CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "We Found A Town Where It's Always November" Creepypasta

Episode Date: November 26, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by beardify: 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►Danar Worya: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/ea...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-

November. No matter how I try, I can't read the day or year. Only that bright white word that glows from the screen of my phone, taunting me. Why can't I remember? Jameson, my boyfriend, named after his dad's favourite drink, the one who led us here. Jameson Lee, the pictures we'd laugh at from his cringy adolescence, trench coat and edginess, misogyny and mountain dew. Then, The tragedy. His mother's sickness, forced to get stronger, taking on more responsibility day by day. First little things, then big things,

making itself into someone who could be trusted. Someone who I thought could be trusted. What did he look like right before he disappeared? Just flashes. The closer the memory, the faster it fades. My hand on a muscular thigh, rugged gear, like for an expedition, all matching khaki.

and browns like something out of Indiana Jones. That salt and pepper stubbly beard that turned me on so much. A clever smile like a kid who just figured out a puzzle. A tanned hand pointing up a crumbled road into the mist. That was how it started.

Jameson, that obsession with the occult that he never grew out of, even went to all the world he was just another middle-class sales manager. Good at it too. Enough to buy that tastefully deftly decorated house in the suburbs. His castle, he called it.

Now, I wonder if he ever really had any of the skills he claimed, or if he just excelled at selling a product, himself, Jameson Lee, whoever you wanted him to be. It's not that he didn't have a knack for finding these lost spaces. That was what we called them. Jameson, Eddie, Elizabeth and me. You needed tactical grade talent and out-of-the-box thinking in those places we explored. Like that endless, twisting tunnel of pipes, steam, grease, clanging metal catwalks bent into insane shapes,

or the empty, endless late-night mall from the mid-nighties, and one you could only access by stepping through a mirror in a dressing room or carrying nothing manufactured after 1994. We had talent for cutting locks, jumping pences, getting in and out of places that defied reality. What did we? Maybe what we'd really had. was luck, that no security guard or nameless horror had stumbled upon our excursions into the unknown. Maybe it was luck that an exit appeared from the maze of pipes,

or that those polished floors with a reverberating mall muzzak stayed empty. Maybe it was luck each time we entered a supposed lost space and found nothing more than broken glass and graffiti. But here, in November, our luck has finally run out. If I look out the window now, I'd see Miss Nesbitt brushing dead flower petals from a patio with her homemade broom. That's what she was doing at this time on this day, 30 days ago. And it's what she'll be doing at this time on this day, 30 days from now.

And if I went over to interfere, my hand would pass right through her, like she was just a hologram projected onto fog. That's November. Focus. What I need right now is to focus while I still can. The conference. We were at a party after an occult convention. Jameson always turned heads at those events.

People wondered what such a neatly groomed, conservatively dressed I was doing surrounded by a gouth like Eddie, a nerd like Liz, and a kid like me. I'm 20. Or am I? How long has it been? But even back when I was still in college, people would stop me and ask which high school tour group I was a part of. Focus.

The party. After the convention, a trailer with bare bulbs and sagging floors. We were leaving because somebody had brought out needles, and since Liz's dad OD'd, she couldn't stand to be around that stuff. That was when the old biker lady tripped Eddie with her boot. Got in our faces, asked us what we were into. Eddie started to explain. She grinned.

Had we ever been to a ghost town? Jameson scoffed, said we had to go. But I hesitated, and then she told us the rumours about November. That's not the real name of this place. I have the vague idea that this place was an old coal town that dried up in the 80s, but I couldn't tell you what it's called or where it is. I remember her worn square sign riddled with shotgun pellets, nothing more. The closer the memory, the faster it fades.

The place became Jameson's new obsession. He started staying out later and later, seedy places, odd hours, drug-adled, violent, half-mad strangers, rambling about the spirit realm and black holes in time. I found myself tracing his movements like a stereotypical jealous girlfriend. Except, then instead of another woman, I'd been supplanted by a place that probably only existed in the heads of a few wandering lunatics. I told myself that Jameson knew what he was doing, like always. He was just so much older, so much more experienced in life. He took care of the finances and the, what do we call it, adulting in our relationship. I felt powerless.

It's because I was. When we finally saddled up the four-wheel drive to leave onto a road trip to, wherever this is, what I felt was relief. Whatever happened, this thing would be behind us. We could get back to the normal life I thought I wanted, before I dropped out to become Jameson's what, housekeeper with benefits I'd wanted to study history

I'd always wondered what Caesar's legions crossing the Rubicon or Napoleon's troops marching to Russia had felt now I understood it's relief there might be a tiny voice in the back of your head screaming that there's no way back from what you're about to do but is drowned out by the feeling

that the waiting is finally over For better or worse, the thing is in motion. The coin had been tossed, and it will land on heads or tails, unless it falls through a black hole in time. I don't need to remember what happened to James and Liz and Eddie, because I can watch those events as they happen. I can watch a battered green jeep roll out of the fog. My friends inside talk to each other and to me, as if I was there,

repeating the same conversation forever. The Jeep can't be turned away from its fixed course. I know, I've tried. Although Jameson, Eddie and Liz are as incorporeal as shadows, the wheel and gear shift moved by themselves like a ghost ship compelled by the weird physics of this place. Trying to change things here is like trying to change the past. And so, I watch.

Liz points out the window at the abandoned buildings as the Jeep rounds the curve. As always, Eddie tells his joke about the piece. with a wooden leg for the nth time. Jameson, with a paternal glance, asks if I'm okay. Or, more specifically, he asks the empty seat beside him, the seat where I would be sitting

if I died like the rest of them, the seat where I'll be trapped forever if I fail to escape from November. The Jeep rolls to a stop in front of me, as many times as I've seen my friends step out into the town. The sight never fails to shock me. It's clear that Eddie's joking around is just a defense mechanism.

Liz has dark circles under her eyes and Jameson has been aged prematurely by something we encountered out there in the fog. Everyone is thin and grimy. I don't know what happened in those lost memories between the moment Jameson pointed up the road and this one, but it took its toll on all of us. Still, you can see the excitement

on my friend's faces and finally having arrived in the town. Whatever may have happened before. Eddie eagerly prepared. his recording equipment. Liz does a gleeful little swirl and starts scanning the empty houses with binoculars. Jameson puts his arm

around the empty space where I would be standing if I'd meant the same fate as my friends. Then he claps his hands together and our little band fans out to explore. We always stayed

within sight of each other. Yes, I think I recall that being one of our rules. It doesn't make much difference when time and space don't behave how they should, but that kind of later. First comes the joy of discovery. Most of us had never seen a real main street before,

not with a post office and a family grocery, a butcher and a hardware store, and a little diner whose faded sign offered coffee and a cherry pie for $1.50. It was like a movie set. We should have known. The town is gnawed and battered by the elements, but beyond that, there were none of the usual signs of abandonment. No graffiti, few broken windows. Even the antique cars partling the street are mostly undisturbed. Liz appears into the grocery. The lightless aisles inside are fully stocked.

Eddie comments that maybe this town isn't abandoned after all. My friend step inside. A little brass bell sounds. A fallen can rolls out of the darkness and everyone jumps, just like always. The place reeks of spoiling. food, melted ice cream runs like blood from the freezer doors in the back. Eddie picks up a can of crystal Pepsi, looks at it curiously.

It seems impossible that all this stuff from the 80s has just been sitting here all this time, and yet the refrigeration can't have gone out more than a month ago. My friends walk through the store discussing possible explanations for the mystery. They leave without seeing the shadowy figure that emerges from the back room to slog the shelves. Instead, they cross Main Street and begin examining the other buildings. They're in front of the diner when they see Derek Weaver crossing the courthouse square in a hurry. They exchange a glance, then Jameson runs up to catch to Mr. Weaver, who pays no heed of Jameson's cries of, hey, and wait!

That's because he's just a shadow trapped in time, doomed to repeat its routine forever. But my friends just don't know that yet. They figure it out when Jameson reaches out for Mr Weaver and his hand passes right through him. Oblivious, the shade of Mr. Weaver goes into the courthouse to keep his eternal appointment. Everyone runs to Jameson. He stares up at the blustery grey sky, as stunned as an atheist who's just met God. My ragged friends back into a circle as shades appear, keeping their clockwork routines. Roy Evans, the shadow inside the grocery store, steps outside to wave to Emily Hereof

who walks through Eddie on a way to the diner. He jumps, shrieks and shakes himself before realizing that she's less substantial than air. My friend's experiment, trying to contact and interact with the shades of the town's former residence. No effect. I watch my friend's faces change as they realize that something horrible must have happened here

and that now we are a part of it. They begin to understand what Jameson must have known all along. As hard as it was, find the place, it was going to be even harder to leave. That leads to anger. Another thing I learned from my interest in history, the first thing people do in a crisis is look for someone to blame. I no longer remember what I said in the argument, but as I watched the responses play out

in real time, it's clear that I take James inside in everything, just like a loyal puppy. afternoon now. Soon it'll be getting dark. No one wants to find out what happens if you spend the night in the open in this eerie place and there isn't room to sleep in the Jeep. The hunt is on for an open building to spend the night, preferably one without any ghostly inhabitants. This is easier than it seems, as the town was clearly already on its way out, even before the event as Jameson had taken to calling it. The shades of my friends creep around like cartoon burglars, looking for a house to spend the night in. It would be funny if the encroaching darkness didn't feel so deadly.

We finally enter through a boarded-up house through the basement. My friends block the doors, reinforce the windows, and do their best to fort if either place. Their work will do about as much good as a blanket fort against what's out there. But they don't know that yet. I wonder how many times I've watched this same performance. I wonder how I felt when I was living for the same performance. through it. Was I scared, determined, hopeful? The closer the memory, the faster it fades. We sit around a crackling fire made from some broken off bits of furniture. I can tell from the

conversation that my friends have started and noticed the effects of November. Liz comments that she doesn't feel tired or hungry anymore. Eddie checks his camera batteries and notes that they haven't lost any charge. No one shivers from the autumn chill. This numbness, this rindus, this resignation deepens as the days go by. In the morning, our attempts to escape by car. The Jeep reappears around the curve, leading into town a few minutes later each time. Then come the flights to the forest. You trudge into leaf-chote gullies, only to emerge in one of the town's many empty backyards, bewildered. Through it all, however, no one reacts with a kind of panic that someone should experience in such a situation. Our emotions are as pale,

and apathetic as the grey sky overhead, even when one of us doesn't come back from the woods. My friends wait and wait for Eddie to reappear. Jameson paces nervously along the top of the ravine at the edge of town. The intensity of his emotions has finally broken through the numbness of November. Where is he? Where could he be? Jameson snarls. I must have tried to comfort him, because he pushes at the empty air where I would have stood.

After a long pause, Liz screams Oh my god You've killed her Jameson looks around from side to side guiltily Before creeping down to the base of the ravine

He kneels down And goes to the motions of checking a pulse He frowns And then he steps back And shrugs I guess that was the moment my friends left me for dead I run a hand along the scar On the back of my skull

is how I know I'm still alive. Back atop the ridge, Jameson tells Liz that now isn't the time to point fingers. Liz screams and calls him a murderer. But the behaviour of one of the shades causes them both to fall silent. Miss Nesbit is walking into town, apparently to do some shopping. When she pauses. She squins through my friends and I, apparently trying to identify something in the woods. Her eyes go wide.

she tries to scream but makes no sound she hobbles desperately for home but something lifts her into the air something invisible because like me it's still alive here in November it isn't trapped as a shade in this well of memories the unseen thing eats her from the inside out

Miss Nesbitt's shade then vanishes not to be seen again until the cycle restarts the time eater That's what I call the thing that got Miss Nesbit. The thing that stalked to the people of this town and devoured them one by one, trapping them in this last month of their lives so that it could feed on them forever. He got Eddie too, out there in the woods. Now it's about to get Liz.

I watched Jameson's face go slack. He makes a primitive sound of fear pointing at something behind Liz. At first, Liz doesn't understand what's happening. Then the time eater catches her from behind, doing to Liz what it did to Miss Nesbit before. Like Miss Nesbit, Liz disappears when it finishes feeding, trapped forever in a loop that starts the moment she entered November and ends when she's consumed by the time eater. I follow Jameson's shade as he runs, looking back over his shoulder and what must have been a gruesome sight. This is pelvis, legs and feet being slurped up by the time eater. Jameson reaches the Jeep and pulls up.

out a high-caliber hunting rifle. Based on the expression of his face, his shots have no effect. He squirms into the mud under the Jeep. Then he too is pulled out, screaming and devoured in the air before my eyes. I feel nothing as I watch my boyfriend being eaten, and I'm not sure that's just a numbness of November. My friend's loop is now closed, and it won't open again until the cycle restarts. There are only two living things in November. The time eater, out there somewhere, incomprehensible, indestructible, eternally hungry. And me, a cool breeze blows dead leaves against my boots. The sky is azure and clear.

I feel sure that I'm forgetting something. But what?