CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "We made too much noise in the library, and I'm the only one left to warn you" Creepypasta

Episode Date: August 7, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by twocantherapper: 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...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-

Trane Plus. Betal no longer than $5.50 per ride. So, coop now Train Plus for more $4 per month. On NMBS.B.E. The festival season is a broken and that betekent modder.

And so, came Kim to Amazon.com.com. On search to a water-dict tent, a comfortable luget, oh, so, Kness. And Lupeart print regalarze. Miao.

Now, now has Kim's not more to make more to make over the modder. Just like that's-dancing the modder man there. Oh, wait just even. Has he now only mudder on? Oh yeah, only mudder. Drogh-blown?

Goar for. Find what you need to have on Amazon.com. com.B.E. Hearing that sound in my local library always annoyed me, especially when it came from one of the librarians. I'm always hearing on the news how libraries are struggling. These would just be thankful a group of young people like my friends and I choose one as a haunt.

I live in a medium-sized town on the west coast We're not quite L.A., but drive a few hours, and you're firmly in California. I'm not going to give you any more details than that, because I don't want you to come looking. I'll be honest, I don't think the reason my friendship group is now me, myself and I is unique to our Manifist Destiny era around Shacka wooden local library. I'm holding out hope that it is, though, so I'm going to do everything I can to make sure nobody.

come snooping around. This is a warning, not an invitation. We started hanging around and eventually in the library last year. With the protests and lockdowns, traveling to L.A. or one of the other larger cities

didn't have the same appeal. It certainly wasn't an enticing prospect for our parents. So, either by parental law or whatnot, we spent the summer of our sophomore year finding things to do in our sleepy hometown. Since the bowling house, or theatres were closed or members only for the time being,

the local library ended up being our port of call. There were five of us, me, Jackson, Henry, Beth and Lara. For context too, we were your typical nerdy geek punch. I'm aware that the library isn't the first choice for many folk my age, but we weren't cool enough to go driving around the desert or find somewhere to drink liquor stolen from our parents. What we were cool enough to do, is get really interested in any one of the niche topics found in the old dusty volumes on the shelves.

Week one was Peruvian horticulture, week two, the naval advances of the 19th century Holland. We didn't take it too seriously, you understand, and I realise now how dumb it sounds out loud. However, despite how dry these topics may be, I would give anything to have another Friday night PowerPoint showdown at Laras or hear Jackson tell me about the raunchy, extramarital affairs of an obscure architect only famous for designing some kind of bridge in the 1790s. I miss them. It's only been a week, but I miss them all so much. It was the evening before one of the aforementioned PowerPoint lecture and Peter evenings that everything went wrong. The topic was the history of, um, female satisfaction.

Lara had picked the topic for that week, and since she was Dayton Jackson, this made for a lot of jokes, innuendos, and over-excited teenage whispers and giggling. Sh! The librarian was not happy. Her harsh hisses pierced my eardrums every 20 minutes or so. Genuinely, we did try to keep the noise from our little corner of the maze of shelves to a minimum. There's only so much self-control bored teenagers can exert, however. this is your last warning. After a few hours, we all looked up to see the aging librarian. She was stood above us, arms crossed, her raisin face locked in a scowl. Keep the noise down, I won't be able to tell you again.

With that, she stomped off back into the labyrinth of spines and pages. What did she mean by that? I think she means, shut up, La. Jackson replied, grinning. That's usually the definition. of, sh. She gave him a playful punch in the arm, rolling your eyes. I know that, Einstein. But why did you say, I won't be able to tell you again?

Does she think we're going to go somewhere? That is a weird way to say it, I shrugged. But she is old, like way old. I think she's been the librarian since my dad was a kid. Jackson, shut up. Whatever. She should just be happy someone is actually using the place. I'm going to take a leak.

He strode off, following the librarian into the dusty room. He's going to read all the notes he's been making our bet, Henry said, grinning and pointing to the book he'd left on female anatomy. Lara went red, and we all howled with laughter. It was loud, too loud. What the? We heard Jackson's yell, even above our mirth. In an instant, we stopped laughing.

Jackson? Lara called out. A trembling query was answered as soon as her lips closed. The response came from everywhere, all at once, and it wasn't Jackson. The voice was thin and sharp, somehow faint in my ears, but a deafening roar by the time it reached my brain. It seemed to be coming from nowhere and everywhere at once, a homeless sound ringing from the gaps between covers and unopened pages. A horrible sound, far worse than any reprimand from the librarian. It sounded more mechanical than human, like a thousand typewriters scraping together to make an imitation of speech.

Jackson? Beth and Henry both yelled this time. Lara had stood up, fists clenched. Again, the hiss rolled from under shelves and out of the floorboards. It was louder this time, longer. It scratched my ears and caused spots of light to crackle at the outermost edges in my field of view. Beth started to cry. Still, no response from Jackson.

Jack... This time, I was the one ushering the silence. I raised a finger to my lips, the other held in the air, telling the others to wait. As soon as we stopped, so did the noise. One moment, the air was electric with malicious static, and the next, you could have heard a pin dropping another, much smaller pin. We waited for a few moments, not saying a word. I could hear nothing except from the occasional sub from Beth

and the thud-thud-thudding of my heart in my ears. Then, from the shadow maze of shelves, became a soft thump, like something heavy being dropped to the floor. Something, or someone. Now, as you can probably guess, my little group of rag-tag misfits wasn't what you'd call brave. If we were, we'd have spent our summer somewhere much,

less tame than the library. However, while not brave by any measure, I was the most adventurous of the group. It's the reason I was the only one out of Jackson, Henry and I, that didn't get too much hassle from the athletic kids or stoners. Yeah, I may not have gotten into trouble for fights or cigarettes, but in detention, they still had respect for the guy that nearly blow up the chemistry lab and hacked the school computers to run Minecraft back and fourth grade. I mentioned this, not to brag, but because I do. don't want you to think I abandoned Lara, Beth and Henry. One of us had to go and find Jackson after hearing that thump. I was the only one it was ever going to be.

They couldn't have moved, even if they wanted to. And besides, I had no idea what would... Anyway, I gave Lara a nod and put my fingers to my lips again, hoping the message was clear. I slowly crept forwards towards the shelves. A firm grasping at my ankle had been whipping around, ready to run for my life. It was only Beth, sobbing and shaking head at me slowly. I didn't want to show her I was as scared as she looked,

so I shot her a grin and a thumbs up. Lara took her hand and I continued onwards. I tiptoed between shelves for what felt like hours. I read once that adrenaline can distort your sense of time, even factoring in the fact that my vital flight response was in overdrive, I was still walking much, much longer than I should have been. The longer I walked, the stranger and more unfamiliar around me the shelves appeared. The grey steel modular shelves gradually gave way to warped wooden units.

The books they contained had our titles by authors either didn't recognise or knew by their infamy outside of literature. The expendability of man by H. Himmler. Trend in upholstery and leatherwork by E. Jean. And Lost in Lucrativeity. My Story by H. Weinstein. The fonts on the spines were jagged and old, and after a while, the title was paid no attention to punctuation or capital letters.

Some didn't even have an author. Burned them by a guy. Ha ha ha, the children are bleeding, a housewise tale. And perhaps most chillingly of all, was what was clearly a photo album, with dead babies scrawled on the side in dark green sharpie. The weirder the books and shelves got, the more the light changed.

The library wasn't well. lit to begin with. Heavy shutters and decades of dust did a good job of keeping the 24-6-365 West Coast sunlight out, and the strip of lights overhead hadn't been replaced since the 1970s at least. Well, the lights that were overhead, I should say. I looked up when I realized that the ceiling above me and the yellow flickering light that hung from it had gone. In their place was, well, nothing. Above me stretched the void, an emptiness that faded into inky blackness

barely a few inches above the shelves, a cloud of impenigable shadow roiling above this unfamiliar section of the library. However, I was not in darkness. If anything, the place I was in now was better lit than the library I knew. I glanced down at my hand, holding it above my arm.

Frowning, I looked around, and turned around on the spot, heart rate rising with each shuffling step. I had no shadow, neither did the shelves. Even underneath them was lit, as if someone was shining an industrial strength flashlight in every spot at once. It was a harsh, white light with no source, one that made things look sharper and more in focus than they should. As I said, I was adventurous and had a rebellious streak, but I was never brave. "'Beth, Henry, Lara?' I called out, breaking my cardinal rule. My voice trembled and cracked.

I could feel my bottom lips start to wobble. I'm not ashamed to admit that at all. If anything, I'm proud that I didn't saw myself. Jackson? I stammered. There was no response, not even from the presence that had hounded us just after Jackson vanished. Not that I was complaining. There was nothing but silence. Librarian lady, I hazarded.

Still, nothing. The silence seemed to press down on me, stifling my words before they could echo further than a shelf or two. I couldn't even hear a ringing in my ears. I could feel my heart pumping in my chest, but I realized there was no rhythmic rushing of blood against my eardrums. I was about to turn and run as fast as I could back to the group, in this place where no human should tread decided to respond.

I heard it a few shelves over, an unmistakable wet squelch of something large and organic, falling from a great height. Jackson? I'm proud of myself for the fact that, in that moment, concerned for my friend's safety superseded my growing terror. I skidded nearly to a crash after hurling myself towards the intersection between rows. I turned in the direction of the thud.

ears simultaneously both straining for further sounds and trying to ignore the fact that my shoes were silent on the threadbare carpet. I stumbled into the shelving crossroads just in time to catch a glimpse of something of someone, striding purposefully away down another alley of oddly titled box, an alley that was in the exact direction the sound had come from. I didn't have time to take in too many details as I followed, despite my limbs better judgment. just a thin leg in dark grey suit trousers,

an overly polished black boot, and the swish of a dusty, dark velvet coat tail. I was relieved, and still am, to have found the bookshelf aisle where the squelchew come from, was empty. Now I know what I just chased, I count my blessings that the others must have picked that moment to start making noise.

That's the only reason I can come up with for why it wasn't waiting for me when I came around the corner. As it was, I was still alone. At least, I could see where the sound had come from. There was a book, laying face down and open on the floor. I never seen a book so large or thick in my life, like somebody had combined three Bibles in a copy of the Quran for good measure.

The cover was moist, and reflections from an unseen light danced across its slick surface as I edged closer. My hairs rose, lifted with static, generated by a new, inexplicable apprehension forming on the surface of the deep dread I was already drowning in. I could see that the pages were wet too. So wet, they were dripping. A dark puddle was forming around the open tome. If I didn't know better, I could have sworn it writhed every so often. No, not writhed.

breathed. It was almost imperceptible, but at regular intervals, the spine rose and fell a fraction of a fraction of an inch. Once I was a few steps away, I could see the leather band volume was indeed leaking an okrum mucus from unseen pores,

just enough to give it a coat of foul-smelling grease that pulled around it. I didn't have too long to inspect this, though. Barely a moment passed between me reading the title and running back towards the others with urine between my legs, tears streaming from my eyes, and the loudest scream I've ever mustered tearing my throat apart. The skin-bound book was called The Sanctity of Silence by Jackson Bridger. I only knew one Jackson Bridger, and his voice sounded far too much like the shrieks that followed me

as I charged down the impossible endless rows of a barren't text by Infernal Minds. I must have been running impossibly fast, because I found out of the same. I found myself back at our corner in only a few minutes. If I wasn't already sobbing, I would have started then. All three had gone. There was, however, another damp, seeping book on the ground. This one was much smaller than Jackson's, and the words scarred into the cover read,

Volume control for dummies by L. Easley. I don't need to spell it out for you, I'm sure. I knew an L. Eastley. Lara. I don't know what compel me to bend down and open the front cover. Probably some twisted counterpart of the same curiosity that led me to the body-proofing chemistry lab incident. The wetness on the leather felt greasy and viscous,

a substance that reminded me of both oil and phlegm. That wasn't what immediately grabbed my attention though. The first thing I noticed was how warm the material was. I know warmth is usually calming. But at that moment, it was exactly the last thing I wanted from a book whose cover's similarity to human skin I found it harder to ignore by the second. When the cover fell open and the first page revealed itself, I nearly threw up.

It was Lara's face. Well, a picture of her face, I hope at least. Her once attractive features, Jackson definitely punched above his weight, were twisted and crushed, as though she had her head violently for, against the photocopier. Her eyes closed, nose bent and clearly broken, lips pressed so hard that teeth poked through bloody wounds

around her nose and chin. The picture looks so... Real. Realer than any photograph. I don't know how to explain it, but it looked clearer and more realistic than if she'd been stood in front of me. Shaking, my shameful curiosity

moved my fingertips across the image of my missing friend. What colour remained in my own face drained The page was bumpy, rough, although barely If I wasn't touching it, I'd have no idea that it wasn't flat It also didn't feel like paper Paper, isn't that soft, isn't that warm, doesn't have fine hairs only detectable by the lightest touch I nearly screamed when I felt the light tickle of an eyelash

I didn't have time to though The picture of Lara Opened its eyes The next few moments Are a blur I must have dropped Lara No, I can't think like that The book that looked like Lara

Because the next thing I knew I was in the entranceway to the library The normal entranceway To the normal library I was on my backside Covered in tears and urine And the oily flim from the book But I was in the real way

world, I was on my ass because I'd just bumped into the librarian. The old woman glared down at me. Sh, she hissed. I was about to wail in protest to tell her something horrible that had happened to my friends, that she needed to run, when my words caught to my throat. Something dripped on my exposed ankle, something thick, greasy and warm. I've had my gaze slowly pull upwards to the ancient woman above me, drawn with horror to what she clutched between a frail arms. She was carrying two bucks. Each was bound in a thick leather cover that heaved in and out in a grasp, the faint folds and stretches around her hands wriggling and twitching too clearly to ignore. What made me scream so loudly they've had to remove my tonsils, however, were the titles.

I never found out what Henry's volume was called. Seeing the words, I never told him I loved him The life and quiet times of Beth Stanford was enough I've never been so glad to feel sunlight I threw myself out the double doors before the librarian Or the thing she was working for had a chance to punish me from my loud transgressions As you can guess it didn't take long for the police Not to mention Jackson, Henry, Beth and Lara's parents

To start asking questions I haven't been able to say a word for a week now. The only reason I'm not a suspect in their disappearance is the state the local sheriff found me in. By his reckoning, no guilty person would turn up at a police station coughing up their own blood

and covered in every fear-related bodily excretion imaginable. I haven't found any bodies, or the books. I haven't written down what happened until now. Nobody in my town would believe me anyway. I wouldn't have.

What I've been doing since then his research. This is why I'm begging you to stay away, not just from my library, but any of them. You're probably wondering whose leg I saw before I found the book about Jackson. I was wondering the same thing.

Despite the trauma, my curiosity had to know. It was when I found an article in the archives of the local paper from the early 1900s that I got my answer. It was a piece from 1902 titled local library brings literacy to ex-prospector town. There was a photograph in the article.

A photograph of a building I recognised instantly as the same library my friends and I made the grave mistake of haunting. Something in one of the sepia windows caught my eye. After mucking around with a contrast and brightness in Photoshop for a bit, I saw what it was. Instantly, I knew I was looking at the thing responsible for my friends, never leaving that library. It was a person,

although it was impossible to tell if they were male or female. Broad shoulders and white hips framed an impossibly narrow waist. He was wearing a dark suit and velvet overcoat, vintage by today's standards, but decades ahead of where fashion was in the 1910s. In its spindly arms, it held a stack of thick volumes

bound in a material I recognized instantly. Well, all except the topmost home of the stack, the one I also knew I'd seen before. It was the plastic photo album. I didn't have too long to wonder why a figure in 1902 had a photo album or Sharpie

or ever. The thing's face made me snap my laptop shot and throw it out the window too quickly to inspect it further. It didn't have a face. It didn't even have a head. His neck extended almost twice as far as any human neck I'd seen. It

ended. Not in a head. but in a massive, face-sized ear. An ear that was facing something in the room, but turned towards a screen, and a few split seconds before my laptop ended up smashed on the porch two stories below. I've not done any digging since then. I don't know, and I don't want to know.

I'm currently in the process of starting trauma counselling and speech therapy. There'll also be funerals to attend, once they finally give up searching. As I said, this is supposed to be a warning. Stay away from libraries because in every odd photograph of one I looked at in my first therapy session

I could clearly see the silhouette of the librarian of the other library waiting in the shadows for anyone that disturbs their books and their silence.