CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "There's a labyrinth in the middle of the world" Creepypasta

Episode Date: October 22, 2021

AUTHOR'S SUBREDDIT► https://www.reddit.com/r/ManiacSociet...CREEPYPASTA STORY►by TheCrookedBoy: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm...Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►Todd Ulrich: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/EV...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

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combe. for $2,000. Would you eat a jar of spiders, walk naked through Times Square, shave your eyebrows? Would you be buried in a coffin in America's most haunted graveyard? That was exactly what they were offering. Two grand for a night spent six feet under. It wasn't in the name of scientific exploration, in case you were wondering. It was for one of those ghost hunting shows, the ones where the only ghosts they find are.

Well, none. because ghosts don't exist. Anyway, they wanted independent, unaffiliated civilians to prove the Westmont Cemetery was a place of supernatural interest. How, you ask? By burying three people alive in different parts of the cemetery for one night. We would have oxygen tubes, water, and not a whole lot else. I guess they figured by burying us, we might see ghoulish apparitions.

Who knows? Who cares? I didn't, so I volunteered. Why the hell not? When I hit the cemetery at nightfall, the producers had me sign away my life. It was one of those liability waivers, indoor trampoline places make you John Hancock in case a kid lands funny and snaps their neck. That was fine by me.

I would have signed a letter of endorsement to my public official, saying I believed afterbirth smoothies should be mandated for man, woman and child if it meant I got any money at all. Was I nervous? Well, no. Yes, but not really. It was all rather goth. The kind of stuff's 16-year-old me, drenched in black clothes, smoking clothes and listening to skinny puppy would have relished.

The cemetery was creepy enough. Westmont, the sprawl of dead and buried, and made our town famous. It was totally overgrown, a patchwork of gravestones whose epitaphs had been scrubbed away by time, of thick vines snarling up the rusted wrought iron gates of approximately 600 gallons of fog rolling in half the woods. It certainly looked haunted, but so did plenty of places. The small army of cameramen, lighting apparatuses and BAs made it all a little less creepy, as did the host of the show.

A semi-celebrity with a penchant for being obstreperous whose goofy, over-the-top enthusiasm would have made the overlook hotel seem like a motel six. So, all in all, it tasted like a pretty good deal to me. Until I saw the coffin. I'm not sure what I had been expecting. It was a coffin after all. I guess I'd just been hoping for something a smidge bigger. It was narrow, claustrophobic, fitted with night vision cameras and microphones,

like strange plastic warts on its wooden skin. I shivered, suddenly unnerved at the thought of being buried among the rotting dead. It would only be a little. overnight, but Christ, what was I thinking? You ready? A producer asked me. Before I could lose my nerve, I nodded yes. I reclined in the coffin, which they kindly padded for comfort,

and watched the world disappear as the lid was lowered, locked, before a crane dropped me into the earth. My breath, cold and ragged, quickened as I heard the thunderous, clumpy buffeting of earth being unloaded atop my narrow prison. A while later, the noise stopped. And I was officially buried among the forgotten souls of Westmont. There had been a voice. There had definitely been a voice.

Okay, Lindsay, cool off. You're hearing things, that's all. I'd been buried for, who knows how long. A while, a long, dark while. It had been silent until it hadn't. There had been a whisper. I was certain of it. A low, muted syllable laced into the silence.

I tried to listen to the gallop of my heart. I couldn't hear anything. I swallowed dryly, squinted in the gloom. My eyes had adjusted, and I found I could decide for the coffin walls and... There was a face pressed up against mine, ghostly pale in the murky gloom. It was made of dead, wrinkled skin, torn back over a narrow, wolf-like skull. The flesh stretched smoothly over its eye sockets. Its thin, cracked lips drew back into a sneer,

revision teeth that were jagged and rotten, like broken toenails. Leaf! It held in a sharp, grating voice. I screamed, jumped, banged my head on the lip of the coffin, and fell back down with a startled cry. I fumbled out my cell phone, which I'd mercifully snuck in, saw I had no reception, and thumbed the flashlight. My hand was trembling as a narrow collar.

was doused in cold, white light. I saw. Nothing. I was alone. My mind was white with fear. I couldn't even begin to. I just needed to get out of here. Screw the $2,000.

I grabbed the walkie-talkie I'd been given. The one that producers told me not to use unless it was an emergency and keyed the button. Okay, damn, I sobbed. I'm not doing this. Just bring me up. The walkie squirt static. It was a dead wave, lifeless.

There was no one on the upside listening for me. Damn, damn, damn. There was a sound, a low hissing tucked into the gale of my frightened breath. I swallowed. My throat was dry, sandpaper. Was this a joke? Was it all part of the show? Not funny, guys, I spat at the camera.

I did not reply. Seriously, I want to... The hissing grew, grew, it seemed to be coming from. A river of Vance poured out of the clear oxygen tube, stamped to the ceiling. Hundreds, thousands of them flooded the coffin in a thick, disgusting stream. They were huge, each like a thumbtack. The body's warm and dreadful. They tunneled through my hair and up my nose, down my ears.

I screamed and did the only thing I could. I kicked. My feet impacted the narrow end of the coffin with a tree. dry crack and the wood flew away, like I'd just battering rammed a locked door. I writhed, pushed, wormed to my body towards a dark opening that now stood at my feet.

I felt my legs go through the portal, finding not compact earth, but empty air, some kind of cavity beneath the cemetery. I fell forward and found myself in. Where the hell was I? It didn't matter. I could still feel them crawling through my cracks and crevices,

With a gag of revulsion, I shook my limbs, hair, trying to dispatch myself of the ants, drenching me like a squirming suit. With a shudder, I leveled my light and looked around. So many things looked back. I started to scream, stopped, and adopted a puzzled expression as I came to realize that things looking back were all long dead. I was in a chamber wrapped in human skulls, one still ripe with rotting flesh. The low, earthy ceiling pressed down, roots snarred out like tentacles.

I swung my light around and caught a flash of metal. There was an elevator in the middle of the catacombs. This must be part of the show. A prank, something. It was a service elevator. One of those old ones made of latesse metal bars with an up and down lever. Through the back wall, I saw a vague, non-darkness that contrasted the deep black of the chamber. Jesus, I muttered, heart racing,

realizing this was all too much to be a part of any cheesy television program. I noticed I was still holding the walkie-talkie and absently stuffed it into my pocket. I gripped the elevator door and pulled. At first it wouldn't go. Then it gave with a sudden grinding squeal. The sound of metal fighting metal. I stepped inside and peered to the back wall. I was high up.

Higher than I possibly could have been, above some kind of biblical valley spread, one doused in moonless moonlight and completely filled out by a labyrinth, massive stone wall edge lines, curves and dead ends as far as the eye could see. What the hell? I had time to think, before the elevator dropped me, like a stone. I was instantly weightless, an astronaut about as far away from space as well as we were. one could get. There was a long, interminable blur of utter nausea where the elevator fell, and I fell with it. Screaming. Yes, screaming. Then, just as suddenly as it started, I came to a crashing stop, with the bang of a cannon going off. The floor drove through me, center mass,

drilling out all the air, leaving me breathless, drowning on dry land. I staggered to my knees and stuffed oxygen down my throat. I only to have it refused by my brutalized lungs. I gagged, suffocating, my chest dropped like someone was pounding it with a meat tenderizer. After a moment of raw panic, I was able to take meager sips of the fowl musty air that piped in from. The labyrinth. I could see the entrance just ahead, waiting for me like a mouth, a hungry, gaping mouth. Rotten fog drifted over it, distant cries echoed and bounced. What the hell is going on? It sat like that for a while. It is ringing, chest robbing, and breathed.

I had nowhere to go but in. I pried open the elevator doors and wandered out. My footfalls muffled by the mossy ground. Hello? I called, hating the way my voice decayed into nothing. I swallowed the lump in my throat and locked up. The night sky looked back. One devoid of stars and moon. But still glowing with faint celestial light.

Behind me, a massive canyon wall stretched up to the heavens, wittling off into a fine point that didn't seem to end. The tallest rock face in existence, splitting it into like a metal scar, was the elevator shaft that it carried me down. But the drop hadn't been more than a split second. How was that possible? That was the least of my concerns. Nothing was broken after all. And besides, where was I? I stepped up to the labyrinth's entrance and looked both ways.

A tall, fat wall of crumbling stones, the cracks widened by roots, weeds, creepers, stretches off both ways, winding down into nothing. The labyrinth ran like time. Endless, perpetual. I pulled a shaky longful of air, air that tasted ripe with corruption, and did the only thing I could think to do. I stepped into the maze. I heard the rattle of stones, felt the air shift around me and glance back to sea.

Nothing but wall. The entrance had sealed off, sealed me in. This was insane, a psycho fever dream. I was still in the coffin. I was still in... But I wasn't. I was in the maze, the one which filled out a valley so large it didn't end. Maybe I'm dead, I thought.

Maybe the oxygen tube malfunctioned and piped the coffin full of carbon monoxide instead of clean air. It was an oddly comforting idea, because a reality where things like this exist isn't a reality at all. It's a crazy, impossible lie. I pulled a deep breath and tried to get myself under control. Okay, you can do this. Holding out my phone like a crucifix and a wardenough gesture. I started forward. I got no more than fight.

feet before a wall of fog washed everything away. It swallowed me, devouring my world in pale mist. My flashlight was useless, utterly. Her face appeared in the fog, inches from mine. A woman's face, nude and grey without hair of any kind. Her eyes, milky and blind, reflected my own drawn expression as I leapt back with a scream. No, she hissed. Quiet, hushful, hush before I hear. You hear's you. Before I could react, her hands, which felt like nothing but bones beneath damp, leathery skin, found mine and dragged me along. I saw she wore tattered rags over a lanky, malnourished form. What are you? Silence, she muttered. Silence is the key. It hears you. Smells you, yes, but its ears. They hear all. I swallowed dryly, shuffling along through the fog as stone walls shifted by.

She pulled me down a long corridor, then another and another, before dragging me into a circular clearing, like a cul-de-de-sac in the belly of the labyrinth. At first I didn't realize what I was seeing. Pitch torches through guttering light over skinned rib cages, devoured limbs, and dead human things strung up by the flesh of their ankles. I saw a dozen pale people tearing flesh from bone with their teeth. They wore bibs of blood beneath eyes that were rabid, feral and completely blind. It slugged me through the stomach like a closed fist. These were cannibals. Something hard and blunt impacted my skull with a sickening crack.

And I collapsed into darkness. I awoke to screaming. High, strangled screaming. My head was pounding, slow and rhythmically, like someone was going at it with a big wooden mallet. I reached up, my fingers came away red. What? I started, before the world around me took shape.

And I saw the carnage. The pale people were dead, brutally slaughtered, torn apart, errant limbs decorated the clearing here and there. Viscuous black blood crawled across the ground. I saw a small knot of the living, the woman who had tricked me among them, carrying away from... From what? A moving shadow, one which flickered and writhed like it was cast by flame. It acted like a stuttering TV, lurching, pausing, and rambling onward as it tore through the remaining cannibals like a blender through meat.

Blood splashed, limbs flew, trailing gore like gruesome streamers. The pale one's severed head Hit the stone wall with a hollow knock Bounced, rolled And came to a rest at my feet A pale eyes blinking once Before going still All at once

I was alive I felt everything The dull throbbing ache tucked into the back of my mind A high tingling pain singing up from my knees As though someone had buried a live wire in my flesh I pushed to my feet Found unsteady footing

took a lurching, dizzying stride, before kicking off into a crazed life run that carried me out of the clearing, now drenched in hot blood. I didn't scream, I didn't cry out. I kept silent, the only sound being my feet pumping beneath me, my breath whipsawing through my lungs, my heart pounding in my ribcage. I ran and ran, and never once looked back. I recognised the girl who was chained to the rock. I'd run until I could run no more Until I could only lobe along in a tired jog My phone had died long ago

Forced me to navigate by the cold, watery light Which splashed down from the heavens Time was a flat circle There were no hours, days, months Merely a strange, dreamy shuffle forward Punctuated only by distant screams Cries in ghastly whales And then

I found her The girl from the cemetery another volunteer who had signed up to be buried. She was older now, hair stringy and laced with grey, face bracketed by deep wrinkles, a girl who had been no older than 22 when she walked into Westminster. And now she was... She came to life with a choked wheeze. Her eyes frightened and bleary, swept through me like I wasn't there.

They returned a moment later, settling on mine. You, she said, her voice like a crowsy. cracking glass from which more cracks spread. I know you. It's been long. She was fitted to a massive boulder at a dead end. Her wrists and ankles locked in rusted shackles that spayed her limbs in a human aches.

On the earthly ground beneath her was a rusty cleaver. Written on the blade in dried blood were two words. Map inside. Inside what? But I knew. Deep down, I knew. I looked at a horrible pang of realization clipping through my chest.

The map to escape was inside of her. I pulled a deep, trembling breath and picked up the cleaver. No, she pleaded, her cheeks flushing in fear. Please, don't please. I raised it. It felt good in my hands. It felt right. I saw the blade, which I thought to have been painted with rust,

was actually crusted in gore. Scraps of tissue clung to curdled blood. Little twist of hair hung off. I raised it as he sobbed, as a chest rose and fell, as he screamed at me not to. I raised it and swung it with all my might. The cleaver impacted. her wrist shackle with a sharp clang.

The metal split apart in a flash of sparks, releasing a right arm. I went to work on the others, and when she finally fell forward, free at last, the cleaver's blade was broken in two. Thank you, she was crying as she dragged herself to her feet. Thank you for... She suddenly stopped, her face twisting up while she'd gotten a bad oyster. She looked at me, eyes distant, skin pale, and said matter-of-factly, I don't feel so. Then she coughed, and a spray of hot blood flew from her mouth.

It misted my cheeks, eyes and mouth. I joked back with a cry of disgust and watched with mounting horror as her back snapped into a sharp arch, as her face knotted up in raw agony, as her throat began working spastically. She looked like she was in the throes of having a demon exercised. With a strangled cry, she threw her head back and vomited a geyser of blood. Then she collapsed, crumbled down like a puppet with cut strings, falling into a loose, lifeless pile of limbs. I stood there and watched red-foam bubble from her lips.

I tried to speak, but my voice wouldn't come. Are you okay? I whispered. It was a ridiculous question. She was dead as a doorknail, but it was all I could manage. As expected, she did not reply. I stared at her for a while. Eyes rolled back, face frozen, and a bloody death rictus,

as I tried to find the nerve to grip the cleaver. I couldn't bear the thought of, but at the same time I had to. Finally, I wet my lips, gripped the cleaver, and, moving like a woman in a dream, got to work. I crouched over her and dug the rusty shards into a pale belly. The flesh tore apart with a wet rip. Red stuff dribbled out.

I pulled back the skin like a medieval surgeon and saw her insides for nothing but a vaporized soup. Before I could lose my nerve, I plunged my hands in. My fingers fell through warm goo, finding nothing but deconstructed anatomy. me. I rooted around in the hot stew, paused the vomit, resumed, and dug like that, the world's most gruesome prospector, until my hands found something hard and square. I withdrew it, the taste of bile still hot in my mouth, and found myself holding a stone tablet, one about the size of a paperback book. It drips sheet of blood and gore. With a grimace, I wiped a clean and held it up, squinting at his untouched surface.

Slowly before my eyes, lines resolved on his rough skin, etching the corridor in which I stood in real time. It was a map. There was a forest in the middle of the labyrinth. I followed the stone tablet, wondering in a hazy, dreamlike state, shuffling along blindly, my eyes never leaving the blood-drenched lifeline. It had eventually led me here to the heart of it all, a wide, sprawling wood tucked into the center of the maze.

I looked at the tablet. It showed an intricate tattoo of lines, swells, false hallways, and a white circle at the center of it all. I had reached the end of the labyrinth. It was a forest, a biblical, awful forest. I let the tablet fall to the ground and started off through the trees. I didn't care where they led me. I already come to terms of the fact that. that this, whatever this was, would be my tomb.

So, I walked. It was all I could do. One step after the next, after the next, after the next. The woods were densely packed, tied together by tangles of brush and the fog which flowed out of the shadows that wrapped the corners of my vision. I heard things, throaty mutters, faint whispers, and felt my neck crawl.

There were eyes watching me. I hurried my pace, jumping each time I snapped a dead branch or crunched through a bundle of rocking leaves. I stopped and looked around. How long had I been walking? Ten minutes, twenty, an hour? The forest pulled away from me, falling off into an inky ocean of shadow. I desperately wish for a flashlight or... There was a sudden roar, a deep bellow of some unholy beast.

It seemed to shake the woods to crack them. in half. I felt my knees buckle and heard. Hoves, thundering through the darkness, getting closer, louder, the tremendous tattoo of something big, something dreadful, something... I was blown off my feet as a freight train ran through me sent to mass. The air was driven out of me, sledge-hammered from my lungs with a hot whoosh. Then I was flying, weightless. The world somersaulted and I saw a friend. flash of brown fur, curved horns, two burning red eyes, eyes without intelligence of any kind. And then the ground flew into me, and I saw no more. I was being dragged and everything hurt.

Something was broken, something was badly broken. The woods watched me with indifference, watched as the ten-foot beast, the one wrought in muscle and fur, his clove and hoofs pounding forward, pulled me off towards its lair. The minotaur's lair. I could see it just ahead. A wide, gaping caves set into the forest floor. A mouth, a huge, hungry mouth, decorated in carcasses. The smell of rot, of things long dead slapped me in the face.

It was a thick wall of reek that made my stomach roil. It wasn't the creature or the thought of impending death that booted me into motion. It was that smell. that awful warm smell. It tunneled into my lungs. It made me ache. I threw my body back and kicked for all I was worth. A burst of pain tore up my thighs as my feet impacted the thing with a fleshy crack.

It grunted its surprise and momentarily lost its grip on me. My feet fell, hit hard ground and sang with a sudden burst of agony. I cried and shoved back, soldiering through the pain, the white-hot pain that filled my chest like molten lava. The Minot turned, roared, the wood shaking with each footfall. Thick sprays of steam hissed from its nostrils as it slowly advanced. Its eyes red and dumb and full of hunger regarded me with cruel amusement. I felt around for something, anything.

A rock, a stick, a goddamn AK-47. I came up empty as it stomped, close and closer. Then I felt plastic. cold and hard, filling out one pocket. I tore out the bulky rectangle of black technology and looked at it for a moment, uncertain of what I was holding. I realized with a sudden jolt

that it was the walkie-talkie. Great, praise be, a useless hunger plastic to defeat a mythical beast. My finger spazened on the trigger and the walkie issued a high, frightened squawk, the sound of a parrot discovering a dead body. The Minotor reared back with a deep bellow, a distressed cry from the lungs of an ancient something. It was like a dog with a dog whistle, I realized, shoving the walkie at the beast, which fell back, thrashing his head in discomfort, as a high, tinny shriek issued from the device's speaker.

The Minotor fumbled. Blood ran from its eyes, from his bovine ears as it fell back, crumbling in on itself like tissue under flame. It was disintegrated, before my eyes. Then suddenly the whole world was evaporating like fog in the sun. The forest and the labyrinth crashed toward me. The heavens fell like an elevator with a broken cable. I screamed as the whole world folded in on itself as everything blipped toward me with the speed of light.

And just as I was to be crushed, atomized, disintegrated with a great vacuum of the end, the walls of the coffin, which I'd long forgotten crashed into place, and I was back where I was supposed to be. I heard voices, commotion, the sound of scraping. The coffin lid flew away and warm, blinding sunlight hammered in. The crew of the ghost hunting show stood above me. I looked at their smiles and started to scream.

Turns out the young woman, the one I'd seen in the labyrinth, had suffered an acute aneurysm while she was on the ground. She's in a coma as we speak. I think about it a lot. The labyrinth buried in my mind. The one I'm not sure exists. Had I dozed off? Maybe.

Maybe I dreamt it all. Maybe I dreamt the feeling of blood. Warm and greasy on my hands as I dug through insides for the map made of stone. Maybe I drank the Minotaur. I don't know. I don't know much of anything anymore. But I do know one thing. I feel it with every fibre of my being.

I know, without a doubt, the Westmont Cemetery is haunted. That I do know.