CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "We Broke the Seal on the Old War Tunnel. We Found What Was Left Behind" Creepypasta

Episode Date: May 31, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by goosejpg:   / skinned-ones-130201621  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 web" ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher, and...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creepypasta  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only

I don't usually get sent to jobs with anybody, which suits me. People are alright, but I'm not built for chat. I'm terrible at eye contact, and I always miss the punchlines. Apparently, I've got the social instincts of a damp traffic cone. Still, I like what I like, and that's all the boring wartime stuff no one under 60 gives a toss about. But I've learned not to bring that up unless someone very bored, very polite, or already halfway through a scotch egg, so they can't tell me to shut up.

Anyway, the job was a disused tunnel flagged under the Southcut clearance survey. No one had set foot in there since 1944, and when something's been sealed that long, you've no idea what you're walking into. So, they sent me with Dan. He was in his early twenties, one of those blokes. never without his air pods, a vape, and a running commentary on UFC fights. It's not my usual preference, but I've survived worse. I once did a week on the Carl R line with a bloke who thought Dunkirk was in Germany.

Our job was the log debris, test the clearances, and ensure the place wouldn't shear a wagon in half, ready to open up for public use in the summer. It looked promising. they'd green light a proper team. If not, they'd break it up and pretend it never happened. Our boots hit the ballast just past 5 a.m., geared up in our safety gear, filtered respirators, tool bags, and radios. The tunnel entrance was locked up with heavy-gauge chain-link fencing, two layers deep, backed by timber boards and a padlock the size of your fist.

It looked like someone had gone on. it with bolt cutters and it had been clumsily patched up. Above it, the original cast iron arch loomed, rusted and stamped with a wartime engineering mark. You'd miss it unless you knew what you were looking for. Once we cracked the fencing and slipped inside, we clicked on our torches, both beams cutting lines through the misty black. The air hit us once we got far enough in.

Even with a respirator, it felt like licking the inside of an old kettle. Every step stirred up dust. Dan glanced around and muttered. Bit grim in here. Yeah, can't imagine coming in here without respirators. Have you ever heard of the crossline? I asked. Dan shook his head. Is that like a brand?

Nah, that's the name of the line this tunnel was part of. They used it to move supplies between coastal depots and the RAF sites, mostly crates, fuel, and the odd medic unit. March 44, it caught a Luftwaffeirstrike at the southern mouth, just as a supply train broke down inside. Dan's voice came quiet over the crunch of our boots. Never heard of that one, he said. The blast created a vacuum effect.

I continued, a touch too brightly for the sun. subject, sucked a fireball straight down the tunnel while they were fixing the train. Whoa, were there any survivors? I gave a dry shrug. Place would have been charred end to end by the time the fire burnt out. With another line still running and a war to fight, they didn't bother with the recovery crew. Just sealed it up and moved on. Dan stayed quiet after that. boots crunching beside mine.

I didn't say anything else either. After a few minutes, he cleared his throat and muttered something about a featherweight bout he'd watched last weekend, like he couldn't bear the quiet any longer, said the bloke came in underweight and still managed to drop the other guy in the second round with a spinning elbow.

Absolute belter, he called it. I nodded, grateful for the mood, change, even if I had no clue who's on about. It wasn't long after that, till we noticed signs that tunnel had taken a knock or two. A few ceiling plates were broken, with rusted bolts hanging loose, and there was a shallow pile of crumbled brick near one of the cable housings that looked more recent than the rest. Nothing structural, but enough to keep your eyes peeled. Then we started spotting bits of cloth, mostly torn and oily, ground into the gravel. There was a piece twisted under a bolt.

It looked like canvas, only thinner. I gave it a nudge with my boot. What do you think it is? Dan asked. Could be a leftover sleeve from the poor sods they sealed up. He stared at me for a beat. You're joking, right? Of course I am, I said, half laughing. It's probably just a bit of coat from some drafted trespasser poking around.

It does look weird, though. Should handle this, he muttered. Stuff like this can trip someone up if they don't see it. Proper hazard if it's sticking up like that. He crouched over it and gave it a once-over with his glove. Feels weird, bit tough. Not what I was expecting. All right, I said, watching him pull out a multi-tool from his bag.

I'll log the next segment up ahead. The junction box should be just past that bend. I tapped the radio clipped onto my chest. Channel 4, yeah? Shout if you need anything. Or if the fabric starts acting all haunted. Either or. He snorted.

If it does much of anything, I'm legging it. Fair play, I said, and carried on ahead. The tunnel swallowed me up. Each step pulled the air thicker. It was damp and stale, like the breath of something sleeping. Every 20 or 30 yards, there was a refuge bay, built for workers that duck into when trains passed.

I made a habit of counting them to pass the time. Just after the eighth bay, I spotted the glint of twisted steel, the husk of a freight wagon. My heart actually gave a little thump. It was a supply train from the crossline story I'd rambled a dan about. It was gutted, half melted across the rails. One axle had folded in on itself, and most of the siding was gone, peeled back like a tin of spam. What remained was piqued.

fitted with rust and speckled with the droppings of whatever bats or birds had snuck in over the ears. My torch played over the wreck, and I caught hints of cinced fabric fused into the rivets, a melted boot sole stuck beneath a wheel assembly. I felt giddy, then grim. And then there was movement. Just beyond the wreck. Something disturbed the gravel. I froze, torch figs, dead ahead.

I thought it was a bit of debris settling, but just where my light couldn't reach, I noticed the shape, slow and jerky, dragging itself from the far side of the carriage. At first, I thought some homeless guy had found a way in and picked the place for shelter. Wouldn't have blamed him in fairness. It was dry and quiet.

You can't be here, mate, I called. There's hazardous conditions. You need to clear off. I won't press you, just get out. That was when he shifted into my light. The first thing I noticed was it looked like he was wearing someone else's skin or trying to.

Chunks of it clung to him. It was as if he'd torn it free in a frenzy. and slapped it over himself without care. Bits of torso, a forearm, part of the thigh. The rest of him was raw, a blistered patchwork of wet red tissue and veins like over-strung wires. I staggered back, hard,

boot skidding over the ballast and landed like a sack of bricks. My torch slipped from my grip, skittering across the gravel and landing a few feet in front, It's been fixed squarely on the thing. I didn't go for it, no. I turned and bolted, heart-hammering, feet slipping over loose stone.

I threw myself into the nearest refuge bay and crouched low in the dark, breath snagging in my throat. I stayed silent, listening for footsteps, until I realized the texture under my knee wasn't ballast. Whatever it was was tacky and stuck to my trousers. I reached for my phone and lit the lock screen. The glow spilled over the torn flesh. Skin was missing in wet flaps, chunks of it peeled and cut off messily, exposing glistening muscle and slashed tendon.

It was clear the man, or whatever it was, had done it. My hand shook as I cut the light and press back hard against the stone. Every inch of me was wound tight with panic, but I didn't dare move or breathe too loud. I strained to listen for any sign that the thing out there had heard me, but there was only a faint sound of metal clinking

and some sort of sloshing. So I shifted forward just enough to risk a glance around the bay's edge and saw the creature was caught on head. heavy steel cabling that had fused into his flesh. It carved deep, wet gouges through the meat of his legs where it had melted in. Every tug sent a fresh jerk through his frame. He tried to move forward, but the cabling dragged him back. As horrific as it was, I felt a twisted jolt of relief

because it meant he couldn't get to me. So, I crept forward. on all fours as slowly as I could manage, keeping my eyes fixed on him. He was still jerking, still struggling against the cables, raw legs dragging in little bursts. But I kept going until my fingers found the torch and closed around it. Just as I was shimming away, my radio lit up. Southcote Control.

This is Red Lead. Enemy overhead. enemy aircraft sighted, brace for impact. It was tinny and staticky. The creature jerked harder, responding to the sound. He threw himself forward with a raspy scream. His limbs stretched that sick angles, cabling biting deeper as he tore through his own meat. That sudden frenzy broke me.

I turned and ran at full sprint, torch clutch tight and breaths, Slicing in short, panic burst through the respirator. Then, Dan's voice filtered in, crackling through the static. Callum, callum, mate? I heard him breathing, fast and shallow, like he was trying not to be heard. Something's here. I don't, I can't. I fumble for the radio.

Dan, I'm on my way, just hold on, don't move, all right, whatever's down here, it's not right. Just come back, come back. Another burst of static and no reply. I ran, trying to keep my bearings, while every bone in my body begged me to look back. I knew it hadn't gotten free, I hadn't heard it following, but my body didn't care. I couldn't stop imagining it, hunting me down. Every step felt too slow.

I wanted nothing more than to grab Dan and escape out of the tunnel. When I reached where I'd left Dan, his toolbag was still there, sitting just where he'd placed it. There was no sign of him, though. My torch flicked across the walls until it caught on a maintenance tunnel branching off to the side, narrow and half-choked with dust. I stepped toward it, my heart hammering, torch, hill tight. Dan? Dan?

I called, cursing myself out in my head for not just booking it out of there alone. Then I saw him, hunched over near the far wall of the maintenance tunnel, breathing in shallow rasps, back turned, shoulders twitching like he was about to throw up. Dan? I said again, lower this time. I saw something down by the wreck It was wearing someone's skin or something I don't know

But we need to get out now As I got closer I realized The skin along the spine looked torn and stretched His proportions were off He was too broad in the shoulders And too long in the limbs I realized then

That it was one of those skin creatures and this one had done a better job than the last. It shifted, turning fluidly. Dan's face twitched as the thing twisted its neck. It straightened up and lunged towards me. My boots skidded as I tore back through the tunnel, light bouncing off Sutton Stone. I could hear its regular footfalls pounding and scraping against the gravel,

as it chased me. The mouth of the tunnel appeared ahead, that thin slice of morning light calling like a lifeline. I charged full tilt, shoulder-checking the gate as I hit it. The chain link rattled, hinges groaning as it gave way under my weight.

I burst into daylight and spun around, grabbing for the edge of the gate, trying to haul it closed. But I wasn't fast enough. The thing was right behind. me. The service train we'd taken in sat a few dozen yards down the track. I vaulted the step and scrambled inside, boots thudding against the metal floor. I turned to see if it had followed, and just in time to watch it slammed to the gate, limbs flailing. The second its bareback met daylight.

It shrieked. The exposed flesh sizzled, blistering and splitting down. steam hissed from beneath Dan's skin. It stumbled, jerking violently. What was left of Dan's face sagged sideways, folding at the edges. Then it reeled back, flailing as it crawled in reverse, dragging itself back into the dark. I stood there, panting, hands braced against the inside wall of the carriage. I shakily tore the respirator off my face, and sucked in the cold morning air in deep and frantic gulps.

My heart was still in my throat, every muscle in my body twitching with the tail end of the panic. When I was sure it wasn't coming back, I climbed down from the train, legs jelly beneath me, and turned toward the entrance. Part of me wanted to turn around and leave it swinging, but letting it out wasn't an option.

So, I hauled the gate shut and snapped the lock into place, stepping back fast the second it clicked. After that, I sat on the train floor for a while with my elbows and my knees. And when I could bring myself to move again, I started the train up and took it slow on the way back. My hands white knuckled on the throttle. I told the sight leads there was a collapse. got caught in it and I had barely made it out.

When they asked about recovering his body, I said it was buried deep under debris, inaccessible without risking more lives. Anything to keep anyone else from going back in. That night, I just lay there, flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, and I couldn't stop thinking.

My heart kept throwing itself around in my chest like it hadn't figured out the danger was over. So I got up, I turned the telly on and started flicking through the channels, looking for something loud enough to drown out my thoughts. I landed on a fight rerun, and it took a second to realize it was the one Dan had been on about, a featherweight bout. I watched the bloke duck a hook and come back with a spinning elbow that dropped the the other guy flat, and he was right.

It was an absolute belter.