CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "My Uncle's GPS Is Still Updating From Deep in the Wilderness" Creepypasta

Episode Date: May 5, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Frequent-catCreepypastas 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've been surrounded by conspiracy theories my whole life. I don't mean that I believe in them. Most of them are ridiculous. Some of them are dangerous. I only ever got into that stuff because of my uncle. When you grew up visiting a man who owns more black and white photocopies of underground base schematics than he does shirts, it starts to rub off on you. I never cared much about Bigfoot,

but mole people and pigeon robots it was interesting to listen to my uncle Warren was that relative the one everyone keeps at arm's length during the holidays the one people warn their kids about before they visit he didn't do anything wrong not ever

but there was always something about him that made others uncomfortable he had a disorder it had walked his jaw since birth. His teeth jotted out at an angle like a row of warped fence posts. He had to wear these weird rubber mouth cards at night just to stop them from cutting into his cheeks. He also had diabetes and that was a constant battle for him. He kept sugar tabs in his shirt pocket and always smelled of insulin and peanut butter crackers. He wore shirts that had been washed until the graphics faded into pale ghosts. Jeans were.

with cracked belt loops and a windbreaker that had probably been navy blue 20 years ago. His glasses were too large for his face. His hair had receded before I was even born. Most people didn't give him a second chance. The ones who did usually looked away. But to me, he was great. He wasn't just a family weirdo. He was brilliant.

He knew how to fix things, build things, explain things. He could talk about subsonic weapons and hollow earth theories in the same breath he walked me through fixing a blown capacitor. He was patient. He had time for me. I didn't get that from many people growing up. His house felt like some kind of time capsule. Old wallpaper, flickering fluorescent lights, carpet that had gone stiff at the edges.

But what always pulled me in was the back room. He called it his workshop. No one else ever went back there. I think my mom saw it once and refused the step inside again. It was cramped and packed wall to wall with shells full of scrap parts, tools, plastic tubs, and printouts that had yellowed into brittle curls. It cathode monitors stacked on top of filing cabinets. Each one hooked into something different.

One of them looped footage from a cave in Turkey, another displayed seismic readouts. I'd sit at his workbench while he soldered or rewired something. The smell of burned plastic and machine oil always stuck to my clothes after I left. He had this Motorola flip phone with a thick black antenna. He clipped it to his belt like it was a badge. I once asked him why he'd be it.

didn't just get a smartphone and he looked at me like I had asked him to put a tracking device in his skull. The only thing about him that I found strange was his obsession with mole people. He didn't picture them as cartoonish or green or wearing goggles. He imagined them as pale, sightless things, humanoid, but not entirely human, adapted to a place where light never touched. He had theories about how their society worked, what tools they used, how they might hear our movement from beneath the crust and respond with coded vibrations. He rarely even wanted to use light outside of his home, and that really shined through the time I went camping with him.

I tried to set up a fire. I had gathered kindling, stacked it carefully, even brought a fire starter cube, because I was proud of thinking ahead. He stopped me the moment I could light it. He didn't yell. He just stared at the pile for a long moment, then told me, gently, to leave it alone. He said fire draws attention.

He said some things can't handle sudden brightness. That it confuses them, hurts them, that when you're near their domain, you should respect their rules. I didn't understand at all. But I just let it go. Months passed after that. We fell out of touch for a while. I got busy. Life crept in as it does, slowly at first, then all at once. When you start working full-time, checking in on your eccentric uncle doesn't always top the list.

But I still thought about him, especially when I saw something odd on TV or read a weird headline. online. I always think Warren would have something to say about that. Then, one day, I heard from my mom that he was gone. She said it offhand, like it wasn't worth more than a sentence. Oh, by the way, your uncle hasn't been home in weeks. Your cousin Todd went to check. He wasn't there. That was it. No missing person flies or searches. Just the call to the authorities and a casual shrug passed around the family group chat. Everyone had an explanation ready. He'd probably gone off chasing one of these rabbit holes.

He did that once years ago. Spent three weeks in New Mexico because he thought the government was digging under old reservations. Turned out he just wanted to try desert photography. But even then, he told me before he went. Todd had apparently driven over, walked around the house once, tried the door, peered through the blinds, then left, said everything looked fine. That was enough for them, but something about it sat wrong with me. I couldn't explain it.

I hadn't seen him in months, and I had no reason to assume the worst. But I knew him. He wouldn't vanish for weeks without at least leaving a note taped to the door. or a voicemail filled with static and obscure hints. He was weird, not careless. So I went. I didn't tell anyone. I got in my car early one morning and drove out to his place.

The further I got, the heavier it felt. When I pulled up to the house, it looked the same as always. I went up to the mailbox to retrieve the spare key. uncle had told me about where he kept it in case I need to grab something from his workshop when he's sleeping or away his car was parked in the driveway right where it always sat but the porch light bulb had burned out I noticed that as I climbed the steps

a tiny bulb dead and cold in its fixture I unlocked the door and stepped inside I moved through the living room slowly my shoes made no sound on the old carpet. Something in me didn't want to break whatever spell was holding the place in suspension. I stepped into the kitchen. That's when I saw his medication. It sat in its organiser on the counter,

colour-coded, labelled by day, Sunday through Saturday. Each compartment's still full. His blood sugar monitor was next to it. turned off. The testing strips was still sealed. I stared at it for a while. My uncle had never missed the dose in his life. He treated his condition with an almost ritualistic precision. It had been drilled into him. Skipping insulin wasn't just irresponsible. It could kill him. I followed the faint electric bus toward the back of the house. A sound I knew well. It was always there when I visited.

The workshop ran in its own circuit, something he wired himself. Even when he wasn't home, he left certain things running. The world doesn't pause just because I step out, he used to say. Across the threshold and stepped inside. The air inside was heavy with solder and paper. The whir of a low-powered fan came from the corner. dust hung in shafts of afternoon light filtering through the narrow window. My eyes moved across the space automatically,

picking up old landmarks, the metal rack of spools and wires, the blinking VHS converter on the shelf above the filing cabinet, the digital thermometer waged between two bricks on the floor, but something was different this time. A sound, a beeping. I moved toward it, but I didn't reach for it yet. My eyes caught something else first.

The chalkboard covered almost the entire wall. He had bolted it directly into the studs years ago. I remember watching him do it, sweating through his shirt, mumbling about how drywall was the enemy of permanence. Now, it was covered in layers of overlapping diagrams, notes, sketches, and pin photographs. The usual chaos was there. But this time, it was all focused.

Everything pointed to one subject. Mole people. There were diagrams of hand structures, claw curvature, and comparative models against known burrowing mammals. There were skeletal projections showing how a human spine would have to evolve to function primarily in a crouched, lateral motion. Heat mapping charts had been overlaid with seismographic readings, with annotations in red ink. He'd written detailed estimates on hearing ranges,

potential hive networks, and low-frequency signal behavior. Pinned to the center of the board was a photo. Black and white, grainy, taken from above. A depression in the earth. The soil looked compressed inward with unnatural symmetry. Below it, he'd written a date, a coordinate set, a single phrase. Too consistent to be weather. I scanned the rest of the wall. A long timeline stretched across the upper edge. All of it converged.

He had found something. I realized he had gone to find proof. The beeping grew louder. as I moved toward the bench. It was coming from a handheld GPS receiver. The screen was small and monochrome. A single blinking dot pulsed on the display. Next to it was a folded piece of paper,

torn at the edge, written in sharp block letters. I recognized this handwriting immediately. I'll assume you'll be the one to find this nephew. I knew it'd be you. I finally found something and I want you to see it. Follow the signal. I'll finally prove myself right to you. I picked up the GPS.

The signal was holding steady, still transmitting. I took a breath. My throat felt dry. I took the medicine into my bag, pocketed the GPS unit and walked out the front door. The GPS coordinates pointed somewhere deep in the northern range, far beyond cell towers or road markings. I had to stop twice to recheck the route

and once to talk myself into continuing. I backed carefully. Water, flashlight, the insulin, extra batteries, snacks. I stared at the receiver for ten minutes before I even turned the ignition. There was no deadline, but it felt like I was already running behind.

I couldn't tell if it was guilt or something heavier. Maybe I'd waited too long. Maybe I had already missed him. But if he was alive, if he was just stranded or hurt or waiting for someone to show up, then I couldn't waste any more time. The last stretch of road turned to gravel. Then gravel gave out entirely. I parked beneath the canopy of thin, brittle trees,

the leaves scorched from a summer. that had lasted too long. The signal still blinked on the handheld. I walked for over an hour, boots crunching through rock and shale, the sky dimming above me. When I finally reached the destination, I thought at first I'd gone the wrong way. There was nothing there, just a low ridge of broken stone and a slope that dropped off into a dry gulch. The quarry was just beyond it, old and half-reclaimed by mason brush. I almost turned back to double-check the coordinates, but something caught my eye, a seam in the cliffside.

It was in a cave mouth, it was more of a split between two walls of stone, vertical and narrow. Someone could walk past it and never notice. I stepped closer, shining the last. light into the space. The beam hit nothing, just air. That meant depth. The crack was just wide enough to squeeze through. I just did the strap by my bag and stepped forward. The walls pressed close around my shoulders, rough and uneven. Bits of stones scraped at my sleeves. I kept one hand on the rock and the other around the flashlight, angling it downward to avoid blinding myself. I could get through without too much issue, but a small laugh bottled out of me as I thought about uncle squeezing through here.

My chest tightened as the gap narrowed further, but then, after about 20 paces, it opened. Not completely, but enough to stand comfortably. The space beyond the crack was colder. Still, the sound of my boots echoed softly, bouncing from surface to surface. Dust coated the floor in a thin layer, disturbed only where my footprints had cut through. I saw the first one just ahead of me. A boot print, then another, the heel worn unevenly. The flashlight beam trembled in my hand.

I steadied my breath, tried to listen. Nothing, just the hum of air deep underground. I pressed on, following the prints. They curved inward, deeper, into the passage. The air grew heavier, the light from the entrance had disappeared entirely. My flashlight was now the only thing keeping the dark from swallowing me. The tunnel widened slightly, then narrowed again. the ceiling dropped just enough to make the duck.

I moved slowly, scanning every inch with the light. Something crunched beneath my boot. I crouched, brushing away dust. A plastic wrapper torn open, corners folded inward, dust clinging to the sugar residue. I picked it up. One of those glucose chews he always carried. Strawberry flavor. He used to say they tasted worse than cardboard, but they worked fast.

A few steps later, I saw the glove. Finger stiff with dirt, the wrist strap was still cinched. I turned it over. A tear had opened across the palm, the kind that comes from bracing a fall. The ground here was uneven and covered in loose stones. His phone wasn't much further from there. It sat balanced on a ledge of rock, screen glowing faintly in the dark. The plastic casing was scuffed and the rubber antenna leans slightly to one side.

The signal bar pulsed gently, battery at 23%. I reached for it and stared at the home screen. I held the phone for a moment longer before slipping it into my pocket. Now I know for sure he was here. I stood still and called his name. Once, then again, louder. I saw it just past the bend in the tunnel, dugged against a stone wall where the cave curved.

The sleeping bag looked old, almost sunken into the ground, but I recognised it immediately. Faded green canvas with a broken zipper. He had owned it for decades. I remember him using it in the woods, when I was still too young to carry my own pack. He used to say that newer ones trapped too much moisture. I moved fast, boots scraping against loose grit.

My chest tightened with something close to hope. My voice came before I even reached him. Uncle Warren, I heard myself say. It's me. I brought your meds. What the hell are you doing down here? The beam of the flashlight waved slightly as I knelt beside him. He hadn't moved.

The top half of the bag was pulled up to his shoulders, his arms resting across his chest, hands tucked beneath the flap. His head leaned against the cave wall at a slight angle. His glasses were still perched on his forehead, pushed up the way he always wore them when working on something close range. I reached out and touched his shoulder.

The fabric was, was damp. My throat closed before I could call his name again. I shifted the light downward, trying to get a better look. That was when I saw the color of the fabric change, from green to black, stained through. The canvas wasn't folded in at his stomach. It had collapsed. I gripped the zipper and pulled it back. His chest had caved in where the sleeping bag had dipped. Flesh and bone had been torn apart. His torso was still whole above his ribs, skin pale and drawn. But everything below that had been opened.

Not by a blade. There was no clean line. The wounds looked jagged, pulled apart. His abdomen had been torn open in wide, uneven ridges. Muscles and viscera were exposed beneath the shredded fabric of his shirt. The blood had soaked into the bag long enough to turn it thick at the seams. The skin along his side had deep indentations where something had clamped down or hooked in. I saw striations in the torn flesh, shallow grooves shaped in arcs, too round to be teeth.

His hands were still crossed at his chest, but the one to his left was missing its pinky. The stump had gone grey. The air around me changed, then the smell reached me. Rott first, sharp and acidic, then iron, thickened off the taste. Behind it, something else. A damp sweetness, the scent of compost that had been turned too late in the season. I clamped a hand over my mouth, turned and doubled over. My stomach clenched and bile forced its way up.

before I could stop it. It hit the rock floor in a splash. I stayed bent over, gasping, the flashlight shaking in my hand. I couldn't look back at him. Not yet. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe through my nose. I tried to hold onto something else, anything else.

But all of it was drowning under the smell and the sound of my own pulse pounding in my ears. I forced myself to step back from the body. My legs moved, but my eyes didn't want to leave him. I had to blink a few times to break whatever spell I had fallen under. The flashlight trembled in my hand. I wiped the back of my wrist against my mouth and breathe through my teeth. Then I heard it.

A faint scrape, something against the rock. The sound came again. then another higher pitched from a different direction. I froze, my grip on the flashlight tightened. I turned slowly, shining the beam toward the sound. Nothing. I took one step back, the beam shifted. That was when something darted across the far wall, just outside the edge of the light.

a blur, grey and low. I turned the light quickly, but it was already gone. Another shape followed, cutting across the dust ahead of me. My eyes couldn't track it fast enough. There was more than one. I kept my feet planted, trying to count the echoes of movement. Three, maybe four. None of them made a sound I could identify.

just the soft scrape of nails and the drag of their limbs brushing loose gravel. Were these the things that had done this to Uncle? I couldn't know for sure. I crouched slightly and angled the light across the walls. They weren't climbing, but they were getting closer, hugging the edges of the chamber, staying just outside the illumination. Wherever they were,

They didn't want to be seen. I thought of something Warren once told me. Most animals don't want to fight. If you scare them, they wait. But if you run, they chase. It had been drawing a story about a coyote that followed him for two miles. I remembered the way he had spoken then. Calm, like it was more important to think than to react.

I could hear scuttling again, louder now. So I stayed calm and tested my theory. I flicked the flashlight off. The darkness was instant, complete, just pressure and sound. The scratching grew sharper, closer. I could feel them now, small displacement in the air, loose pebbles shifting near my boots. Clench my jaw, counted silently to four. and snapped the beam back on.

The light cut through the dark like a blade. One of them froze mid-movement. For a split second, I saw it. It had crept within six feet of me, crouched low, body-compressed in a tense arch. It skittered off when the light hit it. Its limbs locked in place for a fraction of a second, muscles coiled but frozen. The skin on his back was patchy and raw, hairless, pink and grey. The skin across the skull had been stretched.

It looked almost human from the silhouette, but it had no eyebrows or cheekbones. The flesh sat low, sagging slightly under its weight. It reminded me of moles we used to see in the garden, but wrong in proportions. The head was too large, the jaw too wide. The eyes were small. swollen and dark, but the sclera had a watery gleam. They didn't reflect the light. They resisted it. I watched as the pupils constricted into pinholes. It shrieked, not loud, but high and shaking. Then it turned and vanished into the rock behind it, slipping through a narrow

a gap I hadn't seen before. A moment later, another shape followed it, then another. My hands was soaked in sweat, even through the fabric of my sleeves. My heart hammered so loud I almost missed the neck sound. I turned and ran. All those quiet lessons about staying calm and holding your ground evaporated. Every animal documentary, an educational video I'd ever watched, crumbled under the sound of claws, skittering against stone. I ran hard, light swinging in frantic arcs across the tunnel walls. The beam flickered against rock and dust and things I could not name.

My bag clipped the side of the cave. I stumbled, caught myself, and kept moving. I heard them hiss behind me A sharp click followed Close to my left Then another above One of them was moving across the ceiling I heard the scrape of his limbs

And the dull thud of his body Repositioning overhead I couldn't look I didn't want to see how close it was My lungs burned My throat felt raw The air was heavy and damp and thick with the scent of something.

I could see the narrow path ahead, the one I had come through. The tunnel had never felt so long. The beam of my flashlight hit the rock just ahead. That was when one lunged. It came from the dark on my right, a blur of pale limbs and teeth. I turned just enough to avoid it.

His claws raked the cave wall and sent a cascade of dust across my shoulder. I threw my weight forward, pushed off the ground, and ran harder. Then another dropped from above. I screamed. It missed, barely. It hit the floor behind me and skidded, claws dragging. I didn't stop.

I knew they were closing in. I felt the weight of them behind me, pressing the air forward, shrinking the distance between us, then claws wrapped around my leg. My body slammed into the ground. The impact drove the air from my lungs. The flashlight bounced out of my grip and rolled across the stone. The beam swung wildly, strobing through the cave in broken fragments. I kicked.

My heel caught something. The grip of my leg tightened, pulling. I clawed at the ground. My fingers found nothing but dust and sharp gravel. Another shape moved in from the left, crawling low, eyes leaking. Its jaw clicked open, saliva dripping from the mouth of a mole. A distorted melody, warped by decades of overuse, blasted through the cave. Mechanical static layered over digital tones.

The Motorola It had slid from my jacket, pocket when I hit the floor. The antenna stuck at an angle. The screen glowed. We were close enough to the surface now. It had found a signal. Everything it had missed. Calls, voicemails, alerts had come through at once. Dozens, maybe hundreds. The speaker vibrated against the stone. Every sound echoed through the tunnel, magnified ten feet of the tunnel. fold. I'd always marked the ringtone, a broken remix of old middy files layered with sirens and overlapping voice prompts. It sounded awful. The thing on my leg shrieked and let

go, its arms snapped up to shield its head. The one crawling toward me recoiled, clawing at its skull. Both of them backed away from the phone, their bodies twisting against the walls, trying to escape the sound. One slammed into the rocks so hard, dust exploded from the ceiling, another scraped at its own ears, tearing shallow furrows into the sides of its head. The ringtone kept playing. The cave vibrated with it. Loops of distorted melody collided with incoming alerts and static ridden voicemails. I pushed myself up and grabbed the flashlight. The beam caught one of the creatures mid-turn. It screamed and scrambled back into the dark. The crack of the cliffside was ahead. I threw myself through it, shoulders slamming into the stone on either side.

The cold air outside hit my face and chest like a tide. I dropped to my knees on the gravel slope just beyond the entrance. But above me, sunlight. I looked up and saw the sky. I never found the courage to go back. I wish I could say I went back in there, retrieve my uncle's body. But I was scared. I gave an anonymous tip to the police. They found the body, and later the cave was sealed off because it was deemed too dangerous.

The official story was a lonely hermit losing his life in a cave. I knew better.