CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "There’s a Homeless Camp Beneath the Overpass. They Worship What’s in the Dirt" Creepypasta

Episode Date: April 19, 2025

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I've been homeless for a while now, long enough to know which places are safe and which ones aren't, and which ones will get you stabbed in your sleep. I move around a lot, keep to myself and never stay anywhere too long. That's how you survive. The city is full of tent cities, makeshift little neighborhoods of the forgotten and unlucky. Some are worse than others. You don't stay in the ones run by the guys with glassy eyes and twitchy fingers You don't set foot in the ones that stink of chemicals Urine and death

But every now and then you hear whispers about a place that's Different there's one under the overpass on the outskirts of town I heard about it a few weeks back No fights no cops no trouble Nobody knows why but people who stay there don't leave. They don't come back into the city looking for change. They just settle into that little tent city.

And that's it. Supposedly, they're all happy there. I wasn't planning on going. I don't like places I can't walk away from. But that night, I didn't have a choice. The rain came fast, thick and freezing. soaking me to the bone within minutes. I've been hanging around downtown, near one of the busiest streets,

keeping my head down and hoping for scraps when they came out of the bar. A group of them, loud, drunk, laughing. Those kinds of people don't take kindly to people like me. They started with insults. Hey, get a job, asshole, that kind of thing. I kept my head down and kept walking. Don't engage, don't make eye contact. It's a rule, but when you're the weakest thing on the street, there's always someone

looking to prove something. One of them shoved me from behind, hard. I hit the pavement, gravel dug into my hands. I could have stayed down. Maybe they'd have laughed and walked away. But I made the mistake of trying to get up. The first kick caught my ribs, the second my shoulder. The third, I don't even remember.

Everything blurred together. A boot, the taste of blood, the sound of rain hammering the street, drowning out my own ragged breath. Then a voice, enough, man, let's go. And just like that, it was over. They were gone, back to their warm bar and soft beds. their lives, and I was left in the street bleeding into the gutter, shivering like a dying dog. I pulled myself up, one arm wrapped around my ribs. I needed to find shelter.

The usual spots were taken. Under the bridge near Maine, the alcove behind the abandoned gas station, the empty warehouse that still had half a roof left. Even the beat-up places. the ones where the rats bite you in your sleep were full. That's when I remembered the tent city. I hesitated, rain pouring down on my face. Something about it felt wrong. But I was out of options.

My ribs ached with every step, and by the time I made it, I was lightheaded from the cold and the steady loss of blood. The first thing I noticed, was how neat it was. Tent cities aren't usually this organized. The messy, thrown together from whatever scraps people can find, tarps-tied defences, cardboard stacked into walls. This place wasn't like that. The tents were perfectly spaced, set up an even rows, all facing the same direction, like soldiers standing had attention. No signs of fights or scrawled out warnings on the ground.

I stood at the edge of the camp, unsure whether to step forward. I felt eyes on me, not unfriendly, just watching. Then a woman, thin, middle-aged, bundled in a ragged coat, stepped toward me, pulling something from her sleeve. She pressed a dirty, dry cloth into my hand. For the bleeding, she muttered, then walked away before I could thank her. A man followed, silent as a shadow. He handed me a bottle of water, gave me a single slow nod, then turned and disappeared into his tent.

No one asked me who I was. No one asked what happened to me. They just helped. I sat down near the entrance of an unclaimed tent, pressing the close. cloth against my split lip. The pain was dull now, a steady throb beneath my bruised ribs. I tipped the water bottle against my mouth and drank half of it in one go, my body grateful for something clean. Rough night, I turned my head. A man in his mid-forties was sitting on the ground a few feet away, watching me. He had a half-smoked cigarette in one hand, rolling it

between his fingers. I hesitated before answering. I wasn't used to people talking to me. You could say that, I muttered. He nodded, took a drag, exhaled slow. Yeah, same here. Read. That was his name.

I learned it a few minutes later, after he scooted a little closer, and offered me half of a protein bar. he'd scavenged earlier. I took it. We sat there, chung in silence for a bit, just listening to the rain pattering against the tents. We were both new here, both sizing up the place.

Where are you from? He asked eventually. I swallowed a bite, white to my mouth. Nowhere that matters. Reed gave a dry chuckle. Yeah, that sounds about right. I didn't push him for details, but he told me anyway. Medical debt.

That's what did him in. He had a wife, a daughter. Then his wife got sick. The bills piled up. He took out loans, maxed out credit cards, tried everything. She still died. And the debt didn't die with her. His daughter was better off without him, he said.

Staying with family, he hadn't seen her in years. I told him a little about myself, but not much, just that I ran from a bad situation. No family, no real ties, just surviving. Neither of us felt sorry for the other. That's not how it works out here. We just got it. We lapsed into silence, watching the people around us move between the tents. The people here are weird, huh?

Reed muttered. I nodded. Yeah, real weird. The rain finally let up sometime after midnight, leaving the camp eerily quiet. The only sounds were the occasional shuffle of feet and the distant hum of the city. Reed and I sat near our tents, watching the camp move in its strange, silent rhythm. It wasn't just their behavior that uncertain. settled me. It was the way

they navigated around the centre of camp, avoiding it without looking like they were avoiding it. I looked at the centre of the camp. At first glance, it looked like any other patch of ground. Dark, packed earth,

damped from the rain. But the longer I stared, the more I realised something was off. The soil was loose, uneven in a way, that's suggested it had been recently disturbed. No weeds, no scattered trash, nothing settled into it. I nudged Reed with my elbow and nodded toward it. You notice that? He squinted at the dirt,

brow-forring. Like, I don't know, like something that was put there or taken out. A quiet rustling made me glance up. An older woman stood a few feet away, just watching us. Well, I thought she was watching us, but it turns out she was looking at Reed. She didn't say anything. Then, as if deciding we weren't worth the effort, she turned and walked away. Neither of us spoke for a long time, but I knew Reed felt it too. Her behaviour was the way. Her behaviour was the way. She turned and walked away. Neither of us spoke for a long time. the clear sign of an unspoken warning. I woke to the sound of movement. The camp was in full motion. Shapes emerged from tents, figures stepping into the cold, heads bowed. They moved with purpose but without urgency. Reed stirred beside me, sitting up and rubbing his face.

His breath was visible in the cold air. The hell is this, he muttered. I didn't have an answer. People were gathered around the fire pit in the center of camp, the same spot we'd been staring at earlier. The flames flickered weakly, barely alive, but no one made a move to stoke them. They simply knelt, their bodies angled toward the smouldering embers, hands resting in their laps. Reed gave me a look. What do we do? He whispered. But if we left now, they'd notice. We were the only one still sitting near the tents.

If this was some kind of tradition, we should at least try to fit in. I don't know, man, I whispered back, but I'm not about to be the only one sitting this out. Reed exhaled through his nose, clearly frustrated. But after a moment, he followed my lead. We shuffled closer and knelt with the rest of them, lowering our heads, doing our best to blend in. Then, the muttering started. At first, I thought it was the wind, a low vibration rolling through the air. But as it grew, I realized it wasn't coming from above.

It was coming from the people. A low, rhythmic humming pulsed from their throats. Just a single, deep note stretched out for long, breathless moments before shifting into another. I didn't understand it, but I could feel it. The sound buzzed in my chest, unsettling in a way I couldn't explain. Reed and I exchanged glances. Neither of us spoke, but I could see the question in his eyes. I did the only thing that made sense to me at the time.

I opened my mouth and mimicked the sound. The fire pit shuddered. I thought it was my eyes playing tricks on me, the glow of the dying embers warping the ground. But then the dirt moved. It sank. A deep, wet-grown rolled from beneath the soil, like the earth itself was exhaling. The pit caved inward, not suddenly, but slowly, collapsing in on itself like something deep below was pulling it down.

Reed stiffened beside me, his breath going shallow. I didn't dare move. Then something broke the surface. Bloated, wet and shuddering. The thing pushed itself free from the sinking dirt. Its surface was slick and glistening, but patches of dark, wiry hair or fur clung to it in irregular clusters, sprouting like weeds from raw, ruptured skin. Beneath it, veins bulged and throbbed, pulsing in a low, sick way.

As it expanded and pulsed, the smell radiating from it made its way to us. It was overwhelming, a putrid wave that clawed its way up my throat. I gagged. Reed's body jugged beside me. He covered his mouth, his eyes wide and horrified. The thing quivered, then split like meat being pulled apart by invisible hands. inside. Something moved. The shape within was rising, twisting against the tight, fleshy walls, trying to push free. A slick tangle slithered out, glistening in the firelight,

dripping with some thick, amber-colored fluid. Then another, then another. My breath caught in my throat. My body locked up, every muscle screaming at me to move. to run, to tear my way out of this nightmare. The thing in the pit continued to unfold itself, slick tendrils sliding out, curling in the air like they were testing it. The stench was unbearable, heavy and rotten. My vision blurred as nausea hit, bile rising in my throat. I stumbled back, hands digging into the dirt. My legs felt like layers. But I pushed myself up, heart-hammering. A hand clamped around my fist.

I turned, and there she was. The old woman, the one who had been watching Reed earlier. Her eyes were cloudy, but there was no blindness in them. Stay, she murmured, her fingers tightened around my wrist. It only takes one. A shiver shot through me, my stomach twisting into knots. Everyone was looking at Reed. I lost my breath.

I turned my head just enough to see him still kneeling. He saw it too. All those eyes locked onto him. His lips parted slightly. Wait. Confusion flickered across his face. then fear. Reed scrambled back on his hands.

His eyes darted between the people kneeling around their pit. The face is unreadable, not participating. The thing in the ground pulsed again. It's mass shifting and stretching. Wait, wait, what the hell is this? I just got here. Reed stammered, voice cracking under the weight of sheer panic. His hands were raised, shaking, as if to show them he wasn't a threat, as if that mattered.

His gaze locked onto mine, desperation in his wide, bloodshot eyes, silently begging me to do something, say something, stop this. I couldn't. The moment stretched, silent except for the soft, wet noises coming from the pit. Then, with terrifying, speed, the tendrils lashed forward. Two large, burly men stood up and made their presence known. Reed tried running, but they caught him. I watched as they dragged him toward the creature and pinned him down right next to it. The tendril punched through his shoulder, sinking deep

with a sound that was both a rip and a squelch, like wet fabric being torn apart. Reed screamed, body jerking violently as the muscle around the wound convulsed, trying to force the thing out. But it was already burrowing deeper. His legs kicked against the dirt, twisting, his free hand clawing at the tendril embedded in him, trying to pry it loose. The second one, wrapped around his throat. The moment it tightened, his scream cut off, replaced. by a grotesque, bubbling wheeze. His hands clawed at the slick, pulsing coil, strangling him.

His nails dragging across its surface, but finding no grip, nothing to hold onto. The thing lifted him slightly off the ground, his feet scraping against the dirt, his body shuddering like his brain was firing off every last desperate command to escape. the tendrils just kept pulling. He dragged him forward into itself. His clothes stuck to its wet, pulsing mass the second he made contact, as if something beneath the surface had latched onto him. He tried to kick off, tried to push away, but the creature's flesh was sticky,

sucking him in, pressing against him with a crushing force that made his ribs grown under the pressure. His lips peeled back, bearing his teeth in an agonized grimace. As he felt it starting to take him, he was being absorbed. His skin started to pull, to stretch, to sink into the folds of the thing's body. It didn't eat him, didn't consume him the way an animal would devour prey. Instead, the flesh of the thing in the fire pit parted. and pulled around him, pressing in on all sides, smothering him in a thick, pulsing mass. His body began to fold, not in the way a person collapses, but like those animations people made of what it would look like being pulled into a black hole.

His back arching unnaturally, his ribs cracking apart, his joints popping one after the other as his limbs twisted at horrific angles. eyes were still moving, his mouth was still open, his body was breaking apart. But he was still there. The smell changed. The acreage stench of rock grew thicker, but there was something else underneath it now, something worse. It was the unmistakable, gut-wrenching stench of meat cooking from the inside out. Something inside the thing was heating him. boiling him alive beneath its bloated surface. Reed started making a noise, a bubbling sound, thick and wet, rising from deep inside his chest,

like his lungs were filling with liquid. His head jerked forward as if he was trying to cough. But instead of air, a thick stream of ambered-colored fluid dribbled past his lips. His lips moved, but no words came out. out, just more of that wet, bubbling sound. And then, with a final sickening crack, his head tilted all the way back. His face disappeared beneath the thing's pulsing flesh. And Reed was gone.

The thing retreated back into the ground, and people started making their way back to their tents. The woman from earlier approached me. This time she showed proper emotion. She apologized, but said that now, I had no choice. I could never leave again. But the camp would take care of me. The next morning, the camp was unchanged.

The sun rose over the overpass, washing everything in dull grey light. People moved about their routines, stretching stiff limbs, adjusting their tents, heating scraps of food over makeshift stoves. A few murmured quietly, but the voices were flat, absent of emotion. No one spoke of reed. His tent was gone, his belongings were missing. His spot by the fire pit where we had talked was just bare ground. There was no sign he had ever existed. The fire bit itself sat cold and undisturbed.

The ashes from the night before were still there, untouched. The earth with a monster had surfaced, where Reed had been pulled in, crushed, folded into something unrecognizable. It was now smooth, packed tight. I sat by my tent, staring at it. I barely slept. Maybe an hour, maybe less. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it. Reed's body twisting, his mouth open, bubbling sounds rising from deep inside his chest,

the way his bones had cracked, how his body had been swallowed whole. I pressed my knuckles to my mouth, swallowing back nausea. The stench of burned flesh and wet decay still clung to my senses. I could smell it, taste it like it had embedded itself inside me. That night I lay awake, staring at the fire pit. Memories looted over and over in my mind. Reed's face, his voice, his screams. My hands clenched, nails dug into my palms.

I needed to do something. But if I tried now, they'd stop me. I stayed, not because I believed in it, but I needed to stay long enough to figure out how to escape this place, long enough to understand what I was up against, to learn their patterns, to see if they were vulnerable. So I watched, I listened. I learned their rituals, their quiet way of moving, their unspoken rules. When they knelt at the fire pit, I knelt too.

When they hummed their strange rhythmic tones, I mimicked them, forcing my voice into the same lifeless melody. At first, my presence was tolerated, a stray dog lingering where it didn't belong. But the longer I stayed, the more they accepted me. And soon, I found myself inside the inner circle. They gave me tasks, starting small. I was assigned to collect supplies, ration out water, mend the fragile structure of the camp. They watched how I followed orders without question. I never hesitated when something was asked of me.

I let them believe I was sinking into it, that I was dissolving into the same mindless devotion they all carried. So to them, I was no longer a risk. The older ones began to notice. I caught them watching, murmuring in approval, when I followed orders without question. A few of them even started speaking to me. Not much, but enough. I started speaking with the elders, the ones who had been here the longest. They spoke of time as though it had no meaning, as if this place had always been here.

One of them told me that the city above was young, that the steel and concrete were just a thin layer of something much older. The land beneath had existed long before men had carved roads into it, long before they built towers of glass and metal and pretended they were in control. The thing beneath the dirt was older than all of it. They didn't call it a god. They didn't even have a name for it. The part we saw in the pit was only a fragment, a piece of something buried deep, something stretched out beneath the land. Its body sprawled like a great root system. What we fed it was enough to keep it satisfied here.

But there were other places like this across the world doing the same things we did. I was given roles in the ceremonies. First, as an observer, standing at the edge of the fire pit as they conducted their nightly rituals. Then I was made an assistant. I played my role well. I helped choose the sacrifices, walking the camp in the days before a ritual, feeling the weight of their silent gazes as I picked the ones who would not wake up in their beds the next morning. Sometimes they knew. Sometimes I could see it in the way they carried themselves, the way their hands trembled when they reached for their food, the way their shoulders hunched inward like they were trying to disappear.

It didn't matter. No one ran. They all went to the pit the same way. I try my best not to be the one that would drag the victims out to the pit. But sometimes that duty was handed to me. I gathered what I needed in pieces, spread out over months. A sturdy can, old and thick, something that would shatter in sharp pieces. Scraps of metal, jagged and sharp, meant to tear through flesh, scavenge chemicals.

A makeshift grenade, crude but functional. It wasn't perfect, but it would do the job. That night, a woman had been chosen. I'd seen it in her before they even told me the small shift in her breathing, the way her hands barely touched her food, the vacant focus in her eyes. She knew. She was lucky that way. She reminded me of Reed. Not in the way she looked. Reed had been hard-edged, years of suffering chiseled into his face, while she was younger, softer, like she had once been. belonged somewhere else. But it was in her eyes, the way she stared through me, past me. She didn't fight. No one ever fought. When I volunteered to be the one to take her to the pit, no one questioned it. I had been here too long for them to doubt me now. I had done my part,

played my role, led enough people into the pit without hesitation. I had stood down. beside them in the dark, humming their song, feeding the thing beneath us. They trusted me completely. She breathed, shallow and steady, as I took her arm in my hand. Her skin was warm, pulse light and steady beneath my fingers. She didn't pull away. She walked where I led her, quiet and obedient, just like the others before her. The camp gathered around us.

We walked through them, through the ones I'd knelt beside, the ones who had stood with me as the fire burned low, the ones who had whispered the old stories into my ears. My breath felt thick in my chest. The weight of the grenade in my pocket was heavy, burning against my skin. My heartbeat thudded in my skull. This was it. There was no backing out now. My fingers wrapped around the fuse. Up close, the thing in the pit was worse than I'd ever let myself see.

There were mouths or things that almost resembled them gaping. Slashed open gorges lined with pulsing ridges of flesh, but no teeth, just folds of wet, sucking muscle, layered over one another like the gills of rotting fish. They twitched, flaring open, and his eyes, if they were eyes, were scattered unevenly across its surface, shifting slightly as they swayed, never focusing, but always aware. With one violent shove, I threw the woman aside. Gasp's rippled through the crowd, a sharp inhale that cut through the heavy quiet of the night. She hit the ground hard, rolling to her side. Her face twisted in confusion,

but I was already reaching into my pocket, yanking out the grenade. My fingers tightening around my lighter. The pit reacted instantly. The ground pulled apart like splitting skin. A thick, wet noise rolled from the darkness beneath as the creature reared up, sensing something was wrong. The thing in the pit was. wasn't mindless.

The tendrils lashed forward, fast as striking vipers. I lit the fuse, my breath ragged, sweat rolling down my back. I was too slow. I knew it in the same moment I saw them come in for me. There was only one way to make sure this worked. I lunged forward and thrust my arm, my entire arm, into the largest of its gaping mouth. mouth, grenade still clenched to my fist. The second I made contact, it latched onto me.

The flesh around the mouth sucked inward, a suffocating muscle-bound vice wrapping around my arm, locking it in place. It burned, not like fire, but like something alive was crawling into my skin, burrowing, spreading. I felt it move inside me. Vane surged outward from where it held me, black tingeals creeping beneath my skin, forcing the way up my forearm, burrowing into the spaces between muscle and bone. I screamed as it pulled harder, yanking me toward its body, trying to make me whole. My fingers locked around the grenade.

My bones started to bend. popped, my elbow snapped backward, my wrist buckled under the impossible pressure. The pain was all-consuming, a raw, electric agony that tore through every nerve. I lost a part of my vision, my body convulsed, my legs nearly gave out beneath me. It was trying to crush me into something small enough to fit inside. Then, the grenade exploded. A shockwave ripped through my body, sending blinding heat up my arm. Or what was left of it. Tearing through flesh and muscle, shattering bone in an instant.

The force tore me away, sent me hurtling backward, crashing into the dirt, my body skidding across the ground. The creature shrieked. Not in sound, not in anything I could hear with my ears. But inside my skull. A raw whale that shattered my thoughts, a wordless, agonized scream that was neither human nor animal, nor anything that should have existed in this world. I couldn't breathe, but I felt it dying. The pit convulsed, buckling inward, flesh rupturing, splitting open, spraying thick black

fluid in every direction. The mouths gaped wide, sucking at the air, trying to cut. cling to life, trying to pull something, anything into itself to stop what was happening. It was collapsing. The earth cracked beneath it, the pit caving in, the body deteriorating, turning to something wet and broken and undone. I tried to move, but I couldn't. Everything went black.

The world came back. in pieces. A steady, rhythmic beep, the distant murmur of voices, white light pressing against the backs of my eyelids. The sterile weight of blankets tucked around my body, pinning me down, holding me in place. The unmistakable smell of antiseptic. I was alive. I tried to move, but my body refused. My limbs felt heavy. A deep, dull ache pulsed. A deep, dull ache, pulsed. through my side, my chest, my skull, radiating outward. My throat was raw, my ribs tight, like they had been wrapped in iron. I turned my head, and that's when I felt it, or rather didn't. My right arm was gone. I couldn't see it, couldn't feel it, but the pain was still

there. A deep, phantom weight, like something was still holding onto it, still digging into my bones, still trying to pull me back down. The sensation crawled up my shoulder, a hollow twisting emptiness, nerves firing into nothing, reaching for a limb that no longer existed. My left eye wasn't there either. I lifted my remaining hand, fingers trembling, and felt the rough edges of a thick bandage. covering half my face. Underneath, my skin pulsed, tender, stitched, swollen. The socket was empty. The room was silent, except for the beeping of machines, the sound of fabric rustling as I tried to shift my weight.

I could hear footsteps outside the door, voices too low to make out. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughed. Normal life, the world continuing. I should have felt relieved. I should have felt something. Instead, I just felt tired. I let my head sink back into the pillow. Nurses pass by the door, their voices drifting through the half-open gap.

I forced myself to listen, let their words seep in. They said it was an accident, a fire, some kind of explosion. Out by the overpass? Yeah, no one found anybody's, no traces of anyone living there, just a... A pause. Just a hole. My fingers curled into the sheets. The tent city was gone.

The people, the elders, the silent faithful, vanished without a trace. A slow exhale left my lungs, long and steady. I let my eye drift shut, exhaustion pressing me deeper into the mattress, pulling me under. For now, it was over in our part of the world. But if it wasn't, someone else will have to stop it.