CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "Object 16" Creepypasta

Episode Date: November 18, 2021

AUTHOR'S STORIES► https://www.reddit.com/user/Darkly_Ga...CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Darkly_Gathers: 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►Gilles Ketting: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/nY...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-

How dare you, I grumble, then a little louder. How dare you? My voice echoes around the concrete tunnels of the complex. The intern flinches, but holds his glare, defiant. I don't think he was expecting me to shout back at him. Politicians don't shout at members of the public. Well, I do down here, I think grimly to myself. This all plays his top secret, so no cameras, no reporters.

no stories that sell to the local press. What's your name, son? I ask him, angrily. He hesitates, then stutters his response. Aaron? I jab a finger into his face. It's a rude and antagonistic gesture, and I'm well aware of how irritating it is.

Don't ever talk to me in such a way, Aaron. You may not like politics, but I'm still a human being, damn it. I know your type. You pretend to be compassionate and caring. but then you spout your bile at every available opportunity. I may not be a familiar face down here, and you may not like my party, but I am your boss, after all,

so hold your tongue and get back to work. Pathetic. The intern flushes with rage and embarrassment, and the corner of his mouth twitches into a snarl. But he says nothing further. Humiliated, he rejoins the group he was walking with. Some scientists in training, some low-level guards, and awkwardly and quietly they head on the way down one of the adjacent tunnels of concrete.

I turned back to my guide. Reese is the man's name. He adjusts his glasses and frowns at me. Was there really any need for that, Mr Pritchard? he asks. Not my real name, of course. One must protect their identity, especially in this line of work. I won't stand for such disrespect, I reply coolly, especially not down here. I fixed the cuffs of my shirt, but I do apologize for the interruption.

I gesture for him to continue leading the way, as you were. Reese sighs, but after a moment he turns and continues on down the tunnel. His footsteps clack and echo around the walls, illuminated and faint, wardrobe blue-green light. We pass by plexiglass windows, thick and wide and built into the walls. Some of the rooms are tiny. Some of them are more like great halls. Some have goggled and suited scientists inside. Some are empty.

Empty before their primary occupant. Encaised. Enclosed. So, Reese continues as we walk. The subject of your visit. Object 16. Object 16 was recovered two nights ago, Mr. Pritchard. Much to our great and enduring relief.

It has been moved safely. into its new containment, the only object now missing from the agency's position is object for the dice. The only object missing that we know of, Reese, surely, I reply. He glances back at me. Quite right, of course, that we know of. And what about the Falklands incident? A sigh of discomfort rattles out from the back of Reese's throat.

The incident, whilst terrible, of course, does not really. fall under my jurisdiction, to be frank. The less said about the whole series of events, the better. If I might be so bold, I personally think it's well within the government's best interest to just leave that one be. Hmm, I reply.

Perhaps, Rees replies diplomatically. Perhaps. There is another uncomfortable silence. We pass round a corner. Our footsteps and the low buzzer the lights are the only real sounds. To the left, the Plexiglass The window is stamped with a metalworked placard, one that denotes the thing through the glass as object 21.

The room beyond is dark, a single pedestal stand in the middle, lit from two angles in dim orange light from the overhead spotlight. A stuffed line sits atop its pedestal, a child's toy. One of its eyes looks scratched, its mane is tangled, and the label attached to his foot is torn. and as I stride down the length of the corridor, the lion's head slowly turns to watch me pass it by. I repress a shiver. I've always hated this place. There's a reason I never come down, unless directly ordered by my superiors. Looking now to the right, the window in the wall reveals a bare concrete room beyond,

housing a softly rumbling engine in its very centre. Object 10, the sign says. The words of this engine grow louder as we approach And after a beat A small shining mirror unfolds from the gears and pipes In the contraption's side Seemingly of its own volition I see myself in the mirror's glass

Walking along next to Reese But I turn away once I realise That the reflections looking back at us Are younger than they should be Far too young By 20 years or more by my reckoning The engine grumbles and angrily hissed But I do not look back.

A little further ahead, the wall is marked with a border of yellow and black. The window is long and reveals two separate rooms. The smaller, occupied by scientists, crowded around some glowing screens. Larger of the rooms, houses are murky, pun-like environment. Something you'd seen in a zoo, maybe. Object 3 states the sign. Besides a, do not tap glass warning. Reese pauses here to look to the look to the look at the look.

window, an eye to the same. We watch as the dark, near black pond water stirs and ripples of its own accord. The reeds around the water's edge fall back at inconsistent angles and the pond rises. I take involuntary step back, heart pounding as the water spills upwards as if filling an invisible container, and it forms into the shape of an alligator, a large one at that. The water flows around the alligator's liquid body, and it runs. raises a disturbingly human hand to press against the barrier to the room, housing the scientists. The second it connects with the wall, the alligator shape is lost, however, and the reptile dissolves

back into simple water, sending up dark splashes as it returns to the pond. I've never been this far into the complex before, and I'm far too busy back on the service to give the far's I've been sent any more than a perfunctory skim. From what little I have read, however, my surroundings now give those words disturbing and unsettling life. Not wanting to dredge up any of the passages that might have been locked in my deep memory. Ignorance is bliss. I turn my thoughts back to Object 16. It is only Object 16 that concerns me this evening.

None of these other monstrosities. Object 16 and its power. The power. Of sight. Object 16. if the Fars I've familiarised myself with a correct Gives the recipients of his bite The power to see possible futures

That's what I've read What I've been told To see paths and potentials that others cannot Roots to take Places to go and things to say to find strength A politician can make excellent use of such power Excellent use indeed I think on what we said earlier

As we resume walking It has been moved safely into its new containment. I ponder this. You mentioned new containment for Object 16, Rees, I say to the man. Why is that? Why new containment? Yes, Rees says, adjusting his glasses once again.

Object 16. It's changed, Mr. Pritchard. It has undergone some kind of metamorphosis since we last held it in our possession. One was still studying. This sudden metamorphosis is likely how, it escaped in the first place. He paused to speak to a security guard and a buzzer sounds. A door opens in the wall and we pass on through.

It seals behind us with a click. The light is paler in this section of the complex. Changed? In what way? I asked. In the way that a caterpillar becomes a butterfly. I am about to query this when the corridor comes to an abrupt end. The walls part and the concrete falls.

back into metal railings. Ahead lies a narrow bridge, scarcely big enough for two men side by side, and it crosses a great and dark chasm. The start and end of the bridge are marked with blinking red lights in the gloom and stand a good 20 metres apart. It connects to a platform on the opposite side,

one with an open doorway that leads into, by the looks of it, more corridors. A low hum reverberates through the air, and I shiver. Though it's not particularly cold, I'm aware of restraining his posture and smoothing the size of his coat down his legs. Object too, he says quietly and solemnly,

and nods to the left. I turn and look down into the shadows far below, peering over the bridge's side. And I am met with a tremor of fear and a sickening sensation of smallness, of unimportance and uncertainty, A sense that my entire life and everything I know and understand

is built upon a little more than a thin membrane. One riddled with holes and tears and stretched across a swirling void, thick with terror and monsters. Monsters in the dark, churning in an ocean unseen. Object too is, to put it lightly, colossal.

Far below us, it is captured in a series of spotlights fixed at the chasm walls. It has the appearance of an enormous skull, the back half of which is buried deep in rock and shadow. Cracks run down from its eye sockets to the great holes where its nose would be, and down to its teeth. It looks almost human. Almost, but not quite. There's something off about it. Aside from its size, of course, but there is something else, something in the shape, perhaps, or the angles.

Object 2, as I stare, brutally mesmerized, shimmers through a series of colors, like an oil spill caught in the light of an evening sun, only less bright and far less vibrant, white and grey and brown, cream and bone, faint teal, pale purple, and off yellow. The skull cycles through these colours and more at varying speeds, and I feel my stomach lurching complaint. Between the cracks and gaps and holes of the skull, long and creeping vines of thorned, blood-red roses are wound and woven and interlocked. Two thick vines, rich with these roses, streak down from its eye sockets and over its cheekbones,

like two striking streams of scarlet tears. The skull has no eyes, obviously, but I get the sensation that it is looking up at me, looking right into me through those massive sockets, The object starts to grin. Its bones crack impossibly into a twisted smile, and I recall in horror, blinking and gasping. But the skull is not moved.

There is no grin. I rub my eyes and realise that Reese is halfway across the bridge. The skull remains as it was, slowly shifting through colours. Mr. Pritchard, he calls back. My apologies. try not to look at it for too long, and please try not to think of the object's implications.

It's still, as ever, under study. I grimace and swallow, striding across the bridge, paled and weakened. I am well aware of the terrible school down beneath me as a walk, watching me in my peripheral vision. I think about whether I've read

anything about object two, then, realising that I'd rather not know, try to push the thoughts from my head, focusing resolutely on the red light at the end of the bridge, drawing steadily and welcomingly closer. Upon reaching it, I find that I've been holding my breath and allow an inhale of rather stale, but still quite cool, complex air.

We leave the bridge behind us and step into the new corridor. So, Object 16, I manage weakly. I remember what I read about it in the fact five, file. The image stills are requested. My ticket to a better life, the ultimate career enhancer. Scarcely more than a little worm, with a pin brick of a blade-like tooth at either end, it was housed in a wide and open-top tank and kept under strict observation. Not that strict clearly, I think to myself, or it wouldn't have escaped. Yes, Object 16, its containment has, as I was telling you, changed.

Reese replies as we walk. Post recovery, we found that it was necessary to alter its environment. I ask Reese to describe the new containment procedures to me. Object 16 is more mobile post-recovery, Mr. Pritchard. DNA analysis confirms that it is indeed the same specimen, but it now has the appearance of a wide-winged moth, scarlet and black. One of its fangs has been sharpened into a wasply. like sting. The other is multiplied into a set of fan like jaws.

Jesus, I mutter, mowing this over. My plan will be harder to implement if the thing flies now. How big is it? Its wingspan is about eight centimetres, when in flight. Eight centimeters? Oh, is that all? That's tiny. It's larger than you would think, Mr. Pritchard.

You'll agree when you see it, I'm sure. Anything else I should know? We round a corner, passing a group of scientists huddled around a window to a dusty, hammer-like room. Object 20, the sign says. But beyond the glass and in the centre of the room is nothing more than a stone staircase. Descending down into the hole in the ground, pitch black and almost liquid darkness. The scientists are briefing a man in a hazmat suit, connected to a series of cables. But Reese does not slow his page.

and the little gathering is quickly lost behind another corner by consider asking what's down there but decide against it yes says Reese there is more for you to know but you will see for yourself in a moment he comes to a sudden and abrupt stop staring straight ahead and I step up beside him following his gaze object 16 he says at last and I peer through the glass. A monstrous insect flies around the barren room, bordered by a kind of spherical netting, creating an enclosure roughly ball-shaped in appearance. Eight centimeters is indeed larger than I'd expected.

The human mind is an understanding and acceptance of relativity. An eight-centimeter ruler or an eight-centimeter phone or banana. Or hell, I don't know, any number of sayings are all bloody tiny. but an insect with a wingspan of 8 centimetres is damn enormous. It makes my skin crawl just a look at it. I imagine such an insect flying around my house and clenched my jaw in disgust. It appears pretty much as Reese described it. Scarlet and black, pinter-like jaws at one end, a stinger at the other.

Though I would call it more hornet-like than moth-like personally. I swear I can almost hear it buzzed through the glass. Though that could be the electrics, or just my imagination. I feel myself start to sweat as I am forced to reconsider my plan. I was going to let Object 16 bite me, as I'm sure you've induced by now. Bite me or sting me or whatever, whatever is required for the power, for the sight. But this is another story. I'm not sure I have the nerve to allow such a monstrosity to sting me.

A flying, violent-looking behemoth behind the glass. Hmm? Nothing, I mutter, rubbing my forehead and looking around. This section of corridor is crawling with scientists, security guards. I sigh and rub my chin as I look back at Object 16. It was a pipe dream, really. A dumb fantasy. Hell, I'm not letting that thing anywhere near me.

Couldn't get close, even if I wanted to. So the repercussions of Object 16's metamorphosis are immense Mr. Pritchard, Reese says. I'll take you through some of the intricacies of the change, and perhaps we can discuss our options. More funding for this area, as you've probably guessed, we'd request. But I really must stress the significance of this sudden change, and to be quite frank, I think that, given enough time for proper study, this object is a genuine candidate for

controlled elimination. Reese does not get the opportunity to finish his thought A light begins to flash at the corridor's end on the ceiling sending great but silent waves of orange light out and across the hall's inhabitants Conversations are lulled to a quick death And for a moment there is no sound but the faint buzzing of the complex's electrics And then this silence is cut through with a siren Whaling in time to the flashes of light

A voice blairs out through a series of speakers Object 3 is unconfirmed. Containment procedure alpha and evacuation procedure 1 are now in effect. This is not a test. Object 3 is unconfirmed. Containment procedure alpha and evacuation procedure 1 are now in effect. This is not a test. Jesus Christ!

Rees splutters to his teeth. A woman nearby shoves past us as she reaches for a phone affixed to the wall. A handful of security guards sprint back towards the bridge, whilst most others turn tail to run in the opposite direction. Papers drift through the air as they had grabbed up in their piles and clutched to the white coat-clad chests of their writers. What the hell is happening? I call out, Domeena forced into calm, but my heart beating hard.

Object three, what is Object three? But, I already know what Object three is. The memory comes back quick. The shadowy alligator and its concrete cave swamp. The living water, dark and unnatural. I see it pressing its hand against the glass in my mind's eye. I think of that terrible thing loose in the complex, and my jaw clenches in fear. Impossible, Reese murmurs, staring into space.

Impossible. Containment procedure, Alpha. They've never used that before. Never. Alpha means there are potential hostiles in the complex. There's no way Object 3 could have gotten out by itself. Hostiles. I put two and two together. Hostiles, as in people working against us. So it was released then. Someone released Object 3 deliberately, I say. Deliberately.

Reese looks at me in horror, but the pieces are connecting in his head. I can see it. The alarm blares. There's no way. Why would someone do something like this? The damage that thing is capable of. What cause could they have? I can think of a cause, I mutter. I think back to the intern I shouted at in front of everyone,

the scientist in training, or perhaps a low-level guard. It makes no matter. The activist. The things that these people will do in the name of their cause. Terrorist is what they are. Would he have still released the object had I ignored his little comment, or was it his plan all along, knowing that I would be down here? I don't suppose it matters much at this point.

Object 3 is unconfirmed. Containment Procedure Alpha and Evacuation Procedure 1 are now in effect. This is not a test. I grab Reese by the shoulders. We have to go. We have to get out, right. Are you involved in the containment procedure? Reese shakes his head.

No, no, that's not my jurisdiction. Then let's evacuate, right? Go, man, go. Which way? Reese nods and makes a break for it. Come on, he shouts over the siren. and I make to run with him. But, as I do so, something bids me to slow,

and instead of running alongside my guide, I instead come to a subtle stop and watch him round the corner and disappear out of sight. As if caught in the throats of my spell, I turn my head and look into the window of Object 16, at the insect that buzzes angrily around and around in its spherical netted enclosure, at its potential.

The place is deserted, and the object is unguarded, am I a fool? A fool for seizing a sudden and unexpected, impulsive chance. Spurred by the incredulity of the release of Object 3, a dangerous creature, designed to make me look incompetent at best,

and one designed to cause me or others' serious harm at worst. The power of Object 16, I would not have to fear such acts of hostility. I would not have to face them, ever, with the power of the object's sight. And I find myself pushing to the door and into the room adjacent to the object's enclosure. I look down at the screens and panels and buttons and wires. I know the procedure. I learned it during a previous visit.

The control panel was not quite the same, but it was similar enough. The sliding panels through the walls the object 16 are opened with a simple turn of a switch and a manual turn of the door's circular lock. I do not consider until later the implications of the blinking yellow warning light on the dashboard,

the one accompanied by a message across the bottom of the nearest screen, incapacitation protocol not initiated, object unsubdued, proceed with extreme caution. There was too much going on, the little yellow blink was lost beneath the thrum of the far more powerful orange.

My adrenaline had surged, and I could feel myself shaking with excitement and fear all mixed together. But I had to act. I had to act lest I missed this golden chance. And so I stepped into the enclosure of Object 16. My shadow thrown intermittently up across the walls. I fumbled desperately with a spherical netting, trying to find a catch or release. There were several thick plastic clasps, grids spaced out across the net.

My trembling fingers tried to crack them open, and I succeeded. It's possible whilst doing this that I hear a voice call my name from all the way down the corridor, but I pay it no mind. The netting falls open, and in the very same instance, the terrible insect flies right past my head. Its eyes is distorted in the flashing light and becomes one with its shadows. The sound of its buzzing is immediate and terrible. and instinctually I battered away in alarm.

My hand connects with the creature that feels far heavier than it looks, and I find myself sweating and panicked. I reach out a hand blindly into the myriad of shadows for the creature. If I can just grab it around the middle and keep my nerve, resisting its squirming and terrible buzzing and scratching legs, I find it again in the orange darkness, but for the second time I am unable to prevent an instinctive recoil. I become tangled in the now loose and netting and I cry out and I feel a sudden sharp sting right into my hand.

I feel the weight of the creature crawling over my fingers and I shake it away in disgust and horror. A sensation like fire spreads through my veins and my hand at once begins to cramp. Object 16 flies right past my face. I feel it on my neck and I try to swat it away. But again it strikes. There is that sharp sensation again. this time just below my jaw. I clutch at the pain

and finally free myself from the infernal netting. I stagger back and away and into the side room and draw the doors to a swift close. My injured hand throbs, then seizes up entirely as the pain starts to flush down from my neck and through the connected shoulder.

There is too much noise, too much noise and too much blood rushing in my head. I cannot tell if Object 16 was locked inside or if it escaped for the second time. Object three is still loose in the complex. I think to myself as a collapse into the corridor, my breathing ragged. Screw this, screw this awful, awful place.

My hand feels like a great dead weight, one that is pouring molten lead down into my arm. I allow myself a scream, by its clenched tight shot, and yet still, blurily, I catch glimpses of the ceiling, of the corridor walls, of Reese rounding the corner again in search of me. How is this possible? I can still see. Mr. Pritchard, he cries out and sprints to me, crouching down beside my body.

I watch him recall in horror. I open my eyes. Mr. Pritchard, he says again, mouth agape. What have you done? He was a good man. Reese. I thought him weak, but it took courage to come back for me. I rate him for that. I don't know what became of him when I left him behind. He tried to help me evacuate, of course, but I knew a better way. I saw a better way, even through my pain and confusion, and I followed it. My lips stretch and crack into a grin as I sprint across the field, relishing the sickly warmth of the autumn sun.

It's funny, you know, the way that Object 16 grants sight, or at least the way it grants sight now, following its metamorphosis. I look down at the eye that is formed near the center of my palm, and, as I do, I look back up into my own face. It itched like hell, you know, in the first few hours during its formation. Its sight became less blurry, more focused as it gradually pushed aside the skin with little rivers of pus. and thin, semi-clear blood. The second eye, or the fourth, I suppose, formed itself in the side of my neck. It's tricky having to deal with so much more lines of sight to have such an expanded vision is a curse and yet a blessing.

Because, through these eyes, if I focus my train of thought, I can see the paths that stretch up before me. I can see the ways that I should follow. I have left politics behind for now, of course. Such trivial, pathetic and inconsequential nonsense. Such nonsense compared to the things that I've glimpsed through my wondrous new eyes. And the objects. These objects that we have recovered are we so proudly and arrogantly keep locked below.

They are but the tips of the iceberg. They are nothing compared to the wonders and terrors that lie beyond out there in the world. Wonders and terrors. There is so much out there, so, so much. Monsters and places, anomalies and artefacts beyond any mortal comprehension. I can see their shadows, their reflections, the glints of light that shine from their edges. They are mine for the taking. One just has to know where to look.