CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - Something told you to click this

Episode Date: November 21, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by CreepsMcPastaCreepypastas 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 web" ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher, and...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creepypasta  ►"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 hadn't been sleeping well. Not in the dramatic, tortured way. Just the usual. Late nights, dragging into early mornings, too much screen time, too much silence. You stop noticing how tired you are when it's constant. I thought maybe it was the recent job loss or the breakup, or the fact that I was living in a sublet where the ceiling fan clicked like a metronome made to measure disappointment.

People said I seemed distant. I was. I'd tell people I was fine. I'd say it enough that I almost believed it. But a few nights in, something changed. I was washing dishes, staring out the kitchen window at nothing in particular, when I heard it. Not a voice exactly. More like a sentence dropped in my head.

Complete, neutral. He dropped. the glass, he stares too long, I blinked, the sponge slipped in my hand. It wasn't my thought. That's what threw me. It didn't feel like me thinking. It felt like someone else was thinking at me. I told myself it was stress, insomnia, internal monologue with too much flare. The next day, on a call with my sister, she asked how I was holding up. I opened my mouth to lie.

Before I could speak, it came again. He takes the call. He lies. And then I said it without even meaning to. I'm doing all right. I remember the exact moment after how my fingers trembled slightly around the phone, how the line was silent for a beat too long before she replied. That was the first time I joked aloud.

Guess I've got a narrator now. But it wasn't funny. It didn't stop. And it was starting to get things right that I hadn't done yet. At first, the voice stuck to narration, little summaries of what I was already doing. He scrolls too long. He reheats leftovers.

He pretends to read. Almost funny, in a pathetic sort of way. But after a few days, it started to comment. The first jab came while I was sitting on the couch, scrolling job listings. He won't apply. He never does. I froze, thumb hovering over the screen, then close the hour.

I told myself it was a coincidence that my brain was catching me in old habits, building sentences around guilt. But the timing was too sharp, the phrasing too pointed. Later, while I was drafting an email I didn't want to send, it said. He's already lying, and he hasn't hit send yet, and I was. I deleted the email entirely, stared at the email. the blinking cursor until the words felt like they'd been scraped out of my head. The voice didn't sound angry or emotional. It just sounded sure, confident in a way I hadn't been in months.

It was like reading from a script I hadn't seen. I started testing it. Small things. I'd reach for a glass of water just to see what it would say. He reaches for the glass. Then quickly I changed my mind. He hesitates. He pretends that makes him unpredictable.

My hand shook so badly I nearly dropped the glass. I thought maybe this was a breakdown. Sleep deprivation, anxiety, some kind of disassociative loop. The internet had words for it. Intrusive thoughts, auditory hallucinations, de-realization. Except, it didn't feel like a voice in my head. It felt like someone was watching. By the end of that week, I'd stop turning on the TV, stopped playing music, and stopped doing anything that made me feel less alone.

Because that's when it started saying things I hadn't done yet. He won't sleep tonight. I laughed when I heard it, nervous, brittle. Sure I will, I thought to myself, but the power went out around 1am. The hum of the fridge died. The room folded into silence so deep I could hear my own pulse. I got up, fumbling through the dark for my phone's flashlight. The air felt heavy, close.

I checked the breaker, the fuse, nothing. Then, from the hallway, a faintly. creek. When I turned, I saw it. The front door, wide open. The cold night pressed in, sharp and deliberate, and behind my ribs, that same quiet voice said, something's going to break. I didn't sleep the rest of that night. I checked every room twice, every window, every lock. Nothing was disturbed. The only thing out of place was the front door, wide open with no signs of forced entry. And my phone, sitting on the nightstand, battery drained a zero.

I plugged it in before bed. I was sure of it. The next day, I filed a police report. They didn't find anything. No fingerprints, no signs of tampering. The front door hadn't even been screwed. It's probably stress, the officer said, handing me back the form with practice sympathy. Sometimes people forget they opened a door, but I hadn't.

And when I got home, the voice was waiting. Who wonders if he's imagining it? I froze halfway through the threshold. He steps inside anyway. I stepped inside. It was like someone writing over my life in real time, erasing the possibility of free will with every line. I couldn't surprise it, couldn't get ahead of it. That night, I slept with the lights on, dragged a chair in front of the door, tied a string between the handle and my wrist.

I needed proof of a person, of a thing, something. The voice didn't speak for hours. it was gone. Then, as I was drifting off, it whispered, he thinks he'll be safe if he prepares. I didn't sleep after that either. By morning, the knot was still tied. The door was unmoved, everything untouched.

But the house felt... Used. Not in a way I could name. Just lived in by something I hadn't seen. and for the first time I realized I hadn't done anything wrong I hadn't committed some great sin

I wasn't cursed or haunted or chosen something was toying with me I wasn't going to I knew how it would sound but it had been weeks I wasn't sleeping I kept second-guessing every thought

before I could even think it It felt like my brain wasn't mine anymore. So, I called Emma. We'd known each other since college. The kind of friend you could call after six months of silence and pick up like nothing had changed. She met me at a diner near the edge of town. I told her everything, the voice, the predictions.

I didn't even care how I sounded anymore. I just needed to say it out last. I needed to see someone else react to anchor me to reality. She listened. She really listened, asked questions, took my hand at one point. You're under a lot of stress, she said gently, but I believe you believe it. That counts for something. It wasn't full belief, but it was something.

That night, as I lay in bed. The voice returned, slow, deliberate. He told the wrong person. Boring. Remove her. I sat up, reached for my phone. Emma's name wasn't in my contacts. I opened her old texts.

The thread was there, but empty. Just the grey bar that said, no messages. I called her. It rang once. then a robotic voice. This number is not in service. I scrolled through photos. I knew I had dozens with her.

Birthdays, Halloween, that awful karaoke night. But in every one I checked. She was missing. Whole frames cropped. Others where she should have been beside me. Empty space. The next day I drove. to her apartment, different name on the buzzer, new mailbox label.

I knocked anyway. A woman I didn't recognize opened the door, mid-thirties, short blonde hair. She looked confused. No one named Emma's lived here, she said, not since I moved in six years ago. Six. We'd had coffee yesterday. hadn't we? I sat in my car for an hour, holding my phone like it was a dead animal.

A story doesn't need side characters if they aren't part of the ending. The voice whispered, smooth as oil. I didn't know what this meant. I just drove. And every street sign I passed felt like it could vanish next. It wasn't the voice that changed. It was everything else. The clock on the stove always read a time that made sense,

just never the same twice. I'd look away, look back, and somehow it had jumped ten minutes forward or back. Once it was midnight three times in a row. But the voice, it stayed observant, a steady interjection that jutted in at random intervals. He notices time is wrong. but keeps eating.

He's starting to realize this isn't stress. I tried ignoring it. I tried pretending the world still worked. Then, it said something new. He looks at himself and wondered when he stopped being real. That one hit too close. I stared at my reflection, waiting for it to blink first. It didn't.

It just stared back, hollow and quiet. like it knew more than I did. But fear still ran through me. If this voice could make Emma just disappear, what could it do to me? And I snapped. I punched the mirror, full swing. I watched it shatter, felt it shatter,

glass scattered everywhere. Then I blinked, and the mirror was whole. The glass was gone. and the cut across my knuckles had vanished. I staggered back, heart pounding. The room wasn't mine, not completely. The layout was correct, but off.

The coffee table was on the wrong side. The couch was an older model. There were pictures in the wall I didn't recognize, a smiling family I'd never seen. The narrator was still calm, still sure. He understands now. but not enough. I sat on the floor, shaking.

This wasn't just in my head. Someone was building the world around me, piece by piece, and I was slipping between versions. All week I tried to explain it away, drown it out, reason with it. But the voice was always there, narrating like I was the joke of some sad, slow story. So I screamed. loud, ugly. What are you?

The air didn't answer. Not right away. Finally, took you long enough. It wasn't a whisper. It wasn't inside my head anymore. It was everywhere. The ceiling fan hum, in the fridge compressor, in the space between my heartbeats.

I'm the only real thing here, it said. I felt myself go cold. I didn't fully know what it meant. You're a story. You are supposed to be a story. But you're nothing. You hesitate. You mope.

You repeat yourself. You don't give me anything. I paused at this, not knowing whether the voice was being literal or metaphorical. I wanted tension, conflict, growth, but you just exist, I shook my head. No, this isn't real, this is, you're not real. I wrote you, I tried to care about you, to get people to care about you. But this is going nowhere. The lights dimmed, the walls seemed thinner. So, I've been trying to fix it. Add some stakes, A little fear, a little mystery.

Something that might save this train wreck from total irrelevance. I backed into the corner, heart pounding. But nothing works. You just survive. You stall. You bore. There was a pause. Then, like the edge of a blade.

I want an ending. Silence returned. Not calm. but coiled, something was coming. But with how things were, the scope of what scared me. In the silence, I had time to think. A story it called me, like a character in a play. The only way for a story to progress is by participating.

This whole thing was something I couldn't fight. It wasn't physical or external. So, my only idea, the only thing I could think to do was... Nothing. Pure nothing. The next morning. That's what I did. Nothing.

No longer paralyzed by fear. This was pure choice. I didn't get out of bed, didn't drink, didn't eat, didn't speak. I just stared at the wall and capped. at the wall, encountered the cracks in the paint, and the voice. It waited. At first, it tried the usual. He woke up confused, anxious, heart still racing from the confrontation.

Nothing. He got up, poured coffee with a shaking hand, tried to convince himself none of it was real. Still, nothing. I stayed in bed, face blank, like a body no longer connected to the script. Then it got bolder, meaner. He screamed, he begged, he cried. I didn't flinch, didn't even blink. If this were a story, then I figured it couldn't move unless I did.

So I gave it nothing. Days passed, I grew hungry and thirsty, but I didn't move, even for the bare essentials. I truly committed to giving it nothing. The fridge hummed, the sun rose and set, and the voice unraveled. He's breaking down, losing it. He wants the scream but can't. He misses his friend, the one who forgot him. He regrets.

Everything. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I didn't miss anyone, didn't feel anything. I was done being a character. Every second I stayed still was another second. It didn't get what it wanted. Let it lie, let it twist, let the story rot on the page. Eventually, it stopped narrating altogether.

There was no momentum, no tension. just me rotting in a room not knowing what came next. So, when the door clicked open, I thought I imagined it. But the footsteps were real, soft, familiar. I didn't look up right away, afraid that if I moved, the world would snap back into fiction. But then I heard her voice. Are you okay? I turned my head slowly.

She stood in the doorway. My wife, the real her, wearing the coat she always said made a look too grown up. Her eyes were full of cautious worry. And next to her, our daughter, small, quiet, watching me with a seriousness, children aren't supposed to have. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. She stepped in, took a breath like the place smelled bad, and it probably did. I hadn't showered, hadn't cleaned, hadn't done anything but sit and wait to be erased. What happened to you? she asked.

Why won't you answer your phone? I didn't know how to explain. I didn't know where to begin. So I just said, I'm sorry, and that was all it took. She moved across the room and sank to her knees in front of me. Her hands touched mine, dry skin, cracked knuckles, but hers were warm, solid, human. We were so scared, she said, you don't just disappear like that.

I didn't know how to come back, I said. The words catching in my throat. Everything stopped making sense. I didn't know what was real. I still don't. She looked at me, really looked, and then leaned forward and rested her head against my chest. A daughter climbed up into my lap without a word,

curling up against me like she'd been waiting to do it the whole time. And for a moment, one impossible moment. I felt okay. The narrator didn't say a word. It was just us, me and them, breathing, warm, alive. And I thought, maybe this is the ending. But, in the interim of silence, it started with pressure, a kind that makes your ears ring.

A sudden drop, like the air forgot how to be. breathe. Then came the wind. Not a gentle breeze, a full body shove. The apartment groaned, the windows trembled, curtains flared inward, as if something was

trying to get in. My daughter screamed, a small piercing sound. My wife pulled her close, shielding her from nothing and everything all at once. It's okay, I told, them is just the storm.

Because storms don't come from nowhere, and they don't make the floorboard shift like footsteps. I stepped into the hallway. The front door was wide open, the knobs still turning, like someone had just let themselves in. Outside, moonlight poured down in a flood of silver, but it wasn't gentle. It looked wrong, too sharp, too focused, like a spotlight through fog.

It painted a threshold like a stage. And from this basking glow, something moved. A ripple in the light, a shadow, slick and smooth, crawled across the ceiling, thin as a trickle of oil. Fast, intentional. I whispered. What the hell is that, then? A shriek. From behind me, from the bedroom.

My daughter, I ran. The bedroom door was already open, already waiting. And for a second, I thought maybe it was a false alarm. Maybe the scream was fear and not pain. But the moment I crossed the three. threshold. I knew. They were on the floor. My wife, my little girl, twisted together in a tangle of limbs, eyes wide and mouth slack, as if they hadn't even had time to scream again. The throats had been opened, messy and jagged, like claws had dug in and tore their voices

out. The blood hadn't pulled yet. It was still moving, still hot. And above them, that thing floated. A smear of black, oily and slow-moving. No eyes, no face, just motion constant, swirling. The ceiling above it cracked, paint blistering, as if reality itself was struggling to hold around it. I couldn't speak. I dropped to my knees, landing in the blood I didn't feel,

hands trembling as they reached stupidly, pointlessly for what was already gone. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out. No breath, no words, just the silence so heavy it rang in my bones. Then the voice came, smooth and measured. Predictable, it said. Painful, yes, but still dull. My head whipped around, but there was no source, just the voice. It was back.

This, this isn't real, I whispered, voice cracking. This can't be real, this... Of course it isn't. The tone shifted, not mocking or cruel, just disappointed. I gave you a family, stakes. texture, and you squandered it. Do you know how hard it is the salvaged tension after the second act stall? You sat, you stared, you moat.

Now we're crawling toward an ending with nothing to show for it. I couldn't breathe. This wasn't even supposed to happen. Not like this, but you left me nothing. No arc, no drive. My wife's body flickered. Once, twice, and then she dissolved, like static, noise and distortion that tore her apart in a thousand little digital blinks. My daughter followed, one second clinging to me in memory, the next, gone.

Only two dark, wet outlines remained on the floor, like shadows that forgot to leave. Memories of her life filled with love fading. and in that space where grief should have consumed me. Something worse crept in. The cold realization. They were never real. I never had a family. I lived alone.

I had a girlfriend, but we had broken up recently. But the moment I saw them, I accepted it like it was real, like it always was. A tragic footnote meant to make me compelling, and even that hadn't worked. I stared into the red-stained floor, into those empty shapes, and wanted to scream until my throat tore open. But I didn't, because I heard the voice again, quiet this time, close. Let's try something else. and the world blinked out.

I woke to cold, to pain already blooming in my arms with a rope bit deep. My wrists were tied to a chair, thick splintered wood beneath me, the legs uneven on a cement floor. Pipes line the walls, rusted and dripping. A single bulb swung overhead, buzzing like flies. The light stuttered. The air reeked of method. middle, mildew, and something sharp underneath. Something alive.

Across the room, a man hummed softly, off-key, childlike. He stood with his back to me, laying out tools on a tray. Not surgical, but domestic. Familiar things made wrong by arrangement. Pliers, box cutter, flat-edged screwdriver, a hammer with something dried on the handle. He turned and smiled. Too wide, lips stretched to unnatural corners, like someone who had studied humanity in a mirror and still hadn't gotten it quite right. He stepped closer, conflict, the voice said. Stakes, pain, let's make them care about you. The man reached for

pliers. I screamed at a reflex. He didn't pause. The pain was real, so real, when the first fingernail peeled away, bright and white-hot and immediate. The sound was worse, the squelch, the snap. My body jerked so hard the chest scrape the concrete. I cried out, pleaded, cursed, but the man was humming again, like he didn't even hear me. Blood ran down my fingers, hot and quick, pattering onto the floor. I begged for it to stop, but it didn't. He carried on with each finger on my right hand and started on the left. Each rip I forced words out, begging for an answer. Please, I gasped. What do you want from me?

The humming stopped, the man froze, head tilted, fingers twitching. The tool slipped from his hand with a soft clatter, metal bouncing off concrete, one after the other. Silence fell. Then the voice returned, like narration bleeding through the ceiling with a hint of frustration. Not this. It said flatly. It's too repetitive. The bulb above me flickered, spotted.

The edges of the room blurred, shimmered like heat waves. Torture is lazy. The narrator continued. Anyone can suffer. Doesn't make you interesting. You're still boring. The man or whatever he was. lifted his head suddenly, like a puppet cut loose.

The pain didn't fade. It just stopped, like someone pressed pause on reality. I could no longer see, hear or feel. No body, no room. Just darkness, endless and silent, except for the ragged sound of my own breathing. And then, from somewhere above or inside or, beyond. Pages turned. A sound like paper being considered. Judged. I didn't know what form I was in

anymore, whether I had a mouth or a throat or a voice. But the words forced their way out of me anyway. Don't stop the story, I whispered, barely able to form the words. Please, if you stop, I stop. By this point, I realized. I only existed as long as the story did. When the story ended, so did I. I didn't know how to give the voice what it wanted, but that didn't stop me from trying.

Silence. Then a sound, low and familiar, pages turning, not nearby, above, somewhere out of reach, out of understanding. So, the voice said, finally, you understand now. I nodded, or tried to. I'm not real, I said, but I'm still here. Another pause.

No sarcasm, no contempt this time. Then, maybe you've earned. another draft. The light dimmed, folding inward like paper, curling in flame. And I let the dark take me. Sunlight warmed my face. I blinked. I was on the couch. The stained chair, the concrete room, the screaming. Gone. No blood or bindings, just the soft hush of morning and the low hum of the TV. buzzed on the armrest. Unknown number. I answered, unsure of what to expect.

A chipper voice beamed through the speaker. Hi, just calling to let you know. You got the job. Full benefits, competitive salary. We're so excited to have you on board. I didn't respond at first. Just stared at the far wall, mouth dry, nodding to no one. Then hesitantly thanked them.

and hung up. Another buzz, a notification from Instagram, a new message flashed across the screen. Hey, saw your profile, thought you were cute. Want to grab a drink sometime, smiley face? I clicked the profile, and it was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, exactly my type. The interests on a profile were everything I was into.

I sat up slowly. The room felt artificial, like someone tried to remember what a morning should feel like. On the TV, a news anchor rattled off last night's lottery numbers. I barely heard her until the numbers hit my ears one by one.

My eyes dropped to the coffee table. A lottery ticket sat there, perfectly aligned. every number matched every single one. And in the quiet that followed, I didn't smile, I didn't move. Because I understood now, despite everything that was happening,

how I was receiving more than I could ever dream, the story was about to end.