CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "What do I do about a disappearing room" Creepypasta

Episode Date: March 25, 2021

AUTHOR'S TWITTER► https://twitter.com/leciaariza​CREEPYPASTA STORY►by fashionablecrow: 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/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-

The room disappeared every second Thursday of the month. For a majority of my life, it had been more of an inconvenience than a hazard, since as long as I could remember, there had been a routine. It happened to my parents first. One day they woke to discover that the door to my half-painted nursery opened to nothing but a flat brick wall. They called in a report to the police that led nowhere. They were unable to explain how or why someone could or would break in

and wall off this one room of their new house. The cop thought they were wasting his time. They called a friend to come and look at it, but when he arrived the next day, my nursery was back. By the third time it happened, my mom was four months pregnant with me, and my parents caught on that this was a pattern. They moved the crib and all the baby stuff to the guest room that day,

and started looking at other houses. The following months, however, the room that was my nursery didn't, disappear. Instead, the guest room with a crib vanished. My parents sold the house at a loss two days later and moved into a new place they'd been scouting. By that next second Thursday, however, the room they decided would be mine was walled off. My parents, catching on to the pattern, took the next few months of my gestation and my infancy to learn the rules of the disappearing room.

First, it was only my room that would disappear. They tried dragging my crib into their room, thinking they'd just share and never let me have my own room. They were cautious that month and camped out that first Wednesday. Sure enough, their room vanished. If they were staying temporarily over at someone's place, however, the room I was given remained intact. For a few years, their solution was to leave my toys and bed in my room, but have me sleep in the guest room every night. But I was three, and I called that. that guest room, my room.

That next Thursday, the guest room disappeared. So, the loose rules is that anything that felt like my room would disappear. Two, it happened only for a day once a month. That day was the second Thursday of every month, but there was no consistent time. My parents stayed up and watching my room with the door open those first few months and made a chart. There was no consistent data. The times varied from 3am, 6am on Thursday, or even 11pm on that Wednesday, for when the room would wall itself up. By 10pm on Thursday, 2am or 10 a.m. on Friday, my room would reappear.

The room went whenever it sort of felt like Thursday. 3. The door always closed when the room disappeared. My parents tried jamming it with door stops and furniture. They took the door off its hinges. They put a metal bed frame between the two rooms. Either the door would slam closed, crushing whatever they used to bar the way, or a new door would show up. Four, the room was gone. Not just barred.

My dad tried to crawl through the windows and hammered a hole through the wall to try to get inside one of those Thursdays. His attempts brought him to nothing but brick and concrete. It was like a block just switched with my living space. My parents decided to keep this anomaly secret, afraid they'd be thought. of us crazy, or worse, someone might believe them, and they'd take me away. So instead, we learned to deal with it. On the second Wednesday of each month, I'd pack a change of clothes and the schoolwork I'd need for the next day.

I'd sleep in the guest room Wednesday night and go about my usual routine, and sleep either in my reappeared room or the guest room again on Friday, depending on how late it appeared. It wasn't a strenuous change in routine. I never knew any different, but it worried my parents. When my mum was pregnant with my little sister, the guest room became her room, and I was made to sleep in the living room. To their surprise, and my mild annoyance, my sister's nursery never disappeared. Even after she was born, her room was always intact. I was six at the time, so, as far as I understood it, I traded.

sleeping in the soft, spacious, grown-up bed, for sleeping on a blown-up air mattress once a month next to a crying baby. It didn't get better as we got older and learned to torture one another the way young siblings do. When I was 13 and when she was seven, she had this annoying talking doll

she'd play with almost every night. I hated that thing, so one Wednesday night, I tossed it in my room. She cried herself to sleep, thinking she lost it forever. and I felt guilt that almost outweighed my annoyance. I waited by my door that Thursday,

ready to make amends and bring back my sister's toy as a peace offering. My room shifted relatively early at 9pm. My sister's doll was there, and so was a note. It was written in orange highlighter. Thank you. It wasn't cryptic, but nothing new had ever been in the room after it was gone for a day.

Nothing was ever out of place. I screamed and ran for my parents. They read the note and turned on me. I know in hindsight they were afraid, not angry, but I only heard them yelling at me, asking me what I did wrong to provoke it. None of us knew what it was, but none of us liked it.

My sister took a toy back and I slept on the air mattress and my parents' insistent, even though my bed was back. I felt like I was being punished. I thought a lot about that note. A month later, it still came to mind as I did my homework. I had an orange highlighter and a few pens in a cup on my desk.

When I drew a line of my paper, I knew it was the same weathered orange the note had been. We always knew my room disappeared, but this was the first time I considered that my room actually went somewhere. The next second Thursday, I wrote a note to it and left the room. paper in the centre of the room.

Reading it now, I'm surprised that my own juvenile concerns. You got me in trouble. Are you using my highlighter? Don't do that. I don't want you touch my stuff. That Friday, when my room reappeared, there was a paper on the floor.

Sorry, was all it said. The word itself was written in a rusty pale red. It almost looked like watercolor. Only, of course, it wasn't. It had written back its message and blood, but not in a threatening manner. The handwriting was neat, and there were no ominous stains along the edges. It was a real response from the thing inside my room.

It had written a short apology on the back of my note. I hid that note from my parents. There was this giddy, childish excitement in me that felt like a pioneer of new lands. I was overjoyed more than anything to be the one to discuss. over the secret to a room my parents knew supposedly everything about. You almost killed me to wait a whole month to write again. But when the next Mark Thursday came around, I was ready. I left another note and a cheap ballpoint pen in the centre of my room.

That note was gross. Did you write it in blood? You should use pens, dummy? Here, have this one. My mum and dad say this room is haunted. That makes you the monster, right? Do you live under my bed? Right back, from Tom.

The thing on the other side already knew where I lived, but I was taught not to give out my full name to strangers. I got a response the next day on the back of my paper. Sorry, you said not to use your pens, so I bit my finger. I'm not a monster. I live in this room. Not under the bed. There isn't a bed, except on these nights.

There weren't any toys for a long time either. I like the doll. It was like talking to someone. I don't have anyone to talk to here. I didn't mean to get you in trouble. Intrigue won out over caution. I think, at that age, it started as an experiment for me to learn what I could about the inside of the room

to gain insight my parents never could. The next week, I tossed my sister's talking toy and a blank notebook into the room. I left a note giving the notebook to him and telling him to write me back. I can't remember exactly what I was. I said, but the introduction was something along the lines of, if you have no one to talk to, then you can talk to me.

I thought I was being clever, gaining his trust. I can't remember exactly what I said, but for months we exchanged messages back and forth in that notebook. It would ask me about school, my favourite shows, my favourite superheroes, things like that. I soon forgot it was an interrogation and thought of the thing on the other side of the door as an outlet for my grievances. It became my supernatural pen pal. If my parents grounded me, I confided in it.

If my sister annoyed me, I'd tell it how much I wished I was an only child. It wrote to me once, If you don't like it out there, you can come play here, stay with me for a month. Even then, I felt a serious aversion to that invitation. Yet, I also felt guilty that I couldn't trust my friend in the other room. I thought I was being too paranoid And my letter to it that next month Was an apologetic decline

I didn't want to stay with it for a month It didn't like to talk about itself Or what it was like on the other days It wasn't in my room From what little I had gathered I got the sense it couldn't leave From its brief descriptions I knew the walls were bare and cold

Made of coarse stone It said there were no snacks or TV So it was always bored and always hungry until my room appeared. It asked me about the snack foods the most. I got into the habit of saving some dinner from, or sneaking some cookies or chips up to my room on Wednesday nights. It was a ravenous thing.

I'd find entire packages of cookies and bags of chips in my waistbasket after one day. It also liked dolls. Sometimes it'd keep them for a day, sometimes for the whole month. When I gave it some of my sister's toys, that have their clothes switched and hair-braided or done up, sometimes half-wrapped out, sometimes with missing limbs. The notebook always remained,

but it would write plenty of questions about school, about the town I was in, and what happened on TV shows. I'd be sure to fill up that notebook with as much information as possible. Talking to it almost became an assignment. An entire afternoon I'd dedicate to my friend inside the room. Sometimes, between days of the month, I'd read through our entries, and I remember feeling the nostalgia and warmth experiencing those letters.

He'd always invite me to stay with him. They were always polite invitations, a solution offered when I complained that I didn't want to go to school or go to my sister's dance recital. I always refused. Why don't you come out of the room and spend a month with us? I asked him once. I can't come out. he'd written back. I can't go anywhere until someone else comes in.

Then, one day, my notebook went missing, and the first corporate I could think of was my sister. She was always going through my things, and I'd seen her trying to peek on what I was writing for weeks. When I came into a room, she was playing with that stupid doll. When she denied stealing from me, I yelled at her, and we got into a fight. I kept asking her day after day,

and she kept denying it. I told her it stopped being funny days ago and she kept insisting. I didn't take your stupid book, she said. Stop saying I did or I'll tell Mom and Dad you've been breaking the rules. That got under my skin. If she took the book,

fine, I'd be angry at her. But exposing my secret to our parents was unforgivable in my mind. So I wrote up a short note for the next Thursday. Keep as many as you want That night, when my parents were asleep and my sister had drifted off, I gathered every doll, every stuffed animal, every stupid toy my sister loved,

and I threw them all into the centre of my room. I made three trips to gather every last Barbie in Bratstall. I went to the kitchen and gathered the box of her favourite cereal, her favourite snacks, and every last bag of chips she liked. I put all of it in a pile in the centre of the room, so ornately arranged with my note in the centre of the display. The last, the prize jewel, was the talking doll she kept at a bedside. By now, my sister would have turned over and left the stupid thing to lay splayed out in some forgotten corner of the bed.

I crept quietly to a bed and felt along the edges. And there it was, the plastic hand of the talking doll. I pulled it up, and just then the stupid thing's voice box activated. I flinched, bracing for my sister's jump awake, and catch me stealing her favourite toy. She didn't. She didn't start crying because she wasn't in the bed.

There's nothing in this world that's ever sobered me faster. My irritation, my vengeful intentions and my petting sibling grudge vanished at the sight of the empty bed. I dropped the doll, my mind racing to the one possibility

that seemed like a certainty. The gut twist of guilt and fear spurred on my heart and dried out my mouth. I ran to my room, sliding into the wall with a loud thud in my rush. Just as I passed my frame, I saw my sister there, holding an armful of a dolls, trying to steal back a toys. I'm told, I shouted her name, but I just remember her, freezing in place. The door slammed shut, and it was Thursday. My parents came rushing, and my mom started screaming.

They pounded against the wall behind the door. They took a hammer to it. They clawed at the wall like animals. I stayed home from school that day. My dad rotated between scolding me and pacing along the door. My mom kept searching the house and walking up and down the neighbourhood, as if a daughter was only lost. It wasn't Friday until 6 a.m. on Saturday morning that week.

And we were all exhausted. When the door creaked and the house shifted, we all grabbed for the door and opened it to my room. My sister's toys were all dispersed all around my room. The snacks were torn into and gathered in the wastebasket or scattered along the floor. The thing we cared about, however, my little sister, was nowhere to be seen. I don't remember much of that next month, aside from the hours I'd spent sitting outside that door, waiting as if the rules would be broken and it had spontaneously burst open.

My parents didn't ground me officially. They didn't seem to know what to do with me. My mother wouldn't look at me. My father was the one to tell me it wasn't my fault every few days. And that only made me feel worse. Then the second Thursday of the month came and I had another note. Please give Emily back. There was no reply because that night my room didn't disappear.

We all sat by an open door, waiting for it to slam closed. We waited all of Wednesday night, and my parents took off Thursday and Friday. But my room remained as it was for the first time in 13 years. It never changed back. I never found my notebook, by the way. I don't think my sister was lying. I gave her to that thing behind the wall for no reason. It's been 20 years since that night

And I still feel sick thinking about it My father tries to keep in touch But I don't think my mother ever forgave me The last time I saw her was at my wedding I'll keep my family guilt to myself But I told you all of that Because now I need help

I need any information anyone can give me Because It's not over I have a wife of my own, you see, and we're expecting. She is three months along, and we started clearing out the space for a nursery. Last night, it disappeared.