CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "My mother uncovered some Hungarian ruins that were used for disturbing reasons" Creepypasta

Episode Date: December 11, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by beardify: 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►Alex Pi: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/kD...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-

It started with a library book. I was on my way to the bathroom when I happened to look down at the display shelves. What was my mom's picture doing on a hardcover? She was wearing a yellow puffy-shouldered 80s pantsuit with golden earrings and a hair in a perm. But it was mom all right. Any doubts disappeared when I saw a name,

listed as author beside the letters, PhD. Fascinated, I stooped down and looked at. leafed through the thick, academic volume. Hungarian castle architecture of the 14th to 16th centuries, the title read. If my mom was a professor, I suddenly wondered, why did she work in a shipping warehouse? I remember feeling a lump in my throat as I scrambled to the library computer to do more research. I was 11 that year, and it had not yet occurred to me that maybe parents, too, kept secrets. Those were the early days of the internet

But even so the search results were clear My mom was Or at least had been a pretty well-known archaeologist A daring prodigy Was how one website described her Who sudden fade into obscurity Has been a loss for the entire field That lump

That tense and nasty feeling of wrongness Stuck with me the rest of the day At the dinner table that night I couldn't hold it in any longer. Mom, I asked suddenly, were you like a professor or something? My parents froze, their forks halfway to their mouths. They gave each other the look,

the one that meant I'd said or done something I shouldn't have. What makes you think that, honey? My mother asked innocently, but a face was pale. I saw a book he wrote, I exclaimed. and I think my mom cursed under a breath. Why don't you write anymore? I kept prodding. It wasn't for me, my mom said flatly. Then both my parents suddenly became very focused on their peas.

As far as my parents were concerned, that was the end of it. I knew better than to bring up the topic again, but I investigated myself in secret. It was thrilling to think that my own. My parents had a hidden, adventurous past, just waiting to be uncovered. Sifting through articles and press releases, I felt like a spy. I didn't understand most of the big academic words, but the pictures were more interesting anyway. Ruin towers on jagged Carpathian peaks, excavations that expose maize like stone walls,

marked up like crime scenes, dim close-ups of slimy dungeon walls. And in all of them, Mom, where in work-like, clothes or suits, surrounded by colleagues, everyone's sunburned and smiling. It definitely didn't look like this wasn't for her. Life, however, went on. Volleyball, boy bands, and cruising them all just seemed so much more important than all that dusty old stuff. Before long, I'd forgotten all about my family's mysterious past, until I received the first

drawing. Like most kids, I felt my blood run cold when I was cold to the old. office unexpectedly. I was still wondering what I was going to be blamed for when the secretary handed over the square envelope. Your uncle dropped this off for you, dear, she added. I frowned. I didn't have an uncle.

For me? Are you sure? I muttered. Why wouldn't I be sure, dear? The secretary drummed a long fingernails impatiently on the desk. Um... I flipped the envelope over and saw my first name in big block print. No reason.

A phone rang. I darted away to open my letter. I wasn't expecting a huge piece of paper so tightly and perfectly folded, or the image drawn on it. A white circle surrounded by blackening scroll, creating the effect of light at the end of the tunnel. It wasn't any less mysterious. There was no note. I should have told someone. I realize that now.

My parents, a teacher, anyone. But at the time, I just stuffed the drawing away in my backpack. I was worried, but unable to say why. For a few days, nothing happened. Although I did find myself slipping away to peer at that strange image. There was something disquieting about the tiny faraway light surrounded by menacing endless darkness. It wasn't long before I received another image.

envelope from my uncle. This one was gates, like the kind that covered the sewers and the walk to school. Hundreds of them, from all different angles. Although it was a two-dimensional sketch, it gave me the sensation

of being trapped underneath one of those gates, sticking my fingers through the bars, desperate, unable to get out. I crumpled it up and threw it away. You need to tell your uncle that he needs to find a different way to drop off letters,

the school secretary told me the next day I can't be calling you down here every day She scrutinized my word face As I took the third envelope Is everything okay dear He's not my uncle I whispered I don't have an uncle

I was told to keep still While the secretary fetched the principal In the tiny AV closet There was the security office A crowd of adults huddled over me Their faces told me that whatever was going on here, it was serious. No matter how many times they've rewound the grainy black and white footage, however, I didn't recognize the man who was dropping off the letters.

A middle-aged white guy, clean-shaven with black hair and glasses, not too fat or too thin, too short or too tall. He'd asked for me by my full name and grade, and I'd never seen him before in my life. The administrators had tried to open this third envelope somewhere I couldn't see, but it was easy for an 11-year-old to peek around their big, clumsy bodies. The paper had been meticulously sketched over in black and grey, creating the effect of a narrow, lightless, waterlogged hallway, or maybe several.

Looking at it made my eyes hurt. My parents were called in right away. They too claimed to have never seen the man and denied any knowledge. about what the weird drawings might mean. School security wanted my parents to pick me up, but the 12 other shifts they both worked to keep food on the table made that impossible. Instead, I was told to walk home with friends. The problem was that I didn't have any friends,

not close ones anyway, and the acquaintances who were forced into walking me home didn't understand what was going on. Not that I was pleasant or a talkative companion. I spent most of the walk by the walk by the, in my lip, scanning the trees, a looking back over my shoulder. Every time I heard the ominous rumble

of an engine, I got ready to run. My nerves were shot. I slept fitfully when I slept at all, and my dreams were full of tight, suffocating stone tunnels and distant, unreachable lights. One night in particular, I was woken by the sound of whistling wind

and drumming water droplets against the window pane, eerily similar to the sounds from my nightmares. With a yawn, I stood up to get some water. Something, however, caught my attention to the window behind my bed. I was already awake, I might as well check out the storm, I thought. The moment the blinds opened, I was confronted by that awful stone pit, or tunnel, or whatever it was. The slick wet stone and claustrophobic darkness was so realistic

that for a second I thought I was still dreaming. It was another one of those drawings stuck to my bedroom window. My scream woke my parents and the next thing I knew, the three of us were running outside. Where was the rainstorm? I wondered sleepily and around to my window. The greasy prints in the window suggested that the dripping water droplets I'd heard had been the drumming of someone's fingers, probably the same person who had whistled the sound of the howling wind just from behind my pillow. I started shaking, and not just from the cold. My dad gripped my waist so tight it hurt,

and for the first time, I noticed the shiny, black piece of metal in my mother's hand. A pistol. With one hand, she tore the sketch down and destroyed it. I slept in my parents' room that night. My father hugged me in a saggy old queen bed. My mother, who had to be at work in a few hours, kept watch with a pistol and a cup of coffee. No one would tell me what was going on.

The next morning, my dad prepared a toaster breakfast of frozen waffles before dragging himself off to work, yawning. As soon as he was gone, my mom made a phone call. I lay my ear against the warped plywood of my mom's bedroom door. I could hear a quavering, terrified voice on the other side. I don't know how rotcha, she whispered. I don't know how it's possible, but, He's here.

Several hours later, my mom introduced me to Dr. Roger Farmingworth, who was going to keep an eye on things around the house. They greeted each other like old friends, with nothing more than a quick goodbye and a worried look over a shoulder at me. My mom rushed off to work. Creepy happenings are no. We still had to pay rent. Dr. Farmingworth was a big man with sparse hair, a scraggly white beard and round glasses. He had to squat down to shake my hand, and I could tell right away that there was a powerful build beneath that pudgy Santa Claus exterior. It was in the little scars, the glint in his eye.

Who was this guy, I wondered, and how did my mom know him? Farmingworth checked the doors and windows, made himself some coffee, and sat down in the living room with mom's pistol and a pile of papers the grade. He whistled while he worked. I sat on the couch beside him. watching Nickelodeon until I finally worked with the courage to ask him. What's going on? I gushed. Why is everybody so scared? Farming'sworth stopped whistling.

He seemed to think something over for a minute. Well, he chuckled. I suppose it must be because your mother killed someone, or tried to, apparently. I stared. Don't look so surprised. You were bound to find out. eventually. I suppose you already suspect something similar. No? Actually, I hadn't.

This was about the last thing I would have imagined. Although we lived in rough and gritty conditions, my parents had done everything they could to keep my life neat, clean, and far from evil. The woman who took me to the playground and danced in the kitchen while she made grilled cheese sandwiches. A murderer? Well, perhaps not. The professor leaned back. He'd clearly been waiting to tell this story for a long time, but never been able to, for obvious reasons. We were on a dig in the Carpathians, 89 I think it was. Iron Curtain had fallen, unexplored territory, ripe for the taking, you know. I didn't, but I nodded, not wanting Farming's worth to get off topic.

There are whole cities out there, covered by dirt and time, just waiting to be found. thousands of them. Who knows how the inhabitants of those places thought and lived? Their ways are not our ways. And you went to one of those places with my mom, and she had somebody there, I pushed. We were a crew of three, your mother, Dean and I, plus the Hungarians, of course, but they don't really count. He waved his hand. We followed rumours to a fort from the Ottoman Wars, what was left of it Anyway, just a couple moldering walls where the local teenagers

went to drink, but on the ground there was more. Oh yes, a lot more. Your mother is a specialist in medieval architecture and even she couldn't divine the purpose of most of the structure we found and then there were the lower levels

completely untouched by time. So you guys were like Tomb Raiders? I crossed my legs and leaned in, fascinated, heavens no researchers Farming's worth clarified

Those were happy days We pitched our tents right beside the dig site It was almost like Boy Scout camp Your mother had Dean And I had my local girl We'd sit around the campfire with a bottle of shnapps But Something went wrong

Didn't it? I cut in Like I said Dean and your mother were Together They both had a passion for a history, a hunger for frame, and a willingness to bend the rules. They were the toast of the university. Dean's speciality was the psychology of spaces, you understand.

I nodded, pretending like I did. He studied how man-made environments impacted human minds and vice versa. Your mother was sure that the constructions we found were structural supports or storage spaces. But Dean had a different idea. He thought that they were used for psychological torture and execution. Kill people with a building? I scrunched at my eyebrows.

How? The first dungeon was a huge stone room, with a slick stone floor slanted sharply toward a pit. Dean's idea was that the unfortunate captive was left in that room, growing weaker and weaker each day, until they were no longer strong enough to resist the slide downward to the pit entrance. where they were stuck until they starved enough to slip through the narrow hole. The pit itself was curved like a stone corkscrew so that the fall alone wouldn't cause death. Instead, there was a maze of tunnels down there, half flooded with filthy black water. The only thing they all had in common is that they got narrower and narrower, tighter and tighter as they went.

Dean argued that there was no way that it wasn't intentional. He had other evidence too. the dragging fingernail marks in the angled pit room for instance or the grooves in the walls at the bottom of the pit he claims were made by prisoners attempting to gnaw at slime and lichon just to survive a little longer and then of course there were all the bones

that's horrible I whispered I imagined sliding slowly down toward a lightless pit until it was impossible to hang on starving until I looked like a skeleton then sliding even further, the stone walls closing in, until finally. I shuddered. That's what your mother thought, but Dean was obsessed.

I don't know what happened to him after we lowered him down into the pit, but he didn't come out the same man. Dean used to be charismatic. He had magnetism, you know, so passionate about his subject that even hung a refreshman on Friday morning sit up and pay attention. But after a while, he was spending all day in that hall. He starved himself. I suppose to study how long it would take a person to become so thin that he sank to the bottom.

He barely slept and he started getting... Aggressive. Aggressive? How? I asked. Not sure that I wanted to know the answer. I should have seen it coming, Farming's side. He suddenly seemed a lot less enthusiastic. I was afraid he might clam up. Dean just wasn't the same man,

screaming at the workers, hitting your mother. He hit Mom? It seemed like just a little domestic dispute, you understand. Farming'sworth rambled helplessly. Just a little tiff. I didn't want to get involved. Then one night he destroyed your mother's research. Didn't want any competition for his theory, I suppose.

He went back into the ruins. Your mother followed. When she tried to stop him, he broke her arm, and she shoved him. Dean slipped backwards. Into the pit, I finished. Farming'sworth nodded. What was I supposed to do? Turn your mother in.

I needed a research for my book. If I didn't publish, I was going to lose my grant, you know. A murder seemed a lot more important than all that. But I kept my mouth shut. I didn't want Farming'sworth to stop talking. If Dean escaped and charged your mother with assault or something, it would have destroyed a life and my career along with it. So, you left him there, I murmured, in that hole. Dean was mad. There was nothing more to be done.

Farming's worth seemed to be pleading now. Your mother was in a state of shock. I told the Hungarians that Dean had left early, not that they asked too many questions and arranged things for our return journey. Your mother fulfilled her obligations and helped me finish my book, but it seems she lost the taste for academia after that. Tragic, he sniffed, to lose two such promising young minds. I have to use the bathroom. I brought a hand to my mouth.

I felt ready to puke. Farming'sworth nodded, apparently unperturbed by the story, I went back to grading papers. Meanwhile, I was clutching the table. toilet bowl and dry heaving. Maybe that was why I didn't see the dark shape that dropped down from the ceiling tiles behind me. A black leather glove that smelled of mould and damp closed over my mouth.

Another pinched the nerve in my neck. I couldn't even struggle as I was dragged soundlessly out of the bathroom, through the kitchen and toward the back door. As my captor opened it soundlessly with his foot, I could hear Dr. Farmerzworth whistling away with his essays and exams. Just before I was dragged out into the backyard, I heard the front door swing open. Mom was home. Despite the blinding pain in my shoulder, I squirmed, desperate to knock over a pan, kick a cupboard.

Anything to no avail. Roger, my mother demanded, where is my daughter? Bathroom, Dr. Farming'sworth chuckled. I told her something that disagreed with her. Don't tell me, Dean, Hungary, the pit. Tell me you didn't. I am afraid I did. She'll be safe now that she knows the whole story,

and we'll be safer too. This wasn't why I asked you over here, Mom hissed. If I had known... I didn't hear the rest. I was being carried with all speed toward the undeveloped woods behind her house. It was twilight already, and the gloom behind the trees smelled like damp,

moldy earth, as I was dragged away from the lights of home. I thought about my school's dare program, how the officer warned us that like 90% of kidnapping victims taken to a second location don't survive. Our low-rent neighborhood backed up to a swampy gully beneath the highway overpass. A sewer ran through it, and I realized with horror that the ugly concrete square that gave access to it

was exactly where I was being taken. No matter how hard I struggled, the grip of the dark figure behind me would not yield. I couldn't turn enough to see, and maybe that was for the best. In the darkness of the sewer pipes, sight was useless anyway. My captor, however, navigated the pipes easily, making me wonder how long this presence had been living in these reeking tunnels, spying in my family by night.

I had never experienced anything like the absolute blackness that surrounded me then. Unable to use my eyes, my other senses seemed to heighten. I had the rush of unseen water and my nostrils were filled with rotting vegetable odour of slime and decay a turn left then another a cool air current of a larger pipe

a right turn I soon lost count my captive flipped me around still gripping my wrist and pushed me into a narrow tube I was allowed to scream down here it didn't matter filthy cold water

soaked through my shirt I was pushed helplessly onward The concrete tube twisted, got narrower. Even if I escaped now, how would I find my way back? No sooner had the thought crossed my mind when the grasp holding my wrists stopped suddenly. I heard the sound of crawling, moving far too fast and should have been possible in such a cramped space. Hey, I cried. Hey, wait!

No response. I shivered. It was cold in the sewers and only had to be able to. my slime-soaked t-shirt to keep me warm. I squirmed on my elbows and knees, headed back the way I came. It couldn't be that difficult to find my way out, right? Something scurried across my hand. I squealed.

I'd heard my fair share of rats in rough spots where we lived, but these sounded different. Bigger, maybe, hungrier. I forced myself to keep crawling. At the first intersection, I hesitated. Sure that we come from the left. I caught forward with my right hand and sank into foul-smelling muck up to my elbow. Retching, I pulled back and headed the other way, sure that I'd already made a mistake.

With every squirm forward, I was sure I'd feel my scratched palm out over empty air, lose my balance, and plunge into some awful pit. Instead, I ran into wall after wall of chill, mildew concrete. Our dare officer had never warned us about anything like that. this. I wish that he mentioned how long it took to dive hypothermia. Finally, I felt something colder than stone. Water or rat tiles. Metal bars? A ladder. With a hoot, I scrambled upwards just to find myself in another tunnel. At least I could walk hunched over instead of crawling. I was getting used to this. Used to the darkness, used to moving by feel and trusting my sightless senses.

A few hours later, when I finally saw a pinprick of light above, and grasped the bottom rung of my way out. There was part of me that wanted to stay. Even the dim streetlights seemed blindingly bright. It took several near misses with hunking, screeching cars for me to realize that I'd clambered out into a busy intersection. And it wasn't until a concerned police officer screeched up beside me, sirens wailing, that I remember the situation that had put me here in the front. first place. Once we were safely out of the street, the officer raised a skeptical eyebrow to my story of Hungarian pits and sewer stalkers, but I guess he considered that my bedraggled,

filthy appearance and state of shock at least deserved some sort of investigation. The lights were out when we pulled up to my house. The officer and his partner left me wrapped in a blanket and locked in the back seat while they moved slowly toward the door. I kept imagining irresistible hands, black and rotted. shooting out to drag them from the dark house the moment they knocked on the door. Nothing of the sort happened. After a long while, too long, the officers left the house by the same open door they'd walked through. Both men were very pale.

They left it to the station psychologist to explain to me that my mother and Dr. Roger Farmingworth had both died of suffocation. Before long, I was released into my father's custom. We moved far away to the coast. We both wanted to leave those memories behind like a dark forgotten pit. If only it were that easy. But I never stopped receiving those strange drawings. At first, they terrified me,

made me feel sure that I was going to be taken again. In some ways, I've gotten used to finding them in the mailbox, and the windshield was slipped under the door. But even now, right before I go to sleep, I wonder if I'm going to make up with a mildewed black glove clamped over my mouth. They also make me wonder what happened that evening, so many years ago. Was I dragged away by a vengeful entity, or a mortal man, desperate for revenge? Whenever I see unexplained deaths from drowning or suffocation,

I wonder if my one-time captor is still out there, taking revenge on the world for his suffering. Frightening as it is to live this way. I focus on a tiny, distant glow of hope. Dean, or the spirit, or whatever it was, could have killed me at any time, but didn't. In spite of the suffering of that pit, in spite of the awful methods humans have designed to make each other suffer, I was given a chance to survive.

In a way, these memories are my own personal dungeon, but like a prisoner at the bottom of a dark hole who hasn't yet given up. I do my best to focus on the light.