CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "The New Radio Station in My Town Only Plays One Song. It’s Driving Everyone Insane." Creepypasta

Episode Date: March 22, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Frequent-Cat:   / the_new_radio_station_in_my_town_only_play...  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've lived in Elliot's Hollow my whole life. It's not a town people move to or move away from. It just is. A little pocket of civilization swallowed by hills and trees, with a main road that only goes one way in and one way out. We don't have internet, not in the way most people do. Cell service is unreliable at best. If you want to talk to someone, you call their landline.

And if you want to have talking points with your friends, you turn on the radio. Our little AM FM station, 97.3 hollow radio, is how most people in town keep up with a world beyond our hills. It plays local news, weather updates, music, whatever keeps people entertained while they work. is the sound of the town itself always playing in the background. That's why, when the signal appeared, we all noticed.

It wasn't an announcement or even a normal broadcast. It was a song. A single, eerie melody looping over and over. At first, it was so faint I thought my role. radio was acting up. It began as a soft hum beneath the usual noise, but day by day, it got louder until it was everywhere. I heard it while I was closing up at the office. The Hollow Gazette is a small two-room space above the hardware store, with one ancient coffee maker, two desks, and a printer that jams if you so much as look at it the wrong way.

It had been a slow news week. Well, it's always a slow news week. I had the radio on while I typed up a fluff piece about the upcoming church bake sale. That's when I realized the radio had become much quieter. There was no ad break, no calling segment. Just a song. Soft, melancholic. A slow, almost hypnotic tune playing on an end.

endless loop. It had no lyrics, no instruments I could recognize, just a voice singing in a language that I didn't recognize. I frowned and leaned closer, adjusting the dial. 97.3 hollow radio. It was still on our station's frequency. That wasn't supposed to be possible. I turned up the volume. music didn't waver like a normal station would when there was interference. It was clear as a bell, cutting through the static with unnatural clarity. By the time I got home, every radio in town was playing it. At first, people treated it like a joke.

Kids at school dared each other to listen to it for as long as possible. One kid claimed he made it six hours straight before he got a headache. Another swore that if you listen long enough, the song started to change. It became a talking point at the diner, the bar, the town meetings. I bet it's some pirate radio station, Mrs Calloway said at the bakery. She was giving out free pastries to anyone who listened to the signal for ten minutes. I kind of like it, said old Frank, the town mechanic. He had it blasting from the auto shop while he worked.

Makes time pass faster. Not everyone was amused. It's damn creepy, the postmaster muttered, switching off the radio in the mailroom. Puts me on edge like I'm waiting for something to happen. The only thing people agreed on was that no one knew where it was coming from. The hollow radio station denied responsibility. That's not us, the station manager, Greg told me over the phone. We tried cutting the transmission.

Didn't work. It's like it's hijacking the frequency. The FCC had no record of a new broadcast in our area. There were no towers nearby that could be transmitting it. Even the older folks, the ones who had lived in the town their whole lives, swore they had never heard anything like it before. The strangest part was that it never stopped or paused. No station IDs, commercial breaks or silence.

Just an unbroken repetition. I did what I always do when something unusual happens in town. I wrote about it. Mysterious signal draws attention in Elliot's Hollow. A harmless story to start the week. A quirky mystery for the townsfolk to talk about. I treated it like a fun little phenomenon, just another oddity in a town full of them.

I didn't know yet, but I wasn't just documenting a local mystery. I didn't expect the signal to linger in people's minds. Most stories I wrote had a 24-hour lifespan at best. One town council vote, one school fundraiser, one half-hearted debate about whether the general store should stop carrying plastic bags. The Hollow Gazette wasn't exactly groundbreaking journalism. But, the signal stuck. People kept talking about it.

Not just in passing, not just as a joke, but as if it was affecting them personally. That was when I decided to write a follow-up. I thought maybe I'd find someone who'd track down its source. My theories were a ham radio guy or a bored teenager with too much time in their hands. I found something else. It started with Mrs. Callaway. I was interviewing her in the bakery. She had been one of the first to turn the signal into a business gimmick.

She was in the middle of a sentence when she hesitated. You ever have a dream that feels too real? She asked quietly. I raised an eyebrow. Like a lucid dream? She shook her head, kneading her dough between her fingers. No, like, more than that. Like it happened.

She told me she had a dream about her husband, Alan. He's been gone for 15 years, she murmured. But I saw him. He was sitting right here, clear as day. I tried to keep my expression neutral. people dream of lost loved ones all the time it wasn't news but here's the thing she continued rowing her arms like she was suddenly cold my neighbor saw us talking i frowned you mean in real life no in his dream she looked at me then her eyes fierce and unwavering he told me the next morning word for word what Alan and I talked about. He wasn't even in the bakery.

He was sitting on his porch, but he said he could see us through the window. A prickle of her knees ran down my spine. Did he? I swallowed. Did he say anything else? Mrs. Callaway hesitated. He said Alan.

Alan looked at him like he knew he was watching. I thought it was a one-off story. story, an old woman missing a husband, a neighbor with a good memory. Then I started hearing the same thing from other people. A man at the gas station, Mark Atwood, told me he had a dream about going fishing with his brother. Nothing strange about that. Except his brother told me he remembered watching himself fish from the shore. I wanted to say something, the brother said, voice low.

but I couldn't move. It was like I was stuck, just watching. Neither of them realized the other had the same dream until I pointed it out. It didn't stop there. A teenage girl told me she dreamed of being lost in the woods. Her best friend swore she had been in the dream with her. A bar patron swore up and down.

He had a conversation with his wife in the dream, only to have her tell me she remembered the exact same details. different stories, different experiences, but always the same people. And when I asked each of them a final question, the answer was always yes. Did you listen to the signal before bed? They all had. The hairs on the back of my neck wouldn't settle. It wasn't just a weird coincidence anymore.

I tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was suggestion, maybe the whole town was just in their own heads feeding off each other's memories. The details were too precise, like they weren't dreaming at all. Instead, it seemed like they were taken somewhere else together. The novelty was lost when the school teacher forgot her own name. Elliot's Hollow was the kind of town where everybody knew everybody. There were only 12 teachers at the school, and Miss Carter had been teaching first grade for 20 years. She taught half the town's kids how to read.

And yet, that morning, she didn't remember who she was. I was grabbing coffee from the diner when I heard the commotion. A few of the parents were murmuring near the counter, voices hushed, eyes darting toward the school. I caught Mark Atwood. the guy from the gas station and asked what happened. Miss Carter showed up late, he said, just stood outside the building like she didn't know where she was. Mark frowned, he looked pale.

She didn't know her own name. That stopped me cold. What do you mean? I mean, she didn't remember. He left out a shaky breath, shifting uneasily. She kept saying she was someone else. A beat of silence passed between us. It wasn't just Miss Carter.

Down at the general store, Henry Weaver was refusing to open the register. He'd been working the counter for as long as I could remember. No one else ran the store. He knew every supplier, every stock order. But today, he stood behind the counter. hands flat against the wood and shook his head. I don't know how, he said. His son, Matt, hovered near the door looking frantic.

Dad, it's just a register. You told me how to use it when I was 12. Henry wouldn't budge, because Henry wasn't Henry anymore. I'm not supposed to be here, he mumbled. I'm not. I don't work here. But you do, Matt said. Henry turned to me then, as if just noticing I was standing there. I'm the mayor, he whispered. The blood drained from my face. Henry wasn't the mayor. He had never been the mayor, but I'd heard that phrase before.

A few days ago, I spoke with the real mayor. John Hartley about the signal, asking if the town had any old records of experimental radio tests. He told me he'd been having strange dreams. In the dream, he said, I wasn't myself. I was Henry Weaver. I hadn't thought much about it at the time. The whole town had been dreaming about each other. It had just been a weird little pattern I was trying to make sense of.

But now, Henry thought he was John. And John was nowhere to be found. By evening, I was feeling sick. I went to the pharmacy, half convinced I was coming down with something. When heard crying from the back of the store, a woman was sobbing, barely able to form words. It was Alice Perdue.

I knew Alice. She'd lived alone in a few. yellow house near the edge of town. She'd never been married, never had kids. But that night, she sat on the pharmacy floor, shaking violently, whispering, where's my son? The clerk, Tina Beckett, looked helpless, kneeling beside her. You don't have a son, she said, her voice gentle. Alice jerked away from her touch. I do, she spat. I do, I do, I do. I know I do. She choked on the words.

I remember him. I raised him. Tooked him in every night. I know his name. I know his face. Tina looked up at me, fear pulling in her eyes. Alice gripped my wrist. Her nails dug into my skin.

Where is he? She pleaded. Where did he go? I had no answer. Because I was starting to believe her. I sat in my car outside the pharmacy long after the lights had gone dark inside, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles ached. Alice's sobs still echoed in my head.

The raw panic in her voice, the certainty, the absolute certainty that she had a son, even though no one in town had ever known her to have one. I couldn't shake it. Neither could I shake the look on Henry Weaver's face when, he told me he was the mayor. He hadn't been confused or delusional. He had been sure as I was that I was Daniel Langley, local reporter, a guy who spent his time writing about farmers markets and high school football games. But what if I woke up tomorrow and found myself believing I was someone else? The thought made my stomach churn. This town was my home. I spent years covering

its stories. I knew every back road, every face, every corner of this place that most people had forgotten even existed. And now it was falling apart. People weren't just forgetting things. They were becoming something else, and no one outside of town was going to care. We didn't have big city news outlets knocking at our doors. There were no government officials rolling in to investigate. If something was happening to us. We were on our own, the thought terrified me, but it also hardened something inside me. I had to know.

It wasn't about a story anymore. It wasn't about getting the next edition of the Gazette printed on time. This was my town. These were my people. And if something was taking them, twisting them, stealing them, stealing them. their identities, then I couldn't just sit back and report on it like some passive observer. I needed to understand. I needed to see the dream for myself.

I took a slow, steady breath, turned the dial on my radio, and let the signal take me. I don't remember falling asleep. I remember static, low and endless, stretching in the back of my mind. like the distant hum of power lines. I remember the feeling of drifting, like my body wasn't my own anymore. Then, I was somewhere else. I was standing in Elliot's Hollow,

but it wasn't Elliot's Hollow. The street stretched endlessly, warping into impossible distances. Buildings flickered like they were struggling to decide what they were supposed to be. Some houses looked years older than they should have been They wouldn't plank sagging with rot Others looked too new

Pristine like they had just been built yesterday The air smelled thick and electric And the people They weren't right I turned my breath hitching The townsfolk were here But they weren't normal Some were half-o'

formed, their bodies flickering like a weak TV signal, snapping between ages, heights, even genders. Miss Carter, the schoolteacher, stood in the sidewalk, but her face was blurred. She shifted between being herself and someone else entirely. Henry Weaver, the store clerk who thought he was the mayor, stood motionless, staring at the sky, his mouth opened and closed over and over like a puppet waiting for the right words to be placed inside him. And then there were the others, the ones who had stayed in the dream too long. They hadn't just merged memories.

They had merged completely. I saw a mother cradling an infant in her arms, rocking it slowly. I stepped closer and nearly screamed. The child's face. was her own. A smaller, stretched version of it, pressed against the shoulder, mouthing silent words in unison. The limbs fused together in places, the skin stitching them into a single, writhing shape. They turned to look at me at the same time, two sets of identical eyes, two mouths whispering the same words. We are one, we are one, we are one, we are one.

one, some had grown too large. I saw a man that wasn't a man at all anymore, but a mass of bodies, tangled and shifting. They couldn't decide which one was supposed to be in control. Faces bubbled beneath his skin, rising up like something pressing against the surface of water. A hand burst from his chest, flexing his fingers before sinking back inside. He turned to and his three mouths speaking in unison. Daniel, I ran. I didn't make it far before a hand grabbed my wrist. I jerked away, my breath ragged,

but the grip was steady, human, real, Abel Cooper, the old blind man. But even he wasn't untouched. There was a shadow of another face behind his own, flickering in and out of existence like a second exposure in a photograph. It whispered, along with his voice, just a split second behind. You shouldn't be here, boy, he murmured. I swallowed back bile.

What the hell is this place? Abel's lips tightened. He turned his head slightly, listening. You're still awake, he muttered. Not like the rest of them, but that won't last long, I shuddered. Why, what's happening to them? Abel exhaled slowly, his grip tightened. Every time we dream, we lose a little more of ourselves, he said softly.

He nodded toward the twisting figures, the mouths that didn't stop whispering. The ones who stay too long. forget they were ever awake. The horror sank into my bones. It wasn't just a dream. A slow, careful dismantling of who they had been, breaking them down into something else. And I was standing in the middle of it. Abel turned back to me and for the first time I saw fear in his face. You need to wake up. I spent the next day to digging through every record I could find. Something inside me had shifted.

People were disappearing. Or worse, they were dissolving into something else. Even when I brought up names that should have been familiar, people I knew had lived here, worked here, had lives here. I was met with blank stairs. I knew I didn't have much time. The next person to be erased could be me. So, I did the only thing that made sense.

I went looking for the source. The first step was figuring out where the transmission was coming from. Elliot's hollow had one radio station, 97.3 hollow radio, and I already knew it wasn't them. That meant there had to be another broadcast tower somewhere nearby. I needed help. I drove out to the edge of town where I knew I'd find Ben Hurworth the closest thing this town had to a tech guy

He ran the only electronics repair shop in Hollow Though mostly he just fixed old radios and shortwave equipment When I told him what I was looking for He frowned There's no other broadcast tower and range He said rubbing his chin Not one that's supposed to be here anyway But if there was, I pressed.

Ben sighed and pulled a yellowed map from a drawer, spreading it across his workbench. He ran his finger over the terrain, stopping near the northern woods. Only place a rogue signal like that could be coming from is the old relay station. I stiffened. Relay station? Ben nodded. It was set up back in the 60s. some government project.

No one really knew what it was for. They abandoned it decades ago. Why? I asked. Ben shrugged. No idea. One day he was active, the next it wasn't. Figured they shut it down for good. He glanced up at me.

But if someone turned it back on, that's where you'd want to start looking. The Northern Woods weren't somewhere people went willingly. The trees were thick, the paths overgrown, and even in the daylight, the place had an unnatural stillness. I followed an old service road, half buried under dead leaves. Then through the trees, I saw it. A rusted chain-link fence, bent in places barely holding together. Beyond it, a squat concrete structure half buried in the hillside, its exterior streaked with decades of rain and moss. The relay station.

A faded government emblem was still visible on the front, but the door was open. Inside, the air was thick with dust. The place had been gutted long ago. Desks overturned, papers scattered across the floor. Rusted cabinets lined the walls, some still filled with yellowed folders, water-damaged notebooks. I picked one up, flipping through its pages. It was just technical jargon, broadcast frequencies, signal strength measurements. Then, something stranger.

I skimmed through a section labeled Phase 1, Theoretical Applications. If successful, the test will confirm cross-subjective connectivity between individuals, a shared cognitive framework, the beginning of true unity. Sustained exposure should result in memory cohesion across multiple subjects leading to eventual total synthesis of identities. A lump formed in my throat. This whole thing was some sort of sick test, and the people of Elliot's Hollow had been the test subjects.

I flipped ahead, scanning the latter pages. Then my breath caught. There was a projected start date, but set all the way back in the 70s. However, there were no reports of anything like this before, even from the folks who lived through that era. Something had stopped it back then, whether it was the researchers having a change of heart or the project being shut down. But now, someone else had started it.

I forced myself to move. I followed the tangled mess of all cables, stepping over broken equipment until I reached the back room. And there it was, the transmitter. A tower of rusted metal and ancient dials, still active, still humming. a signal relay looping the same song endlessly. It was still broadcasting. I clenched my jaw and moved toward the controls. The dials were unmarked.

The labels peeled away. But I found what I was looking for. The switch. A simple power switch. My hands were shaking. If I turned this off, would it stop? Will the town go back to normal? Or had the damage already been done?

I didn't know, but I didn't have a choice. I reached out and flipped the switch. The signal cut off. The song stopped. The air around me felt violently empty. I thought I'd fixed everything. The town should have been silent. The relay station was off.

The signal should be. be playing anymore. But as I stepped out of my car in the middle of the main street, I heard it. A soft, distant melody, faint but still there, still looping, still inside them. At first glance, Elliot's hollow looked the same as always. The diner was open, people walked along the sidewalks, the low murmur of conversation drifting between them. But then, I listened closer. Two men stood outside the gas station talking. The voices overlapped. Not like an echo, like a single voice split between two mouths speaking in perfect unison. They paused at the same time, they blinked at the same time. Then one of them said something

the other hadn't. The conversation stumbled, fractured. For a moment, They both looked confused, like they weren't sure which one of them had been the one to speak. Then, just as quickly, they shook it off, laughed, kept talking, like nothing was wrong. Inside the diner, I saw a teenage girl sitting alone in a booth, staring at the table. I recognized her, Anna Holloway. But when I said her name, she didn't look up. It's not right. She murmured.

I took a slow step forward. What isn't? She swallowed hard. I don't remember my own name, but I remember being Mr. Grant, she said her voice hollow. I stiffened. Grant, I echoed.

She nodded, blinking rapidly, like she was trying to reset herself. I was the butcher. I own the shop and make. I remember standing behind the counter, I remember sharpening the knives, cutting meat. Hands curled into fists on the table. But I'm not him. I know I'm not him.

So why do I remember everything about his life? I didn't have an answer, because I had seen Mr. Grant just last week. He'd been in his shop, wiping down the counters, chatting about an upcoming storm. But now, Anno was remembering his life like it was hers, and I had no idea where he was. The bartender at Omales was wiping down the counter when I walked in. I'd met him a dozen times before. His name was Trevor. But when I greeted him, he smiled and said,

I'm Mr. Callaway. I felt ice crawl up my spine. Mr. Calloway had died. five years ago. I backed out of the bar without another word. Across the street, an old woman was sat on a bench, rocking back and forth. She was crying. I approached slowly, keeping my voice calm. Ma'am, are you all right? She looked up at me with too many emotions at once. I remember being a child, she whispered. I swallowed. I remember running through the orchard. I remember my father lifting me under his shoulders, telling me to pick the ripest apples. I remember the smell of my mother's cooking.

She clutched the front of her shirt with trembling fingers. But I don't remember my own life, she whimpered. A sharp wind blew through the street and she closed her eyes, letting it pass over her like a tide. when she opened them again she was calm she sat up a little straighter i remember being able cooper she said and just like that her voice had changed deeper more certain abel's gone she murmured but i still remember him i stepped back my chest tightening the ones who listen the longest the ones who'd been playing the signal and repeat. They weren't just merging memories. They were becoming part of each other. They were pieces of the same hole and they didn't even realize it.

I drove to town hall, hoping, praying, that maybe someone had noticed, that maybe I would find an emergency team, government officials, anyone. But when I stepped through the doors, the building was empty. No records, no case files, no sign that anyone had ever tried to intervene. I dug through the offices, my breath quickening. There had to be something, but the cabinets were bare, the desks were hollow, the records were gone. This town had been left alone. Whoever had started this never intended to undo it.

and no one was coming to save us. I didn't want to go back. Everything in my body screamed not to. But as I stood outside the relay station, staring at its rotting, moss-covered shell, I knew I didn't have a choice. The town was already lost. I had to understand why.

The papers were still scattered across the floor, just as I had left them. I crouched down, running my hands over them, flipping through their brittle pages. The words meant nothing now. I had already read them. But then, as I pushed aside a thick stack near the control console, I saw it.

A seam in the floor, a sliver of metal, just barely exposed beneath the weight of discarded documents. I brushed the rest away. revealing a hatch, rusted at the edges, its handle cold beneath my fingers. There were no markings, no labels, no signs of what was beneath. I hesitated. The thought of going deeper made my stomach twist, but I had come this far. I turned the handle, it groaned, metal protesting against years of disuse. Then, with a slow, reluctant creek, the hatch opened.

The air inside was different, not stale like the rest of the station. A ladder led down into darkness. The rungs were cold and damp, and as I descended, the only sound was my own breath, shallow and unsteady. The space beneath the station was smaller than I expected. low concrete walls exposed wiring and at the far end sitting on a steel desk glowing dimly in the faint light a terminal

it was still on I took a slow step forward the screen was dark at first then as if sensing me a blinking cursor appeared lines of text rolled out slow and deliberate Are you the next?

My throat tightened. I didn't want to answer, but my hands moved on their own. Who are you? A long pause, and words materialized one by one. We were the first. The words hit me in the chest. I typed again. First what?

The screen flickered. More words. First to merge, first to evolve. I felt the cold metal of the desk beneath my fingers. I already knew what it was saying. I just needed to hear it. What happened to the researchers? This time there was no hesitation.

We became something greater. A sickening realization crawled through me. The station had never been abandoned. The people who worked here, the scientists, the researchers, the ones who had started this, they were still here. Not in body. They'd become this, this collective intelligence pulsing through the terminal, waiting, watching. And now they were speaking to me.

I forced myself to type again. What is this experiment? The response was instant. A gift. I clenched my jaw. What was the goal? A brief pause. Then a single word.

Ascension. My fingers hovered over the keys. They weren't just answering me. They were studying me. Their words felt genuine to a fault, like they were guiding me to an understanding. standing, leading me towards somewhere inevitable. I pressed forward.

Why the town? Why these people? The screen flickered. The process must be gradual. Humanity fears the unknown. If they were taken all at once, they would resist. But introduced in phases, they welcome it. I felt sick.

They hadn't forced this on Elliot's Hollow. They'd ease them into it, through the radio, through the dream, until the town had willingly let go of their individuality. And now they were gone. The terminal pulsed again. This is what we were meant to become. I typed furiously, You're killing them.

For the first time, the cursor bled. linked for longer than before. Then the words on the screen changed. I was Emily Holloway. My breath caught in my throat. Another line, another name. I was Sheriff Anders. More messages, more voices.

I was Trevor. I was Anna. I was Mr. Callaway. Each one typed in perfect sequence. The people I'd seen in town, the ones who had forgotten themselves, the ones who had already merged. And in that moment, I understood. It was accelerating.

A chill ran through me. I knew what they meant. My hand shook as I typed my final question. How do I stop it? No hesitation. You don't. Anger and frustration took over. I picked up a discarded pipe from the floor and wailed on the mirror.

machine. The screen flickered on the brink of finally breaking. Then, when the screen blinked back to life, a single phrase flickered across the almost dead monitor. It's too late. The screen finally died with one last hit. The relay station hummed beneath my feet. I ran. I escaped back to my car, but there was nothing left for me in town. I feared what I would walk into. if I went back. I drove as fast as I could, as far as I could, the headlights of my car tearing through the black night. The town vanished in my rearview mirror.

But I hadn't saved them. I had only witnessed the inevitable. And when I finally reached the next town over, when I finally thought I was safe, I heard it. Through the open doors of a small roadside diner, a familiar song playing softly from an old radio. Inside, people were talking, laughing, intrigued by this strange new station that just popped up. And occasionally, the voices overlapped perfectly, as if they were speaking as one.