telling me the conversation was over for now. I'll tell you the rest tomorrow, kid, he said, rising from his chair, followed by the faint creek of the old wood. That night, sleep didn't come easy. I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, replaying great grandpa's words over and over. The gravity in his voice since shivers

down my spine. I wanted to know more. Images of a war-torn hospital filled my mind, the smell of antiseptic and blood, the groans of the dead and dying, the frantic shuffle of nurses trying to save lives. And then, Mallory. The thought continued to gnaw at me the next day at work. I tried my best to focus, but my mind kept drifting. I ran through everything great-grandpa had said, wondering how it could be possible. I was still lost in thought when my phone rang. The vibration in my pockets snapped me back to reality.

The voice on the other end was rushed and panicked. Your great-grandfather has been hospitalized, the woman on the other end said, heart attack. My stomach dropped. I barely remembered grabbing my keys, talking to my boss and driving to the hospital. I got there, he was lying in bed, pale and hooked up to more machines than I could count. His eyes opened when he heard me enter, and he gave me a weak smile. Great Grandpa's hand trembled as he reached out, beckoning me closer.

The hospital room was quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of the monitors and the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. His voice was hoarse and strained, but its urgency left no room for argument. Didn't think you could get rid of me that easily, did you? he rasped. I laughed softly. You scared the hell out of me, Grandpa. Sit, he said, his eyes locking onto mine. I need to finish the story.

Grandpa, it's fine. You need to rest. No, he interrupted. his tone firm, unexpectedly so. I don't know how much time I have. Just listen. I nodded, pulling the chair closer to his bedside. His hand gripped mine,

the warmth contrasting with the cold sterility of the hospital. I listened without saying a word, leaning forward to catch every syllable. Something in his tone demanded my full attention. After Mallory came back the first time, Grandpa began once more, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. I just couldn't stop thinking about it. It made no sense. I tried to keep going, hoping the world would explain itself later.

His fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket. I tried thinking back on what Mary had said, that it was just a mix-up, a mistake. but deep down I knew better. He paused, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Time went by, weeks passed, and I didn't see him again. I figured that was the end of it. But then, they brought him back. He shifted slightly, wincing as he adjusted his position.

I remember the look on the middle. medic's face when they carried him in. They said he stepped on a mine. His leg was gone, blown clean off. Shrapnel had ripped through his chest and his skin was burned so badly, he didn't even look human. What happened then? I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Great grandpa shook his head. We tried to stop the bleeding, pulled the shrapnel, did everything we could to keep him alive. but it was a losing battle from the start. We all knew it. His heart gave out halfway through, and he died again. His voice trembled, and he turned his head to look at me. Do you know what it feels like to fail someone twice, boy, to watch a kid die in your hands, knowing there's nothing you can do?

I was unable to find the words. We cleaned him up, tagged him again, and and sent him to the morgue tent. It had to be over, and I hoped it was, for his sake, the next morning, Grandpa said, his voice growing quieter. I walked into the triage tent to start my shift, and there he was, again. His expression darkened. The first time I saw him come back, I thought I was losing my mind. This time, I didn't quite know.

know what to think. He was sitting on one of the cots, staring at the floor like he didn't know where he was, and he looked fine, just like before. Did you talk to him? I asked. Grandpa exhaled, his hands clenching the blanket tighter. I froze. For a moment, I just stared at him. Part of me wanted to run up to him and ask what the hell was going on, but... I didn't, or not. Because the tent was a madhouse, he said bitterly. More men had been brought in overnight, and there were too many fires to put out. I didn't have time to sit and ask questions as much as I wanted to.

His eyes clouted over, his voice turning softer. I did manage to catch his eye though for just a second. And you know what I saw? Fear. He was scared out of his mind, but confused. They sent him back to the front line later that day. Grandpa said, I could feel the frustration radiating off him as he spoke.

I wanted to stop him, he admitted, to pull him aside and make him tell me everything. But I didn't get the chance. I didn't even see him for a long time after that. The war moved on, unrelenting. He looked at me then, his eyes heavy, but I couldn't stop thinking about him. Every time I closed my eyes, I'd see his face, a fear, that confusion. And I kept wondering. Wondering what?

Grandpa hesitated. His lips pressed into a thin line. I kept wondering, where he went when he died. What he saw, what it was that scared him so much. The door opened suddenly, and a nurse stepped in. Her voice soft. I'm sorry, visiting hours are over. Wait, I said, turning back to Grandpa.

You said there was more. What happened next? Did he come back? Grandpa lifted a hand, his fingers weakly waving me off. Later, he murmured. his voice barely audible. I'll tell you the rest later. Grandpa, go home, he said, his eyes fluttering shut.

We'll finish tomorrow. The nurse gave me a sympathetic smile as she ushered me out. But something about Grandpa's final words left a pit in my stomach. As I walked out of the hospital, I couldn't shake great-grandpa's words. and a small part of me began to question it all. His story about private Mallory was by all means impossible. People do not just die and come back, let alone multiple times. Maybe, I thought, it was his way of coping with his own mortality,

a metaphor for something he couldn't quite explain to me. Or maybe he was trying to teach me something about resilience and sacrifice. Still, the way he spoke and the emotions in his voice all felt real. There was a sincerity to it. The morning after, I thought about calling the hospital to check on him. He was old and tired and needed rest, but I planned on seeing him after work. Given the seriousness of the story, he would prefer to tell it in person. I had just gotten home from work.

when my phone rang. The number was from the hospital. Your great-grandfather has just passed away. It was sudden but peaceful, the voice on the other end said, I'm so sorry for your loss. She sounded comforting, but with so much unanswered, I was distraught. I asked them to repeat it, hoping I misunderstood. But I hadn't.

My great-grandpa was gone. I went to the hospital to sign off documents and pick up his remaining things. Deep down, I hoped to find some clues to the ending of his story, or maybe even a manifesto explaining the rest. But all he had with him was the clothes on his back. I left the hospital feeling lost, both emotionally and physically. One way or another. I ended up at the diner where great-grandpa and I used to go when I was a kid,

the one he used to own back in the day. It was a place that felt safe and familiar, a setting to remember him by. I slid into the booth where Grandpa and I always sat, and I stared at the familiar chipped laminar table as the hum of the diner's lights buzzed faintly in the background. I did not even notice the waitress asking if I wanted coffee. I just nodded along. When two mugs hit the table, I looked up and froze. Sitting across from me in front of the other mug of steaming coffee was my great-grandfather.

He looked tired, his face exhausted and withdrawn. but there was no mistaking it. He raised the mug slightly like a toast. Don't panic, son, he said in a calming tone. I internalised my reaction to scream and got up slowly, keeping my eyes on him as I slid into the sea to cross from him. You're a light... I know, he interrupted as he sipped his coffee.

You wanted to know what happened the third time, Mallory. he came back, he added. I kept staring at him. My mind, a swirling pit of confusion and disbelief. How? I got the call. You... They...

They said you... Died. Grandpa said, finishing the sentence for me. I did, son. That's the problem. It's my second time now. So this is when things change. Before I could press further, he leaned in.

The last time Mallory came back, he was different. They carried him into the tent, half dead, with burns, shattered bones, and parts of him barely held together. But he didn't die. He should have. God knows he should have. But something did not let him. Grandpa slumped back in his chair, his expression. and turning dark. But he hung on, barely. The damage to his body was, Grandpa trawled off,

shaking his head. Everyone said it and knew it. The other medics looked at him like they were waiting for his heart to stop, but it just never did. He laid there, breathing shallow, his eyes wide open. I stayed quiet. They got him stable eventually. He continued, stable enough to move him to a recovery tent. I had to know more, son. I couldn't get it out of my head. The look on his face when we were working on him, it wasn't just pain. He scratched at his forearm, wincing slightly. I couldn't sleep that night. I kept thinking about him. wondering if he was still alive, still hanging on. So, I broke protocol, slipped out of my bunk, and went to see him.

Grandpa's voice dropped lower, and his hands tightened around the mug. When I got there, I saw it. His wounds, they weren't healing. They were getting worse. But it wasn't just blood and burns anymore. There was something else. This black goo seeping out of his injuries, spreading over his skin like it was alive. I felt a chill creep up my spine.

He saw me standing there, Grandpa continued, and his eyes locked onto mine. He looked at me like I was his last chance. He reached out, barely able to lift his hand and said, You have to end it. Please, I can't go back again. I can't let it take me. Grandpa swallowed hard, his voice trembling now. I told him I couldn't, that I wouldn't.

I was there to save people, not kill them. But he kept begging, tears streaming down his face, his voice breaking. It's in me, he said. It's going to take everything. Please, don't let me turn into it. My chest tightened. What did you do, Grandpa? I didn't want to do it, Grandpa admitted.

But I knew he was right. Whatever was happening to him, it wasn't natural. It wasn't going to stop. It was spreading. I didn't have a choice. I had failed to save the kid twice. I wouldn't fail again. Grandpa looked up at me then,

his eyes filled with quiet, terrible guilt. I pressed my hand over his nose and mouth and held it there until he stopped breathing. Grandpa leaned back in the booth, his hands trembling slightly as he rested them on the table. I thought it was over after that.

I thought I'd done what needed to be done Whatever is in him was tenacious. It didn't want to go with him. What seeped out of him like a noose fizzled as Mallory's heart stopped. And before I could get away, it burst into a mist. I managed to back away from it, but I breathed a bit of it in. Only a bit. But it was enough.

A look of defeat crossed my grandmother's. A rare look to see. I was found still, declared dead on the spot. When I walked in the next day, there was too much chaos to investigate, so it was just reported as a clerical error. No marks were found on me, so my medical records just show an undetected heart murmur. That was my first. Grandpa sighed. Since then, I've lived carefully.

I don't know how many chances I have, but this heart attack was the second. I can't risk you or anyone around me. Before, I was desperate to know what Mallory knew. But seeing it myself, I now know why he craved death. He lifted his arm slightly. pulling back the sleeve of his shirt.

Just above his wrist, a small patch of black, oily substance clung to his skin. It got to me, he said simply. Whatever was inside Mallory passed to me. And now... It's waiting. I can feel it spreading little by little, but I don't know what I'll turn into.

But I know, it won't be me. I was stunned. Hearing this story was just words, but seeing the strange substance in person made it all too real. I'm sorry, kid, grandpa said, his voice breaking. I didn't want you to know, but I couldn't leave without telling you the truth. You deserve that much. I stared at him, my pulse pounding in my ears. There, there has to be a way to stop it, Grandpa, I pleaded.

Grandpa gave me a sad, tired smile. Maybe, son, but it's not a risk I'm willing to take around you or anyone else. He pushed back from the table, his movement slow. Take care of your siblings and your mother for me. was the last thing he said. I wanted to stop him, to say something, but the words caught in my throat. I could only watch as he walked out of the diner, and the weight of everything that had transpired came crashing down on me.