CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "Spotify Made Me a Playlist I Never Asked For. It Knew Things It Shouldn’t" Creepypasta

Episode Date: May 18, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by goosejpg:   / spotify-128869225  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"-    • "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 hadn't dated anyone in five years. After Emily, it stopped making sense. People tried, my sister especially. Even co-workers I barely talked to invited me to things, always with a look that hovered somewhere between pity and optimism. Most of it ended the same way, someone asking if I thought about therapy or maybe trying again. I appreciated it.

I really did. But it felt rushed, like everyone was trying to get me to move forward before I had time to pick my feet up. There wasn't anything obviously wrong. I went to work, replied to text eventually, and even smiled when I was expected to. But with people, I kept things at a distance. I couldn't let anything reel in without feeling like something would bring.

break open. Most days, I told myself I was tired. That was easier than admitting I didn't know what to do with the space she left behind. New people felt like stand-ins for something I couldn't recreate, and the idea of trying again made me feel dishonest, like pretending a wound had closed when I could still feel it every time I turned my head the wrong way. For the first few months, I used to stop and talk to her. Same turn off just past the tree line, a quiet spot with a bit of sun in the mornings. I bring coffee sometimes and sit in the grass with her,

pulling out a handful of blades to play with. I tell her about work, about my sister's latest attempt to set me up and how awkward it felt. Anything to fill the silence. There was no version where Emily and her, I worked anymore. I knew that,

but I kept showing up in the mornings every other day or so before work, like clockwork. It was selfish, but pretending we were still together was nice. Eventually, I stopped meeting up with her as often.

My therapist said that meant I was starting to move on, and it was a good sign I didn't feel the need to talk every day. I didn't argue, but some mornings on the drive to work, I'd catch a glimpse of her on that stretch of road and instinctively ease off the gas, just slow down enough to see her. Then, I met Claire. We were both invited by mutual friends to a backyard barbecue in late spring. I was leaning against the fence with my phone in hand, pretending to check something when she walked over and asked if I looked at.

always look that bored, or if tonight was special. I told her I was trying to figure out the exact minute it'd be socially acceptable to leave. It was meant as a joke, but it was also true. And something about that made her let out a snort laugh, sharp and unexpected, like she hadn't meant to let it escape. I remember thinking that laugh was the first honest sound I'd heard in forever. We spent the rest of the night orbiting around the usual small talk without ever landing in it. We ranked fast food fries, debated the worst gas station snack, and traded the craziest things we'd overheard in public.

When it got too cold, she handed me a number and told me to call her when I was ready. I said I would. And I did. It started slow. Coffee. which turned into a couple of drinks and walks had turned longer than we meant them to. Nothing forced.

Being around her felt easy in a way I didn't expect. By the third month, I caught myself doing things without thinking, reaching for a hand, leaning in close to say something dumb just to make a laugh. I wasn't floating anymore. I was there.

Claire never asked for contact. She just left space for me to figure it out on my own. I think she knew I was still mentally sorting through things. I didn't tell her about Emily. I wasn't ready. It didn't feel right to bring up old relationships when something new was just starting to feel stable. And even if I had, I wouldn't have known where to begin.

Not long after, I moved. Not just to get closer to close. Claire, though that was part of it. The job was better, a quieter place, better pace, less noise between the hours. But if I'm honest, I think I just needed something that felt different. Somewhere new to wake up. Somewhere she hadn't been. Claire helped with the boxes.

She unpacked the kitchen while I stood in the living room, hands on my hips, staring at a blank wall, like it might tell me something about the version of myself that was supposed to live here. At some point, she called out from the other room. Hey, is this yours? I walked into the hallway and found her kneeling by an open box, holding a photo album I hadn't seen in years. The cover was worn soft at the edges. She opened it without waiting, flipped through a few pages.

Is this your awkward phase? She joked, holding a photo of me at maybe 20. I smiled, kind of. Something like that. Then she turned the page. There was a picture of me and Emily. One, I didn't remember packing. Claire didn't say anything for a beat too long.

Her eyes skimmed the page, and flicked up to mine. I knew what she was going to ask before she did. But instead, she closed the album gently and set it aside. So, I'm guessing she's not your cousin, she said, half a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. I didn't say anything. I didn't need to. Whatever reaction crossed my face must have told her enough. Claire's smile faded just slightly.

You want tea or coffee? That was it. No pressure or push. Just the soft pivot back to the kitchen. She understood that she brushed up against something and decided to leave it alone until I was ready. I liked that she didn't push. The playlist showed up the morning after she stayed over.

We were both running late. She took the first shower while I stood in the kitchen, half-dressed, scrolling through my phone while the kettle heated. It was there, at the top of my homepage. A new playlist. You remember us, right? At first, I thought it was one of those auto-generated nostalgia things. Spotify does things like that sometimes. But there was no thumbnail, just a collage of art albums I didn't recognize.

I hit play. The first track was quiet, with soft vocals and slow guitar. Nothing I could name, but the melody felt like something I'd heard once in the background of a coffee shop. I let it play while I ground the beans and filled the press. Then the second song started. I was leaning on the counter when it hit me. It wasn't just familiar. It was hers, Emily's, one of the ones she used to hum without realising, tapping a foot against the dash.

I hadn't heard it in years, but the second it played, I could feel it in my chest, sharp and too sudden. I reached for my phone, thumb halfway to skipping. Claire walked into the kitchen just then, towel wrapped around her, head. air damp and clinging to her neck. Oh, I love this one, she said. She brushed past me and nudged my hand away like it was nothing. Go shower, you're going to be late, I hesitated. Then I handed her the mug, took my phone with me, and set it on the bathroom sink.

I stepped in and let the hot water hit my shoulders. But something about the song stuck behind my ribs. That second one was hers. Then, the third track started. And that was it. The song Emily and I joked about getting married to. I pressed my back to the tile and slid down until I was sitting on the shower floor. The water was too hot, but I couldn't move.

That third song pulled something up I'd kept buried so deep I'd started to believe it wasn't there anymore. My chest tightened until it hurt to breathe, and I just sat there, knees pulled in, while the water ran over my face like it might wash something out of me. I let it happen. I let it break through slowly and quietly, until I managed to pull all the pieces of me back together.

When I finally stepped out, I checked the playlist with a kind of quiet dread, It had been created that morning, which was impossible. Sure, Emily and I used to share a Spotify account, but that was years ago now. Seeing her name tied to something new, still pulled at something. And for a second, I caught myself wondering if she knew about Claire. Once I realized what I was asking, I led out a low, tired laugh. not because it was funny.

It was just one of those reactions who can't control when something hits in the wrong way. It settled in my chest and dragged up guilt and it stung. I'd moved on and I hadn't seen her in a long time

and even though I kept telling myself I had my reasons and that it was healthy they didn't feel like enough anymore. I don't know what shift. but suddenly it felt like I owed her something that I betrayed her. For the first time in a while, I felt like I needed to see her again, not just remember her, not just scroll through old photos or let a song cut me from the inside. I needed to be there.

I dressed quickly, my heart's still thudding. When I stepped out, the house smelled like fresh coffee and Claire's shampoo. She was by the door, boots half on. You good, she asked. Yeah, I said, just tired. She reached out and fixed the piece of hair near my temple. You're always tired. I'm working on it.

She handed me a travel mug, kiss my cheek, and left before I had to be. to explain anything. Things were just starting with Claire. I didn't want to ruin that. I didn't want her pulling away. But I had already made up my mind. I called in sick and left before I could talk myself out of it. The playlist started on its own as I backed out of the driveway.

I didn't touch it, just let it play. If I wasn't sure before, I was sure now. Windows cracked, the road stretched ahead like something waiting. The day felt too quiet for what was happening in my head. The town was only an hour away, mostly highway, then that familiar stretch of two-lane road that curved through old hills and open fields. It had been a while, but I knew the way. I didn't need a map, about halfway there.

A slow song faded in, barely audible at first. I didn't recognize it right away, not until memory came in hard behind it. It was the one that played the night we danced in the kitchen after a mom's funeral. We hadn't eaten and we were both wrecked, but the song had been on in the background and she pulled me close without saying it.

anything, resting ahead in my chest like it was the only place that made sense. I gripped the wheel tighter, my throat burned. I blinked hard and didn't look away from the road. A few miles later, the music shifted, don't break my heart. I played once, then again. The line kept looping. Break, break, break, break. Glitching and distorting. It echoed like the car itself had picked it up and was repeating it back to me. The hair on my arm stood up. I looked up just in time to see the semi drift into my lane.

I hit the brakes as fast as I could. Tires screamed and the world jolted. Everything inside the car slammed forward. The truck missed me by inches. I sat there on the shoulder, hands white-knuckled on the wheel. My heart pounded in my throat. The music had stopped. Because of the song.

I was safe. But I didn't know if that should comfort me or scare me. My mind hurt thinking about it. There was no doubt in my mind that this playlist was set up by Emily. She was somehow in control of my phone. a way I didn't know was possible. But this was something more. How did she do that?

The rest of the drive passed in silence. The playlist was still open on the screen but nothing played. Even when I tried booting up another playlist, no sound came out. It felt like I was now somehow getting the silent treatment, something Emily used to do the few times I upset her. I reached town around the early afternoon. Everything was where it had always been. The crack sidewalks, the houses we'd pointed out to each other, the corner that we used to wait on after school,

trading dumb jokes and stories that no one else would care about. And I hesitated. Before, when I reached this point on the trip, my heart would race with the thoughts of seeing Emily. An unhealthy obsession turned compulsion. But for the first time, there was a second thought that cross-wired my brain. Thoughts of Claire. This only started after she stayed the night at mine.

Emily's intentions were clear. Was I ready to just walk into them? I made a decision. With a deep breath, I turned the wheel, ready to exit the town, and leave Emily behind once and for all. But it seemed Emily wasn't done with me. The song that came through my car speakers crackled with pops it was so loud. Borderline distorted with volume.

I didn't even know my beat-up car could get this loud. Nothing I did would soothe them. My phone screen was unresponsive. The volume dials span with no change. I wanted to fight it, but I knew I couldn't. She had a hold over the situation that was beyond my understanding. And deep down, she knew she didn't even have to push this hard. My brain screamed at me to run, but my heart wanted to see this through,

and all logic was being thrown out the window. I parked where the neighbourhood thinned out. Trees were taller here, older. I followed the same stone path. I didn't have to wonder where she was, didn't have to call to arrange a meeting spot. She was always in the same place. Then, I saw her. I stood in front of her for what felt like too long.

Hands in my pockets, mouth too dry to say anything that wouldn't sound stupid. I kept waiting for the silence to break on its own, hoping the guilt would settle into something I could carry again. Sorry I haven't been around, I said finally. It felt strange, talking to a grave after this long. But once I started, I couldn't stop. I told her I tried to move on, that it had taken longer than I wanted to admit that even now I wasn't sure I'd done it right.

I said her name a few times, just to feel the weight of it again, but it felt foreign. My nose stung and my eyes burned. I bit down hard just to hold myself together. And then I told her about Claire. She probably already knew, but I gave it to her straight,

a formal introduction. It felt right to say it out loud. You probably wouldn't love the idea, But Claire makes me happy, and I need that. I need something real, I said. But it hasn't stopped me caring about you. It never could. But holding on the way I had, it started to feel more like a weight than a memory, I added.

I know you're upset, I said, and maybe this won't help, but I hope it at least makes sense. I miss you. I always will. I was broken without you, but I'm finally getting better, just as the words left my mouth. I started to hear something. It's been so lonely without you here, like a bird without song. It was a song coming from my phone. I didn't start it.

I hadn't touched anything. The voice was unmistakable. Sineid O'Connor, the track was Nothing Compares to You. Emily used to play it when she thought I wasn't listening, humming along under a breath in the kitchen while she moved between cabinets like the whole house belonged to the rhythm. Nothing can stop these lonely tears from falling. Tell me, baby, where did I go wrong? I tried wiping my face, but it didn't do anything.

I thought I cried it all out in the shower that morning, but the tears didn't slow. They kept coming, slow and hot. No, no, it wasn't you. I just thought staying away was helping. Everyone kept saying I needed space, that moving on meant not looking back too much. I rubbed at my eyes. But I should have come sooner. I should have done this my way.

I thought I was healing, but really, I was just avoiding you. The chorus played again, quieter now, just the voice and the wind and everything I hadn't said in a long time. Look, I'll visit more, I said. Not just when I'm falling apart, not just when I miss you. I'll give you updates on my life, even the boring parts. I let out a sob chuckle at that. But please, you have to let me live my life. Okay?

The song ended, and the playlist didn't load another. I stayed for a while longer, watching shadows shift across the stone while I waited for the tears to stop falling. A strange feeling of peace washed over me, and eventually I stood and walked back to the car. The sky had gone pale I didn't know if anything I said had mattered But it felt like something had let go

The drive home was quiet The playlist never started again I left my phone silent In case it ever did come back on Part of me wanted to hear from Emily again Little flashes of her kept cutting through Her laugh The way she held a mug with both hands

when she was tired, how she used to steal the covers and pretend she didn't notice. She hadn't been trying to break Claire and me up. She was just lonely. When I got back, I texted Claire. Just the simple, I'm home. I didn't trust myself to say more than that. She called a few minutes later. Her voice was soft and steady.

She didn't know anything. wrong, but something bubbled deep inside me. But I told her anyway. I sat on the edge of my bed and said everything I'd been holding in, about the playlist, the drive, the songs I hadn't heard in years. About Emily. About how long it had taken to feel remotely normal again, and how, even now, I wasn't sure what that meant.

I told her what she meant to me, that I didn't know if I was doing this right, or if I ever would, and that I love her. Claire didn't interrupt, and when I finished, I felt lighter. For the first time in years, I felt understood, like someone else had seen the whole mess of it, what I'd lost and still carried, and she didn't flinch. She welcomed me. I could breathe again. Because I wasn't holding that weight. Alone.