CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "One student in my carpentry class has made some terrifying creations" Creepypasta

Episode Date: September 14, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Saturdead: 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...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-

Oh, my young, that I'm in three days. I'm all moor as I'm not more on think. Oh, that to seeer that morning off must. I'm all mooh as I'm just on tomorrow. Oh, this is I'm all moor as I'm on thinking. Have you it mollick at home to come? Give you yourself then a boost with biocure maxhot liquid. Three op-puppet plants.

Magnesium, Izer. An energy booster to immediately again to come out. Bio-cure, Max-Shot Liquid. Foodingsupplement, forcryg by the apotheker. For a few years, I've worked as a private contractor. My grandfather taught me to be a woodworker and carpenter. Grandma used to say I could properly use a towel before I could talk. But I think they might have exaggerated a bit.

Still, I love making things with my hands. That passion has given me quite a lot over the years. A family, a home, a steady job, a 68 Dutch charger. What more can you ask for? That is. not too long ago, when I got a bit more than I asked for. When the pandemic hit, there were a lot of people who lost their jobs. My firm was pretty much fine, as people needed to fix up the houses to make it through an entire year indoors.

There was also a rising interest in custom furniture, so we got a lot of special orders. I felt kind of bad that we were doing so well, so I decided I wanted to do something to give back to the community. So, for those people who lost their jobs, I decided to start a woodworking class. My wife loved the idea. We got to use the wood shop at a local high school after just a few short talks with the principal. I put a flyers around town, posted some ads on social media, and asked my daughters to spread the word in their classes. We still made sure to adhere to safety standards, so there could only be ten people at a time, and we've spread out far and wide. It took me less than a month to put it all together

And sooner than I realized, I was a teacher It was easier than I thought it'd be And as soon as I started talking about what I love I was unstoppable One by one I asked my students what they wanted to make Robert, an older man, wanted to make a pool cue Donna, a stay-at-home mom, wanted to make a patent roll-in-pin Everyone had their own idea

Then there was Roy. Roy was somewhere in his forties. He was skinny, had a slight limp, and a face that just screamed that he'd been punched a few too many times. He had a surprisingly deep voice, with rolling ars, black hair like a wet crow. What do you want to make, Roy? I asked. Any ideas? What do you want? he asked back. Me? I'd make a... He surprised me, but I thought about it.

I tried to figure out what's something that a guy like Roy could make use of. I thought about a baseball bat or something sporty, but he didn't seem the type. I winged it. A shoehorn, I said. What do you think? Maybe, he nodded. A shoehorn. Or maybe a spice rack?

I continued, weighing his reaction. Painted something nice. some of that matches your kitchen. Then I'll make a spice rack, said Roy, rolling the iron rack. That's how a first class started. I went through the tools and everyone was free to bring their materials over to the shop to make their project. They could also make them at home and come in for feedback. It was all very casual and free form.

Most of them were excited and had a few talks about what tools to use, what to look for, and even what channels to check out online. We started making step-by-step plans to finish our projects in time for our fifth and final session. During all this time, Roy didn't do anything. He didn't make any plans. He didn't make any sketches. He never asked any questions. He just stood there, nodding his head, rolling his ars.

Sure, he was going to make a spice rack, he said, but he had nothing to show for it. Five sessions came and went, and everyone had something to present. Robert finished his pool queue, and Donna made an amazing star pattern for a rolling pin. Roy, on the other hand, had nothing. Didn't you finish your project? I asked. I did, he said. I just didn't bring it. Again, that rolling R in bring made me shiver and not in the good way.

We'd love to see it, Robert said. It's okay if it isn't perfect. But it is, nodded Roy. It is perfect. He wrote the iron perfect, just a little bit too long. Robert was clearly uncomfortable. Once my first group of students finished, the next patch signed up. A lot of younger folks this time, a majority under 18.

And, to my surprise, a return student. Roy. While Julianne and Greg wanted to make a chessboard and a wall shelf, Roy didn't want to make anything. Instead, he just asked me again. What do you want to make? This time I set a ladder, a tool, something practical. Roy agreed. The weeks passed, one after another, and the same thing happened.

Roy kept showing up empty-handed, all the other stuff. students just looked at him funny. Greg made a shell from Solid Oak and Julianne made a chessboard from Birch. Roy, on the other hand, just listened to my instructions and took notes. He really seemed like he wanted to make something, but he just never did. As I started my third batch of students, Roy came along for the third time. Again, he asked, what do you want to make? At this point I was frustrated I'd make a tool shed Roy to put all my other projects in

he lit up with a smile and nodded I could have said spaceship he still would have agreed the other students noticed something was off and two of them didn't come to the second session two more dropped out by the third by the end of the final session it was just me

Roy and three people who had nothing to show They were eager to leave, and I didn't feel like stopping them. Finally, there was only me and Roy left as I cleaned up. As I put away the sign-up sheets, he sat down across me with a big smile on his face. I finished it, he said. Finished what? The tool shed. Right, is that where you keep the spice rack and ladder?

Yes. I laughed, but he didn't. I waited for him to tell me it was a joke, but he was dead serious. He stayed silent, watching me. You're serious, I said. You actually made it, didn't you? Yes, he nodded. Want to go see?

I don't think so, Roy. No offense, but I'm not sure we're that close. Okay, he said. As casual as picking up a pack of gum, he suddenly pointed a gun at me. I want you to see. I need feedback. It is a strange feeling, being so casually threatened. You don't realize the danger at first.

Mortality is just this fleeting, abstract concept until you stare down the barrel of a loaded handgun. Suddenly, you remember that you can die. We took my 68 charger. Roy was slightly larger than I thought, and he had to lean back in the passenger seat to fit his legs. Even without pointing a gun at me, I could almost feel it,

like a heat radiating towards me. Roy seemed overall pretty calm about the whole thing, but my mind was racing. What was I supposed to do? Ram the car into a tree? I couldn't decide, and before I knew it, we'd been on the road for over an hour.

Roy pointed in an exit and told me to follow a dirt road. I could feel my phone buzzing like crazy My family was getting worried He still hadn't asked me to turn it off Maybe they could track me The road just seemed to go further and further downward I had to crawl at a slow pace Just to spare the suspension

After about 20 minutes There were more routes and boulders than actual road The phone stopped buzzing We were off the grid I parked the car and stepped out at Roy's instruction. Using a small flashlight, he showed me the way forward. We were deep in the forest, but I could barely hear a single bird.

A few chuggedees at most. My sister gets me the materials. She's very resourceful. Every rolling R seemed to be on the edge of turning into a growl. I peaked behind me, only to see the gun pointed straight at me. Eyes forward, he said. I want your honest first impression. I could have sworn his eyes red.

At first, I didn't notice the clearing in the woods. There was a strange metallic smell in the air, strong enough for me to taste it. Still, no birds, no insects, just a breeze sweeping through the trees. There, said Roy, my tool shed. The flashlight fell upon something. It looked nothing like a tool shed In many ways

It looked like nothing I'd ever seen before Something started boiling up inside of me Is Is that That's not wood No Said Roy It isn't

I had to look away But I felt the gun push me forward Look I looked bones, sinew, muscle and cartilage, a big, grotesque, hollow square. Every single detail was a nightmare in itself. The skin draped over the door was the last straw for me,

and I fell to my knees, covering my face with my hands. Again, the cold steel of a gun pushed against me. I need you to look at two more things. Oh God, the spice rack, the ladder. Stepping into that toolshed was like walking into hell. Most of the materials were dry, and there was in a single insect anywhere near. With nothing but Roy's flashlight, I only caught quick glimpses of the interior. I tried looking away, for the presence of that gun was enough to force my eyes forward.

There, a spice rack, he said. Please, I... I saw rows of bony fingers, arranged like they were holding. cups, femurs arranged like a ladder. I blinked and turned around to plead for my sanity. Roy wasn't himself anymore. He was at least a foot taller and his hair had grown longer. He smiled with anticipation, his eyes reflecting a clear shade of red,

small white fragments poked out of his hairline like pin feathers of a bird, or sharp nails. His fingers seemed longer. You're useless, he growled. rolling his tongue. This was a mistake. I had to think of something, say something, anything. The shoehorn, I gasped.

What shoehorn? The first day, I said shoehorn or a spice rack. Did you ever make the shoehorn? I could. Then, then show me. In an instant, he grabbed my arm, pushed me to the ground, and places near my back. He was going to break my arm.

The realization hit me like a bucket of ice. He was going to make a shoonhorn out of my shoulder blade. Wood, you need to make it out of wood, I pleaded. That's the rule. I make the rules, he grinned. You're so used to a single material. A true craftsman needs to be able to work a variety of materials. Birch, pine, oak, willow, all kinds.

I can make things you can only dream of. He bent my arm further, like he was trying to snap a carrot. Then do it. Make one. Pinewood. There's plenty of it to go around. He stopped. With a sigh, he let go and stepped off of me. Fine, he moaned.

Wait here. He pushed me into the shed and closed the door. I fell to the floor in complete darkness. It was like a nest covered in brinkered. branches, mud and grass. In fact, it smelled more like mud and grass than anything else. I couldn't help but wonder how something so grotesque could be almost completely without smell. It should have stunk like hell in there, but it didn't.

A faint whiff of iron, that was it. The first thing I tried was my phone, but it was no help. There was no reception, and the light did nothing but to bring my nightmares to life. I couldn't stand to see my surroundings, but feeling the walls blindly didn't help either. I couldn't see any weak spots, but I couldn't feel any either. I was stuck. The door was locked. I don't even know how, but I couldn't budge it.

The entire shed was sturdy, using some sort of spine dug into the ground as support. I tried feeling my way out in the dark, but all it did was give me an inner picture of what I was actually standing in. After a while, it got so dark that I didn't even know if I was closing my eyes or not. I lost track of the door. It all just felt... Wrong.

How can you differentiate a door from a wall when all you see and feel is dry meat and bone? I tried everything. Putting support on my back, I sat down and tried kicking to find weak spots. I tried the ceiling. I tried lifting, wedging, leverage.

Nothing. The shed wouldn't budge. It felt like I struggled for an eternity, but it had probably just been an hour. Light or no light, I couldn't get out. My phone just sat in my hands, useless. I felt it in my chest, that black sinking anxiety. The cold, that feeling when you think you're about to die, I must have sat there, frozen for hours.

I snapped to attention when I heard a sound outside. It was smaller, careful, tiny steps. Hello, anyone there? I called out with a dry voice. And... It was a boy. Just some boy in the middle of nowhere. And all he had to say was... And... I pushed the confusion away, feeling hope light up.

Hey, hey kid! I smiled. You, out there. Can you open the door? And then... I pause to think. What the hell was this? And... And...

And then we can go away. You want ice cream? We can get that. We can get whatever you want. Pizza. And then... I was about to explode on this kid. He had this infuriating tone like it was mocking me.

Then, suddenly, the door was. opened. He had the same dark hair as Roy, but was no more than 10 to 13 years old, the same red eyes, the same pale complexion. He was dragging some sort of blue plastic garbage bag. And then, he asked again, I... I don't... I don't know what you want. I... I... I looked around. The coast was clear. I couldn't leave him there. I tried picking him up, but he recoiled. He shook his head and stepped away. And then, he said, we have to go, I whispered.

Come on. And then, he said, matter of factly. He stepped inside the shed and closed the door. I just started running. My car wasn't far off, and I was far quicker on the way back than I'd been getting there. The keys were still in the ignition. The charger seemed just as eager to get me out of those woods as I'd been getting out of that shed.

Together we turned around and drove like maniacs back to the main road. I didn't care about the boulders, roots, vines or bushes. I had to go, and I had to go now. With a beaten suspension, we managed to get to the main road. I stepped on the gas. I'd rather die in a car crash than anywhere near Roy and his creations. What happened next was a blur. I was pulled over by Highway Patrol, who noticed I was in shock.

I gave a statement about kidnapping. Trying to explain what I'd seen just made the deputy shake his head. Maybe he didn't believe me, or maybe he'd heard this before. Either way, he made very few notes, barely took my name. I've since shut down that class, and I'm being treated for a stress disorder. I get these stomach cramps and I have to sleep with the lights. son, I have to see that I'm out of that hellhole with my own eyes. When the light disappears, I can't be sure anymore.

I'm going to see a therapist about it soon enough. I've gotten a few recommendations. I'm not sure I like the idea of overexposure therapy, but whatever works. I haven't heard anything about an investigation, but there have been no reports of murders nearby, not to the extent that you could build a shed out of the remains or a spice rack. or a ladder. Wherever Roy got his materials, he must have been from somewhere else.

Maybe that kid knew. I think about him a lot. I get the feeling that he wasn't there to rescue me, so much as they just put away the plastic bag of his. But Roy is still out there, that I'm certain of. After all, he sent me a shoehorn in the mail a few weeks ago.

At least the damn thing was made out of solid pine.