CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "Why I retired from Pest Control" Creepypasta

Episode Date: March 16, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by conorb_93: https://www.reddit.com/r/CreepsMcPast...​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►Veli Nyström: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/RXBZv​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-

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Find what you need to I was an exterminator, and my last job has driven me to early retirement. That pretty much sums up the story. Have you ever seen those shows when they send in hazmat suits to clean up the crap-piled mountains of hoarded garbage? Yeah, well, that was me. On top of deep cleaning homes, I had a lovely job of exterminating the swarms of pests that thrived in those conditions. I've seen things you wouldn't imagine.

Bathtubs filled with roaches, living and dead, Layed on top of each other like a crunchy crawling lasagna. Oh, and there was this one time where me and my partner Phil went into a house with, and I quote, a small rat problem. Let me tell you, there was nothing small about them. They were like rats on roids. Phil even joked.

He saw he saw one with a teardrop tattoo and a switchblade. I digress. The reason I'm telling you all this is so you understand, so you can tell that I'm just an average Joe. Literally, my name is. Joe, and I'm a sane, straight-shooting working-class bloke. That's important, you see, for what I'm about to tell you will make you question the validity of my story.

But I swear to you that it is the honest truth. About a week ago, we got a call for a job just outside of Kansas. It was a little farmstead, with the owner complaining about a vermin problem. Rats? No problem, I thought when Phil told me. I mean, having dealt with cat-sized roydroids. rats, I was pretty sure I could handle whatever pests were running amok on a farm. Besides, Phil had assured me that this was going to be an easy job. I had no reason to think he'd be wrong.

So, we went out to the home of a woman who called a Mrs. Kettlewell. Across the acreed wastes we drove, and upon driving up the dirt road, I could see it. A little farm with a crooked, crudely crafted windmill spinning slowly beside it. The place was quaint. Like a dream of yesteryear, that never were. It was the sort of place one would imagine as a backdrop to a black and white western, where troubles melted like lemon drops and twisters delivered you to far off strange new worlds. However, there was also something off about the place.

From its fields of dried yellow grass and barren soil to the enormous barn, its red paint faded and its interior empty of animals. The cogs began to spin in my head, and I found myself wondering what kind of farm is this if it doesn't have any animals or crops? Still, maybe they used to run it as a farm, but I've retired it since, I told myself. Yeah, that seemed logical to me. Maybe they ran it and it since gotten too old and let it slip into disrepair. It happens. When we parked the van up, I looked at the home ahead. It was a teetering two-floored structure, a gnarled, crudely constructed wooden homestead, made of uneven planks and entirely

stripped of his exterior painting, probably from a lifetime of battering by the harsh and sandfield winds. You're not one of those salesmen, or with those who keep trying to take my home? A shrewd elderly voice squawked from the shadows of a porch. No, madam, we're from Squeaky Clean, the pest control and house cleaning service, Phil said, stepping his portly body up onto the porch, his large workman boots, causing it to creak as he did. Oh, of course you are.

And I may say, you seem like a son. sweet young man. Are you here to deal with a vermin? The shriveled old lady asked, her toothless, wrinkled mouth grinning at Phil. I followed in Phil's wake and looked at the shrewd little old woman, all wrinkled up and wrapped in layers of knitted fabric. Yeah, that's right. We came because of the rodent problem you've been having, I assured her. Looking at her, with a small black glasses pressed into a face like goggles, and the lays of knitted shrouds were wrapped around her, I wondered if she was all there. Oh, there seems to be no end to them.

They are everywhere these days. But lately, they've been scampering in and out of my house, as if they own it. They were always coming on my property, touching my things, squeaking away. I have put down traps, but they still keep coming, trying to force me out. Mrs. Caterwell exclaimed, her strange rambling words, bringing a smile to both mine and Phil's face. We were accustomed to the normal dementia-dented declarations of our more senile clientele, but the idea of some rat conspiracy was a new one.

You couldn't do me a favour, could you young man? Could you also check on the flies? Mrs. Kettlewell asked, her voice interrupting my daydreams of William Wallace-styled rat rebellions. The... Flies? I shivered, having gotten flashbacks to this awful squat that we had to clean a couple years back.

No problem, Mrs. Kettlewell. We'll swat those flies and round up those rodents for you and have your home sparkling in no time. Phil chuckled in a charming, corporate way. I'm too long in the tooth for you to patronise, young man. She snapped, her calm and gentle manner slipping for a moment. Phil and I gave each other the... She's a spanner short of a toolbox look, as we cautiously planned our next phrases and replies.

Anyway, I'll leave your boys to it. I'll be going into town to run to errands, but feel free to help yourself to what's in the pantry, the little woman said, as she shuffled away towards a dusty, Beatleboard banger parked on the dirt road. Oh, and one more thing. My son is sleeping in his room. He is not to be disturbed.

Okay, Mrs. Cettlewell, I chimes back as we began a journey up into the house. That means don't enter his room. He gets very cross when that happens. She insisted a word serious and stern like a teacher chastising a pupil. We promise, Bill replied, trying his best not to annoy the feistyly little woman anymore. Then the woman drove off. We could still hear the cracks of a car engine

sputtering the distance as we clad ourselves in gear and masked up. Then we did it. We peeled back the screen door and entered into the old woman's parlour. It was as bad as you can imagine. Cobwebs didn't just hang from the ceiling. They were practically a part of it.

The white strands were strewn across the room, knitting themselves together with the old wooden furniture and the rat-bitten couch. The dust-heavy air was scented with the smell of stale winds and total neglect, but the kitchen was far worse. Upon stepping into the wretched room, we saw a wide breach in the floor, a plunge into a dark basement below. The counters were cagged in layers of grime, and the fridge.

My God, that fridge. We opened it and out fell the Niagara Falls of maggots, and other worming white things, wriggling in unison, and undulating into the cracks between the floorboards. And you thought this job was going to be easy? I laughed. I giggled, giving Phil a playful nudge. Yeah, don't you just love our job?

Phil laughed. Suddenly, our laughter was startled by the sound of horrid feet scuttling through the wood above us. The pitter-batter of tiny feet was something we were familiar with, having been in plenty of rat-infested hovels. I'll deal with our furry-footed friends upstairs, and you can handle all this, I said as I turned to leave.

Oh, you're so kind, Phil said, shaking his head. Exist in the kitchen, I began climbing up the termite chute steps, try my best not to put too much weight on them, lest I fall straight through and end up in some god-forsaken rat's nest. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, drummed the verminous sounds around the house. The rhythmic tones, a little off from the usual bouncy bounding of rats, rats. However, rats were the least of my concerns, once I put my foot down upon the top step.

As I did, it hit me, the noxious odour, earthy, yet sour, like soil from a field water with a curdled milk. It was the putrid perfume, of death. I knew it well.

When you've cleaned up as many scenes of death and murder, you get accustomed to the bitter rot that spills from the dead. Yet, you never get over the dread. I feared what might be waiting upstairs for me, knowing what that smell meant. With slow and cautious steps, I followed it, until I came to a room at the far end of a creaky, crumbling hallway.

I was sure this was where the smell was coming from, and solidifying this assumption was a sign of buzzing behind the wooden membrane. The door before me vibrated with the wing beat of an infinitesimal swarm. Now, with a smell and flies, My mind was quick to race towards the idea that I was about to step foot into a crime scene. I mean, that lady wasn't all there to begin with. Maybe she snapped and killed her son, or maybe he died of natural causes, and she just couldn't bear to part with his body.

That theory filled me with revulsion and despair. I was used to cleaning up after the dead, but seeing one, especially a child, that thought chilled me to my bones. Still, I had a job to do, and Phil would love for you. for me to chicken out so he can joke and howl at my expense. Readying my spray in hand and mustering of the courage to enter, I rushed in, slamming the door shut behind me. All was black. Even the light outside was eclipsed by the black bodies buzzing

upon the panes of glass. My visors were completely coated in them, and so, with no ways to see, I unleashed a notches spray into the air, sending the swarm into a futile-franced flight. On I sprayed until their numbers began to die down. It didn't take long before they fell still, and though they were still a lot struggling on, I could finally wipe my visors clean and see the room. To my surprise, there was nothing out of place. I mean, it was an empty room, no clutter, no hoard,

no expired food or rotten corpse, as I imagined. Relief washed over me. But then I heard it. The scuttling. This time the tapping ran up, the wall to my right, drumming an arachnid beat as it did. A shiver ran at my spine upon hearing the sound. No amount of experience in this kind of job can ever cure you of the fear of spiders. I mean, they're spiders.

Creepy, eight-legged, hairy things that crawl into every tiny crevice or hole available. That idea freaks me up more than the thought of coming upon a dead body. I dread to see how big the spiders are here. I mean, they've got no shortage of food, I joke to myself. I haven't found that talking to myself helped me forget the fear of the little critters, but this time it didn't, as the heavy thumps of eight feet clattered back down the wall.

With trembling hands, I tried to just get on with my job. I laid down flypaper, practically wallpapering the room with it to get any surviving flies, and as I was placing one sheet down, my eyes caught glimpse of a strange stain. Trailing down the wall was a browning leak of something. It was behind a torn piece of wallpaper,

and it was clear the stain was larger than what I could see. I realized I had missed it upon my first glance, because most of it was hidden behind the wallpaper of pink flowers, which adorn the room. Something in me told me to peel the paper back. I know I shouldn't have, but once I began, I couldn't stop.

With one final tear, the paper fell, and before my eyes, inches from my face, was a large circular blob of browning splatter. I touched the wall. It was moist. So moist my fingers almost spilt through it. Then it struck me again, a gust of foul-fetchering fumes.

There was certainly something rotting. Perhaps there was a body, and I was simply in the wrong room, I thought. Despite my instincts telling me something was off, I elected to enter the room next door. Once I left the swarming spare room, I walked towards the adjacent room, and upon the door, there was the phrase, Henry's room engraved into the wood. My mind returned to Mr. Kettlewell's only request, and though a part of me should have been concerned with keeping it, I was more worried that her request was made so we would not discover the corpse of a sun. With a deep breath

I turned the handle and let the door swing open To my utter shock What lay before me Was the room Of a small boy Drawings adorn the walls And there were boxes of action men And a ceiling dotted with glowing the dark stars

However there was one problem One irregularity to sight Every inch Every shelf and wooden furnishing It was tied together, knotted in a cascade of greenish-brown webbing. This web was unlike any spiders I had ever seen. It wasn't even like the cobwebs from downstairs.

It was thick, mucous-like, and it clung to everything, forming strange slime structures and weird worming nets. Entering, I began yanking some of the sticky stuff down, but it was pulling plaster out of the ceiling and walls, so I stopped and prepared to use my spray. Maybe that would loosen the threads, I thought. It was around this time that I noticed that sat atop a set of drawers or a series of photographs.

Looking to the black and white pictures, I saw Mrs. Ketterwell, still old and wrinkled, but with a small, curly-haired boy. He looked no older than eleven in every picture, and was always cut all up to her, shrouded in throes and sheets. They rod pictures. something about the way every part of the boy was wrapped up in a quilt in every photo frame. It just struck me as peculiar. But then again, looking around the chamber of gangrenous webs,

those photos were the least strange thing about the house. The penny finally dropped, and the most obvious, the most striking thing imaginable finally dawned upon me. Mrs. Kedwell was adamant that this room contained a sun, and though he was held in the picture frames, I saw no sign of the boy among the repulsive entanglement of slime threads.

I raided my spray and began unleashing the toxic torrent into the room. Pouring forth, the spray cut through the threads, causing them to sizzle, spilling into puddles of puke-coloured gunk. Scuttling, suddenly ricocheted across the room, a frightened scampering, I thought, from a spider that was soon to snuff it.

In my naivety and arrogance, I continued my fumigation, chasing the rattling vermin as it raced away from the bug repellent chemicals. Spraying beneath the boy's bed, I struck whatever it was, causing the thing to one niche a screech. Never in my worst or weirdest nightmares have I ever heard a sound like it, a bitter, piting while of a sound that roared like a cougar and hissed like a diamondback. Stunned by the noise, I stopped spraying, giving the creature the opportunity it needed. Scambling behind the wardrobe, its legs skittered up the wood,

knocking the wardrobe down as it rambled up its back. Fractured rotten strands and a cloud of dust filled the room, but when the debris cleared, I saw that behind the wardrobe was a great gaping hole. What kind of spider was that? I fretted. It surely had to be a rat, I told myself. Only something big could have knocked that wardrobe over, but then, if it wasn't a spider, what it created the vile vines of sickly silk which infested the room?

Come on, you've got a job to do. It's just a bug. You've killed bugs before, I said, trying to psych myself up. But it wasn't working. Trembling, I picked up my spray and stepped through the man-sized cavity in the wall, carrying in with me the heavy canister. Cautiously, I walked through the dizzily twisted interior of the walls, trying not to slip or miss a sheer drop down.

Like Henry's room, the space between was thick with an otherworldly, grotesque gossamer. Slowly I trudged, weaving between the sickly strands, until that smell, that fetid, disgusting reek hit me once more. It was stronger in here. It was all I could smell. Every breath I took was a lung full of pestilent perfume. I had no time to worry about the choking on the stench for something had caught my eyes. In the webs ahead, I found something out of place. A card from a realtor. beside it hung another card, this time for a law firm, and next of that a card for another real estate agent.

Looking around, these cards littered the place. Not just law firms or real estate agents either. Plumbers, babysitters, even pest control. Strange that there should be so many. Strangers still that they would be held between the walls. Then I saw them, clinging to sticky strands, entombed and partially cocooned in greenish-brown. were bodies, dozens of them. A horrified gasp left my mouth.

Realtors, salesmen and lawyer types still wearing their fancy suits. They were strung up like parcels of goop. They were rotten, dissolving in a soup of themselves, dripping and seeping into every fiber and splinter. They were the smell, the brown stuff on the walls. That was them, melting away, rotting between the crooked panels and thin drywall. I let out a howl, bellowing out for Phil, but the moment I did, I heard it. The cracking of joints, the movement of many legs. To my horror, my eyes caught glimpse of something.

Atop one of the maggot-crawling corpses appeared as shape. Lunging forth, the ghastly spider slashed through the air with biting fangs and clawing legs. I docked and ran swiftly swerving through the webbing, evading each clawing sweep from the spider's arms. Listening as I ran, all I could hear was the urgent and hungry scabbering of spider legs bounding from wall to wall, closing in on me with each step. In the darkness it was hard to see, but I knew that thing was far too large to be a normal spider. It was something else, something monstrous. Those ethereal webs were spun from otherworldly materials And the murderous hunger that drove the thing

Had to come from some Eldridge realm Far from our famished thoughts I dare not dream from whence it crawled Only focusing on the path ahead as I sprinted on Pounding out from the murk of the wall cavity I stumbled back and watched as leg by leg it emerged from the hole With as sin as the slowness it crept from the shadows Each leg was as long as a metre

murky green the color of rot. Every limb was armour-plated in a segmented foul carapace, spiked and thorned with long black spiny hairs. However, the spider limbs were not the worst reveal, for as it pulled itself forth from the shadows, all colour left my skin and all my bravery with it. Thundering, my heart almost tore itself from my chest as fear turned my bones and muscles to stone.

Before me was not a spider. It had the legs of one, but its body was no arachnid. It was a head, the head of a boy, specifically the boy from all Mrs. Kedwell's photos. This monstrosity was Henry. Though it appeared like a severed head, the grinning child's aberrant appearance had no neck, and, out of his head grew the hideous spider legs upon which it scuttled.

There, there was no order to their position. Some bore out of its crown, others out of his ears or the back of his head. With wicked delight, his pale face spoke not a word from his dirty blackened mouth. Instead, his poison smile opened its jaw wide and revealed hundreds of curved, grey fang teeth. In a flash, it snapped forward, jumping clean across the room, and, when I went to run toward the door, it jumped right in front of me. Fumbling away, I slipped in a puddle of slime, and it scuttled with such swift, that I down near died from fright.

In that moment, something took over me, and I suddenly remembered I had my book spray. Squeezing the trigger, I cast for the geyser of pesticidal liquid, drenching the thing in it. Henry cursed with screeching and screaming sounds as he struggled, stumbled, and recalled from me. For a moment, I thought I'd beat him.

But, after slinking beneath a bed, that abominable child shook the fluid off himself and prepared to attack me once more. Standing up, I raised a nice spray gun, but this time, strings of green gunk spewed out from his eyes and mouth. These pestilent rivers of blighted web netted up my spraying canister, sweeping them far off into the wall beside me. I found myself disarmed and at Henry's mercy,

as a spidery child crawled out from beneath his bed. Gingerly, he stepped, foot by foot, inch by inch, easing himself towards me, like a lion ready to pound. upon some hapless antelope. This time as he charged forward, mouth chomping with feverish fangs, I jumped aside,

and he hit a wall instead of me. Seizing the chance, I ran faster than ever before. Clearing the few meters between myself and the door, I escaped the room and slammed the wooden barrier shut on his face. Bounding down the stairs, with no concern of their termite-tude condition, I began calling out for Phil,

but he didn't answer. Phil, come on man, we have to go, we have to go now. I cried out with panic sweat running down my head. I told you not to go into his room. An all too familiar, shrewd voice croaked from the corner of the room, turning my anxious eyes towards a solitary chair in the corner of the living room. I saw Mrs. Kedlew, shrouded in webs and in cloth, her fingers plaited in a yellowish carapace.

You're just like the rest of the last of the room. the vermin, always coming in here, trying to move me out or steal my land, upsetting my dear darling Henry. Mrs. Kedlewell sneered, a greenish-gray fangs suddenly at display. Emerging from a hole in the wall beside her came the hideous, eight-legged head of Henry. At least with the others, Henry wouldn't go hungry, but you denied him even that, choosing to hurt my dear Henry, and that won't do. She chirped, her voice wobbling into a crickety tone, Are you going to kill me? I stammered. Deary me, no. You'll live. You have to. You have to tell the rest of the pests out there not to step foot to my property again.

That's why I called you. You're going to be my messenger. Of course, don't go telling everyone to stay away. Henry and I still get hungry from time to time. She grinned as she ran a spidery fingers through her son's curly hair. "'What about Phil?' I asked, my feet, already edging towards the door. "'Oh, I'm sorry. I was a little peckish after a long day of shopping. He really was a sweet young man.' Mrs. Kedwell smiled, her lips salivating and wide. Without any further words between us, I sprinted and got the hell out of that place. I'm sorry, Phil. Sorry I left you there, to be another stain on the wall, or a bad smell.

that just won't go away. But I had to get out of there. I had to tell people, if you get the call to go to that house, or if you cross paths with anyone called Mrs. Ketterwell, don't be fooled by a kind old lady act. She is a monster. And to her, we are the vermin.