CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "We found a German WW2 Bunker in South America" Creepypasta

Episode Date: April 10, 2025

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We hacked our way through the jungle like we were peeling back time itself. Every branch and root we cut and stepped over felt like it hadn't been touched in decades, maybe longer. The heat pressed down on us, wet and constant, and the insects came in waves that never seemed to stop. Somewhere overhead, monkeys shrieked and fell silent just as quickly. That silence always made me pause. None of us spoke much. The machetes did the talking, slicing rhythmically as we follow the barely visible trail Lewis swore existed. I didn't see it, but he moved with a confidence, false or not, we didn't have better options.

Around midday, we reached the clearing. Or, more like the jungle gave up for a second. In the middle was a rise of uneven stone, half swallowed up by moss and earth. It could have passed for a hill, if not for the exposed edge of something unmistakably artificial. Weathered concrete and the rusted corner of a metal structure poking out like a broken rib. No one said anything right away. Then, from behind me, her voice muttered.

low and breathless. There it is, moved closer, brushing back the foliage. The moss came off in heavy sheets. Underneath, a swastika, barely visible, faint from time and grime, was stamped into the concrete, half melted from what looked like an old fire. None of us reached out to touch it. Jeez, someone whispered. We'd found it.

The bunker wasn't a myth. It was real and it was here. Lewis stepped forward and ran his hand along the edge of the old hatch embedded in the slope, tracing the rusted wheel lock. He bowled gently and it groaned like something waking up. The door was ajar only slightly, but enough that the smell hit us almost immediately. and oil, mould, metal. And beneath it all, something else, sweet and rotting.

Ventilation shaft might be clogged, I offered with a chuckle. A flashlight clicked on beside me. No words, just a beam of light piercing down into a dark mouth cut into the earth. None of us said it out loud, but we knew. We were going in. The ladder was slick with condensation and rust. I climbed slowly, each rung groaning under the weight, until my boots hit the concrete floor with a dull, wet thud.

The air down there wasn't just stale. It had an artificial weight to it. No power. That much was immediately clear and expected. The ceiling fixtures overhead. head was shattered, wiring frayed and exposed like vines, brittle and dead. The corridor stretched out ahead of us in both directions. Jonas stepped past me first, hand-brushing the wall as we moved.

Concrete still solid, he muttered, reinforced, this wasn't some half-bake shelter. He passed a rusted plaque, the German text barely legible. sector one under comte quarters the rooms were narrow lined on either side of the hall like cells inside rows of metal bed frames stripped of sheets what remained of the mattresses had slumped into soft mounds of black mushrooms had taken root in one another had the impression of a body long gone just the shape still there in the stained foam like a fossilized absence. Someone opened a crate near the far wall. Dust pluned out. Food rations, Jonah said, still sealed.

Sasha lifted one and turned it over. They labelled everything by name, date, roll, caloric requirement. She pointed to the faded ink. Jane Nusslane, 3,000 calories, night watch. All so precise, but the silence in those quarters told another story. Further in, we found a hallway bulletin board. A photo was still tacked up, barely hanging on. Four men, all in uniform.

German officers, at least from what I could tell, standing in a cramped hallway, right here in the bunker. Their faces were long and drawn, eyes sunk deep. One of them was holding a small child. That's not wartime Germany, Sasha whispered behind me. That's after they arrived here. The hallway ended in a bulkhead door, half of its hinges, rusted and bent inward, like something had forced its way through years ago.

We ducked inside and found the largest room yet. Storage maybe, though half the shelving had collapsed and a fine film of mould coated the floor. Amid the wreckage was a scorched binder. Jonas flipped it open gently and half of it crumbled in his hands. Manifest, he said, eyes narrowing. Look at this. tight names in columns, serial numbers, dates of birth, occupation, 978 entries, men, women, children. Sasha leaned over his shoulder, lips moving silently as she scanned.

They listed them all, nurses, engineers, even barbers. No ranks? I asked. She shook her head. Only functions. They were building a self-contained population. In the far corner, we found the radio room, or what was left of it. Shattered glass and twisted knobs lay scattered across the floor like shrapnel. An old broadcasting mic hung from its wire, swinging slightly in the humid draft.

Banks of analog equipment were ripped open, fuses missing, wires, yanked out in clumps. Dr. Ketterley crouched down next to one unit and muttered. This was military grade. Stayed to the art for the time. Sabotaged, I asked. He didn't answer, but the way he stood up told me everything. We lingered in the radio room longer than we should have.

No one said it, but something about the broken equipment unsettled us. in a different way. Not just because it was destroyed, but because it had been intentional, as if someone had wanted to make sure no word ever left this place again. We moved on. Sasha suggested we start marking rooms as we went. Chalk lines, basic numbering. Smart idea. It helped, gave the illusion of control. Pass the supply wing. We found a heavy door, partially a jar, with a tarnished brass plate above the frame. Officer Untergumft. Officer's quarters.

The air inside was different, still. Dust floated in the beams of my headlamp, like falling snow, untouched for decades. Jonas moved toward the desk. Open a drawer. Empty. Another paper scraps, a yellowed photograph of someone blurred and smiling. Nothing useful. Sasha knelt beside the trunk.

Help me with this. I unclasped the rusted latch and helped to lift the lid. Inside, a wall officer's coat folded. Beneath it, something wrapped tightly in a stiff brown cloth tied with the leather a strap that cracked as she unwrapped it. A journal. The leather was dark, almost black with age, but still intact. A rusted iron clasp held it shut.

Sasha took a breath. This might be useful. She worked the clasped loose. It took effort. It hadn't been opened in years. A sharp metallic snap, then a shudder. as the leather flexed. She peeled it open carefully,

revealing thick, yellowed pages covered in tight, immaculate writing, and on the inside cover, scrawled in deliberate, blocky script. I am Eric Mahler, engineer. If these pages are found, know that we are not all willing. We exchange glances. For a long second, no one said anything. Then Sasha turned the page, and we began to read. May 12th, 1945, I have arrived in South America at last.

The journey was as surreal as it was harrowing. After months of uncertain passage by submarine and stolen aircraft, we landed on foreign soil with a promise of salvation. The promise was whispered with fervour by those who orchestrated our passage. a promise of a new beginning away from the ruins of a lost war. Dozens more arrived in the weeks that followed. Scientists with eyes bright from hope and despair, soldiers whose uniforms were stained with honour as with regret,

families clinging to the belief that they too might start over. We were all immigrants of circumstance united by the lie of salvation. In time we began the construction of something vast, an underground complex that stretched out beneath the unforgiving jungle. We labored our hands and backs broken by ceaseless work. Slave labour, both forced and self-imposed, carried bricks and mixed mortar in the dim light of torches. The complex was designed to be our haven. One day, we would shelter as many as a house. thousand souls. Already the numbers grow, and each new arrival reinforces our resolve,

though, an gnawing doubt stirs at the edge of my mind. June 3, 1945. The days have grown colder, though the jungle remains unyielding in its humid embrace, communications with Germany have all but ceased. At first, the higher-ups maintained that the war raged on, a justification to seal us inside this very bunker. But now, with every passing day, I find my certainty waver. The radios have fallen silent, and the orders we once received from afar are nothing but echoes of a past that no longer exists. Inside these walls, the leadership insists we remain sealed in, They assure us that outside chaos reigns, that our isolation is the only means to preserve the future.

Yet I wonder, if the war has truly ended, why must we be locked away? In the dim corridors I hear the soft laughter of children, a sound both haunting and tender. New life has been born here. In the dark recesses of this underground world, they grow up Knowing nothing of sunlight, their only lullaby, the hum of machinery, and the distant groans of the bunker. I cannot shake the feeling that we are no longer the architects of our fate, but rather subjects in a grand experiment. The silence from the outside grows ever more oppressive, and with each passing day, the control exerted by those at the helm tightens like a noose. I fear what might come next, and I write these words in the hope that they may serve as a warning should anyone ever find them.

September 14, 1946. I have not written in some time. The work has consumed us all, but it is not construction that keeps our hands busy now. It is research. Though I am an engineer by trade, I am often called to a service. assist with logistics and infrastructure in Section 3, the medical wing. It is there that the whispers began. They called it Project Morgan Minch, the man of tomorrow project.

A rebirth, they say. A better human, a stronger one, one who will be ready when the Reich rises again. If not in this lifetime, then the next. I've seen the files. The injections are not just vitamin serums or nutritional supplements as they claim in official meetings. There are compounds I do not recognize. Radiation-laced fluids, growth accelerants, even samples rumored to be derived from fungi found deep within the jungle. Some subjects are brought in at night, barely conscious.

Others are volunteers, selected with honours. But none of them returned to the dormitories. The man named Dieter, a chemical assistant from sector two, questioned the project openly last week. He was gone by morning. We were told he had requested a reassignment to an external outpost. I don't believe that outpost exists. Three nights ago, while checking airflow systems, I paused near the ventilation shafts above the lower levels. I heard something. A scream, not of pain, but of pure confusion. It was drawn out

and hollow, like someone was trying to scream all underwater. Then came the thud, something slamming against the ductwork. Once, twice. They sounded like heavy slaps. I have stopped asking questions, but I haven't stopped writing them down. February 7th, 1947. We were lied to. There is no Reich. There is no war. There is no Germany waiting to be reborn. One of the young technicians in communications, Rudolph, barely 20, smuggled in a radio from the surface during a supply rotation. A homemade receiver tuned to civilian frequencies. He played a broadcast for us, clear as a bell, a station out of Santiago, Chile, a full broadcast in Spanish, music, advertisements and politics. We lost, long ago.

The higher-ups knew they have known this entire time. All of it, the isolation, the lockdowns, the rationing, the indoctrination, was to kill. keep us here to maintain a closed system, a laboratory, not a refuge. When the truth spread, there was panic, yelling in corridors, officers pulling sidearms. Rudolph was taken, so were the three others who heard the broadcast directly. They said it was a security breach that outside voices are contaminated. A few of us discuss mutiny, quiet. quietly in passing. It lasted two days before someone betrayed us. I was beaten, not enough

to kill, just enough to remind. One man was dragged to sector three. No one has seen him since. I believe now that we are no longer survivors. Rather, we are subjects. It is happening too fast now. I can hardly keep track of the days. Sickness is everywhere. Not just fatigue or malnutrition, but something deeper. Flesh turns soft, almost sponge-like, eyes glaze over. Some have developed a sort of fever that doesn't burn the skin, but warps the mind.

Men forget how to walk. Women scream at nothing. and children are crying. The experiments have escaped containment. No one says it out loud, but everyone knows. It began with a breach in sector three. A door left open. A containment cell damaged.

The lights went out for less than two minutes. But it was enough. They don't resemble people anymore. One moved through the upper maintenance corridor last night. I didn't see it fully, it moved in a sluggish pace. I heard gasps, then nothing. When I returned with two others, there was no blood, just clothing. Three men gone, with no sign of struggle, only the scent of salt and bile in the air.

Today I opened a sealed supply crate in the communal hall. inside were plastic wrapped packages. I read the labels, coded, sterile, clinical. Protein units processed. But it was warm. I took a knife and cut one open. They were feeding us the failures. Some knew, some didn't.

But we ate anyway. We had no choice. I vomited until nothing came out but bile. I have not eaten since. November 9th, 1947. This will be my final entry. There is no more order here, only rituals, grotesque imitations of structure. Men still wear uniforms.

They march the halls as if the Reich still listens, as if this place is anything but a grave. I was part of a small group who tried to escape. There was an auxiliary hatch built during the early days before the lockdowns. We found it behind the water reserves hidden under rebar and rotting crates. Six of us planned to leave. We never made it out together. Something followed us, a failed subject, if you can even call them that.

I saw its face for the first. time. A man I once knew, Fisher, I think. His skin had melted like wax and reformed in sagging layers. His jaw was unhinged. His ribs pulsed like gills. He moved without urgency, like a predator that knows nothing can escape. He crushed Yergan against the wall with one arm. I saw bone snap through his thigh like dry kindling. And I screamed. until her voice gave out, then tried to run and slipped on the floor and what remained of someone else. We sealed the hatch behind us, but I was injured. My leg is broken. I can't walk. I volunteer to stay. The others are gone now, up that ladder and back into a world that might not even

be waiting for them. Maybe they'll make it back. Maybe not. I know. longer care. This journal will remain with me. If you are reading this, you must understand. We were not all complicit. We were not all monsters. We didn't speak right away after the journal ended. Sasha closed it with both hands, slowly, like it might shatter.

She sat back on her heels, mouth slightly open in a stunts. silence. Jonas had been pacing in a tight loop near the bed. Dr. Ketley hadn't moved at all. He stood by the desk, arms folded, staring at the floor like it owed him an answer. I couldn't think, couldn't find a thread to hold on to. The words were still echoing. Then Ketley spoke.

We can't stop here. I looked at him. What are you talking about? He turned toward us, slow and heavy. This journal is, it's only a part of the picture. If half of what he described actually happened down there, we owe it to history to see the rest. They could be evidence, proof, biological remnants.

You want to find them? Sasha asked, her voice was hoarse. The things he described? I want to know if they're even real, he said. Jonas nodded, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He's right, we're already in. We can't just run now. Jonas, we should run, Sasha said, rising to her feet.

This isn't a science project. This is a mass grave built in a lie. There's a reason they sealed it up. She looked at me. Eyes roar. Tell me you don't want to keep going. I didn't answer. The air was changing, heavier, close to sour.

I hadn't noticed until then, but it was there clinging to my clothes. Footsteps behind us. We turned to see Lewis duck into the room. His face was pale, a thin sheen of sweat catching the light from his head. lamp. He looked at each of us, then down at the journal in Sasha's hands. I read a few more pages, he said. I didn't want to, but I did. He swallowed hard. There's something wrong down here, and I don't want to be a part of it. We're going down, Jonah said. Lewis stared at him, then turned to me. Don't go with them.

I didn't answer. A minute later, he was gone. The air felt colder once he left. The stairs to the lower level had nearly rusted through, but the structure held. We descended one at a time, our boots clanging softly against the metal, echoing up the shaft. My headlamp flickered once and stabilized. The damage was obvious from the start.

The walls were warped and bulging in place, like something had pressed from the other side with slow pressure. Entire panels were cracked open, revealing tangled veins of rusted piping and torn cables. One segment of the ceiling had collapsed inward. We dug beneath it, crawling through to reach the next corridor. As we moved farther down the corridor, the signs of collapse became less like age. and more like a struggle. The walls were scarred with impact marks,

some shallow, some punched in deep. Sasha brushed her hand across a jagged hole near a doorway. Her fingers came away flaked with rust and something darker beneath it. Bullet holes, Dr. Kedley said, quietly. Close range. We looked around, and they were everywhere. Pock marked across the hallway, clustered around corners near doorways.

Some had fragments of brass casings still embedded in the cracks between the floor tiles. Others were surrounded by long-dried splashes of what could only be blood. Someone, maybe many, had tried to fight whatever got out. The rooms on this level had no beds, just rusted restraints, shelves of ruined medical equipment, Dr. Kettley stepped ahead, his lamp tracing an open door. He froze. I turned to ask what he saw, but before I could speak, I heard it. Breathing.

Wet, strained, like air pushed through mucus and ruined lungs. Then something shifted in the dark, a shape of. It moved at the edge of our lights. Gurgling followed, long and low. I felt the breath leave my body as something inside me screamed to run. It was hunched in the corner, facing away from us. A towering shape with limbs bent at wrong angles and skin stretched too far to hold what was inside.

It was the shape of a man, barely. Its skin was wet and sagging, shiny with dark sweat or fluid, parts of it clinging to the bone, other parts slowing off in folds. Where its joints met, elbows, knees, shoulders, black fluid oozed freely and pulled on the floor in thick, tar-like globs. It was wearing something, or what remained of something. A uniform, torn, threadbare, stretched until the fabric had embedded itself into flesh. The buttons were still there, the collar fused to its body.

One barefoot dragged behind it, grotesquely swollen and raw. The heels split open like old fruit. The other foot thudded when it moved, heavy and wet. And its face. No, it wasn't a face. A mound of pale pulp, sagging and twitching, with holes where features should have been. No eyes, just dark impressions like the sockets it collapsed inward long ago. Then it sniffed.

A wet, rattling inhale that sounded like fluid bubbling in a train pipe. And it turned toward us. Its mouth opened wide. He released the groan, slow and shuddering like a child. The sound echoed off the walls, wet and heavy, and it slapped the wall with one massive hand, leaving a smear of black. Dr. Kedley whispered something I couldn't hear. His light dropped slightly, his hands trembled. The thing stepped forward.

We ran. The hallway behind us felt longer than before. our boots hit the floor with a frantic pace, lights bouncing wildly off the walls. Behind us came the sound of meat hitting concrete, a sound that wasn't quite footsteps, but not quite crawling either. Dr Kettley tripped near a broken section of piping. I turned too late. The thing reached him in a blink. One bloated hand wrapped around his waist and lifted him like a dog.

dull. Kedley screamed tore through the hallway and a crack we kept running. Jonas was ahead of me, nearly at the bulkhead we'd come through when it happened. Jonas reached the doorway. He turned to seal it, tried to pull the reinforced door shut. The creature's arm whipped around the corner like it was liquid. A tendril slid into Jonas's mouth, fast. His body arched violently, feet lifting off the ground as he convulsed. His eyes went wide, then rolled back. His limbs flailed once, twice, then stopped. He collapsed, twitching once before going completely still. The thing retracted his arms slowly. I backed away and realized I was the only, one left. I kept to the left wall, then the right, mentally tracing every turn we took

on the way down. My chest burned, my legs wanted to give, but something beneath it all, instinct kept me upright. And then I saw the hatch we came from. Relief hit like a punch to the gut, so sharp it made me stagger. I climbed up the ladder and grabbed the iron wheel. Turned it. Nothing. It didn't budge. I tried it again. Planted my feet, pulled harder.

The bolts groaned faintly, but it didn't give. I felt along the edges. There were no breaks, no external damage, no collapse. The mechanism hadn't failed. It had been sealed from the other side. Lewis. He must have heard something from the outside or panicked, or maybe he closed it wrong on accident. My fists hid the hatch again and again, pain booming across my knuckles. I yelled, screamed his name. No response. Behind me. Moisture. The faintest vibration underfoot,

followed by the moan. I shut off my light, backed into the dark. The crawl space I'd found was barely wide enough to fit through, an old maintenance shaft lined with torn conduit and brittle cables. I didn't think about what might be in it. I just dropped to my knees and slid inside, scraping my ribs against the stone, arm shaking as I pulled myself deeper. I stopped maybe 50,000.

feet in, tucked between two collapsed pipe junctions, curled as tightly as I could. My chest rose and fell so fast I was afraid the sound of my breathing would give me away. I clamped my hand over my mouth and waited. The thing came into view slowly. Just light at first, bouncing dimly from a lamp still lying in the hallway behind me. Then the sound It was a strip of fabric Barely holding to the remains of a coat or uniform

A piece of cloth fused into the rotten flesh Of the creature's chest Barely hanging on A name tag Marla The lettering was faded but clear enough Eric Marla It paused near the hatch

I couldn't see it clearly anymore, but I could hear it. It slapped the walls, sniffed the air loud, gurgling inhales like a drowning animal struggling to taste something lost. Then it began to speak. Not full words, but it tried anyway. I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath. I don't know how long I stayed in that crawl space. My joints had gone stiff, my mouth dry as bone. My flashlight had long since died And even the fear was beginning to thin Giving way to something worse

The quiet belief that this was it That I would die down here I'd stopped listening for it The thing I thought maybe it had a lost interest Or maybe it didn't need to hunt anymore Then Light flooding in from the corridor

warm and golden, not the sterile white of her headlamps. But sunlight, pure and alive, crashing through the darkness like a resurrection. And a voice, familiar, human, cracking with panic and guilt. I came back, a pause. I'm sorry I left. Are you there? Lewis. My body reacted before my mind covered.

But I wasn't the only one who heard him. I scrambled out of the crawl space, half crawling, half tumbling. My legs screamed, blood rushing back into numb muscles as I ran full tilt toward the hatch. The air stank of heat and rot. The moan behind me grew louder, closer. The floor shook beneath its weight. Luz's face appeared in the open hatch above, eyes wide. flashlight in one hand.

Hey, what's going on? He yelled. I threw myself at the ladder, missed the first rung, slammed my shin, climbed anyway. My fingers fumbled for grip, the metal slick with sweat and grime. Lewis reached down,

grouts my arm. He pulled. As my head crested the hatch, I felt the pressure shift behind me, a blast of heat, and a wet sound. The thing was at the base of the ladder. I screamed.

Lewis pulled harder and I cleared the opening just as a wet mass slammed against the underside of the hatch. He slammed it shot. The thud echoed like a gunshot, metal shaking under the impact. We stood there in the clearing, both of us heaving for breath.

I bent over with my hands and my knees, trying to slow my heart. Lewis paced in wide, frantic circles, wiping sweat from his face, mouth working like he wanted to say a dozen things but couldn't pick one. Then he turned to me, eyes wide, hollow. Where's Sasha? he asked. I didn't answer. What about Jonas and the professor? What happened down there? What was that thing?

My lips parted, but nothing came out. I opened my mouth again, tried to form words, but it was like they were stuck behind everything I had just seen. Felt, Lewis stepped closer. Tell me what happened. They're gone. I find. finally said, I just...

They're gone. He stared at me for a long time, like he was trying to read something I couldn't put into words. Then, slowly, he pulled out his phone. I'm calling someone, he muttered. He stepped a few feet away, murmuring into the speaker, giving what details he could. Location, injuries, urgency. I just stood there, numb, watching the hatch like it might start rattling again. But it didn't.

We left before they arrived. Neither of us wanted to be there when they opened it again, if they opened it again. But we knew we had to stay. And so we did. A few days passed. The authorities came. police first, then federal agents, and finally, someone in clean uniforms with no names on their jackets. They wouldn't say who they worked for, only that the site was under investigation

and we were advised not to speak to the press. Weeks later, I got a call. Lewis was on the other end, voice low. They found it, he said. Everything, the bunker, the journal, all of it. And, I asked. He went quiet. No bodies, he said finally. No people.

No creatures. I didn't respond. This could have only made. meant one thing. They got out.