CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "ZIP Code- 00666" Creepypasta

Episode Date: February 8, 2022

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by doomedgeek: 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►Oleg Zherebin: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/nY...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-

I'm being held prisoner illegally. I have attempted to smuggle information about my plight out. My voice has never been heard. I can only hope that this time is different. I was taken while I was at a small petrol station on the outskirts of my hometown. I was checking the air pressure in my tyres when three armed men surrounded me and demanded I dropped to the floor. They wore uniforms.

Confused and scared. I thought they were police officers. I guess the people who witnessed what happened thought this as well. I know now that they were not. These men who shouted at me, pointed their guns, as one of them cuffed me and dragged me towards a car. I was manhandled in the backseat and driven away. Signs, advertising great deals and credit available

had a car dealership flashed by the window. A hawk hovered in a clear blue sky. These were my last glimpse in. of freedom. I had no idea then that they would be. I was trying to speak to the men who had taken me. One next to me who had a shaving cut on his left cheek and the two up front. The car smelled of sweat and cigarettes.

What have I done wrong? I pled. Why have you arrested me? Cut cheek smiled at this. We haven't arrested you, he said. So, why? I began to protest. He cut me off with a gut punch.

I crumpled, gasped for air. There's plenty more of that available, Cutcheek said, if you keep up with your noise. One of the men up front chuckled. The driver, the man in the passenger seat said, mask him. From somewhere, Cutcheek produced a black piece of fabric, pulled it down over my head. I started the struggle. I second punch to my stomach ended that. Blind now, only able to tell.

we were still moving by the motion of the car, I tried to think. I told myself that this was all a horrible mistake, that I would be taken to a police station, and there I would be able to speak to a lawyer, and this hideous error would be cleared up. I wouldn't even press charges for the assault of me that had taken place. I just wanted to get on with my life. I was 20, and it wasn't much of a life I had, but I was ambitious and hardworking and believed in the national dream. I was going to do great things, make big bucks and sleep with a lot of beautiful women, which was my version of the national dream.

Until then, I was working nights at a convenience store and taking college classes in the day. I changed courses a few times. I just couldn't seem to settle on a subject that was right for me. But that was fine. I'd get there. I'd already overcome a number of challenges to get this far. My mom and dad were killed in an automobile. accident when I was nine. My grandmother had picked up the reins with me then, and as best she could.

She had passed away the fall before, and I still miss her. More, I think, than my parents, who, and it makes up way of such things, I blamed for not being there, as if they'd chosen to drive into the back of a broken down truck in freezing fog. In the back of the car that day, I thought about my family, about a girl in my college class who was so hot she made me feel faint, about my car. Would it get towed? Would it be charged for that? Could I claim the money back when this misunderstanding was cleared up? Disjointed, frantic thoughts. I noticed we were slowing down, coming to a halt. I heard one of the car's doors opening, and then my arm was being pulled as I was hauled out. My hand still cuffed, still hudded, I was half dragged, half carried along

for what felt like a long time. I had buzzers, doors banging shut, muffled, voices. I started to shiver and feel too hot all at once. I'm going to be sick, I said. Someone next to me cursed. A moment later, my hood was lifted just in time. I threw up. There was a light overhead. After the darkness, its brightness hurt my eyes. I tried to turn away, but someone grabbed the back of my scalp and forced me to look upwards. Why are you doing this to me? I yelled. One of the men, I could not see which one, blinded now by light instead of a mask, laughed harshly and said, You know why, scum.

Something sharp connected with the base in my spine. I screamed out in pain, and then they forced me along on a narrow walkway, which seemed to have no end. Until we reached the new door, one constructed of steel bars, we were buzzed through into a narrow corridor. cells lined the walls, small, dark places. The door to one of the cells buzzed open and I was thrown in. Then the men who brought me here walked away. I was alone. I looked around, wiped snot from my nose with my elbow.

The cell was about 15 feet square. The front of the cell, apart from the narrow metal door, was clear glass or some kind of plastic. There was a skinny bed pushed against. into one wall and a hole in the floor. It was a struggle because of the handcuffs, but I managed to get to my feet. I am six feet tall,

and now I was stood up. The ceiling was only inches above me. I felt a slight ripple of air on the top of my head, peered up and saw a small grill, an air vent, I guessed. I let the cold air trickle over my face. It felt so good that I started to cry. something flickered to my left

A face appeared in the center of a small screen That was set into the wall It was a woman Her hair was tied back And she were a light grey blouse Make yourself comfortable Her voice came through a speaker Which was next to the screen I saw

There's been a mistake I sputtered I haven't done anything wrong She consulted something A document maybe Then said you have been conspiring to commit an offence that would have posed the severest level of threat to the national security

This sounded bizarre to me So wrong that the only thing I could think to say was I'm only 20 for God's sake She paid no notice to this and continued You will be detained until you are no longer a danger to the good people of this country The picture faded The screen was once more a dull rectangle in the wall you can't do this to me I yelled you can't

I began to kick out of the screen lost my balance and ended up back on the floor you can't I sobbed and rolled over onto my side you can't I said again and again somehow I must have fallen asleep and I woke up with a start a hatch near the base of the door had opened and something was being slid through

a tray covered with a lid I could see a man through the clear cell front. I tried to sit up, my arms cramped, and I hollered. Help me, please, stand away from the door. The voice that addressed me was cold and sure. I can't get up, I said, hearing now how pathetic I sounded and hating it. Move away from the door, the man repeated. I shuffled backwards on my ass.

The door buzzed open and the door buzzed open, and the door. man came in. He was older than me with a bus cut and wore a grey shirt and trousers. He reached over me and unlocked the handcuffs, then stepped away. I haven't done anything wrong, I repeated. He ignored me, left the cell and was already walking away as the door buzzed locked. Where am I? I shouted after him. You have to tell me. I have rights. I believed in things back then. I believed I lived in a free country where we were guaranteed fair treatment, a trial represented by an attorney in an open court, the right to speak and to be listened to. The only thing I'm certain of now is the

darkness which awaits me when the lights of my cell is turned off at night. Left alone by the man who had unlocked the handcuffs, I sat for a while alternating between panic and anger. Eventually I managed to shrug off the handcuffs. My arms and wrists hurt like that. hell and I spent a week massaging them, then decided to see what was on the tray. I opened the lid on the hinge to show a plastic cup with watering and what looked like soup in a plastic bowl. There was no spoon. I wasn't hungry, but my mouth felt very dry, so I lifted the bowl and tried a sip of the soup. It was cold, greasy. I spat it out and took a drink of the water. It tasted metallic.

My stomach spasmed, and, apart from a few drops of the foul-tasting water, I dry heaved. A while later, I can't say how long, the lights went out, and I was left in total darkness. Using my hands to feel the way, I crawled up onto the bed. It was hard, and there was one thin bed sheet. I didn't sleep. I said earlier about the lights being turned off when it's night. I have no idea whether that is true, whether it is night in the world outside when the darkness is imposed, whether the sun will have risen when the lights are turned back on. There was a regularity to this part of the routine though, and had his headed to try and keep track of things by remembering how many times the lights were turned off and on.

In this way, I could keep a tally of the time I was incarcerated. I was clutching under the flimsyest thread of a place beyond the cell. of an earth that turned on its axis, where people cursed their alarm clocks and worried about the bills, where they had their hearts broken and wondered what it was all about. Alone in my cell, the cycles of light and darkness added up. The only human contact I had was the guards who brought me food and drink on the tray, and, once a week, a bowl of tepid water for me to wash with. The first time I asked for a towel to dry myself, I was told to use the sheet.

most of the guard said nothing a few taunted me when I needed the toilet I used the hole in the floor and learned to save up water to try and clean myself with afterwards every few weeks a new bed sheet was brought and the old one by then disgusting taken away and at seemingly random intervals the door buzzed open and everything in the cell was hosed down including me I kept counting when the lights went out and the lights went on, and I never gave up hoping that one day this hideous ordeal would end. By my reckoning, this lasted for almost five months, and then there was a change. Not to the cycle of abuse that rolled on with sick efficiency, but one day I was no longer alone. I heard the new prisoner before I saw him, before the steel bar door at the end of the corridor, which I could only see in my memory, buzzed and open. There was the sound of swearing.

It was like a tornado of profanities, and it was heading my way. The door sounded, and it got louder, and then I saw a man, who must have been six foot seven, being hauled along by four guards. My first thought then was, being so tall, how would he fit in the cell? The door in the cell opposite me opened, and he was forced inside. The guards kicked his stomach and his groin to get him bent over enough to get the through the door, and then they left him, stooped over, but still hurling insults and threats, even though now the guards had gone, and there was just the two of us.

His face was flushed red, and I could see crude tattoos on his cheeks, just under his eyes. He was not looking at me. He was still screaming in the direction the guards had gone, and, after months of longing for someone to speak to, I could not think of a single thing to say. He kept shouting until the lights went out, and for long after. I know how crazy this would sound, but the noise of him lulled me to sleep. Perhaps because the silence of isolation was broken. I woke when the lights came on, sat up and realised he was staring at me. Welcome to the zoo, I said, feeling in my enclosure like some dumb animal.

He was sitting on his bed. He rubbed his face What is this place? He asked I shrugged I don't know He rubbed his face again What did you do to get so banged up

I don't know I said again There was no way I was repeating the lies I had been told On my first day His mouth twisted into a kind of smile That had nothing to do with happiness Yeah, me neither

He said Then My name's Mox I nodded. Jake, I'd shake your hand, but, you know. Yeah, Moks responded. The sound of a woman's voice interrupted this heart to heart, and Mok's turned a look at the wall beside him.

Because of the angle, I couldn't see the face on the screen, but I could listen as she said to him exactly what she had said to me. He listened with what struck me as remarkable calm. Then, when the woman had finished, He surprised me. He burst out laughing. So bad he had to lie down. Well, as much of him as could fit on the bed at any one time.

Ah, that's rich, he said. That's a bank vault full of garbage. Me, a threat to national security. He got a little more control over himself, then turned to, once more, face me. I spent most of my life in jail, he said. I break into houses and steal whatever I feel. find and take it down to the shop. That's what I do.

And when some schmunks in a weird uniform drew on me in the street yesterday, I thought that's why I was being arrested again. But no, me, a threat to national security. He repeated the phrase, as if it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. In a way, I guess it was. I lay back on my own bed and came the closest to a smile of my own in a long time. Shortly after this, a guard came with our trays. Mux watched him sullenly.

I caught the man's eye, though. I hadn't seen him before. He did not look much older than me. He put my tray on the floor in front of the cell door. Then he pushed Moxes through the hatch into his cell. Then he turned back to face me. Everything okay, he asked me in a quiet voice. The first time a guard had ever said anything like this to me,

and there was something in his eye, something that told me he wasn't like the others. Call it instinct, call it what you will. I started the wonder, and made a snap decision to go out on a limb. Oh, you help me, I whispered. He looked me straight in the eye, but did not respond. I went on,

will you help me get a message out to tell people what is happening here? He was motionless, and I thought I was wasting my time. Then, he said, Yes, I'll help. I'm disgusted by what I've seen here. I'll bring you a pen and paper so you can write it all down. My heart began to soar.

After all this time, there was a glimmer of hope. Thank you, I said, my voice breaking. There's one thing, he said. You'll need a return address, so the bleeding hearts can write back. I got tightened. His eyes glinted, and he said in his sneering tone, How about using zip code zero zero six six six? Because you in hell, boy, and you going nowhere else.

Then he lifted the lid of my tray and urinated on it. Behind him, Marx, who I don't think would have been able to hear the conversation, began to roar, began to tell the guard what he would do with him when he got his hands on him. The guard finished what he was doing, pushed the tray through the hatch with his boot, then left. I moved as far away from the tray as I could, a few lousy feet in that damned cell, and then I began to weep. Mox and I never spoke about what happened, and a couple of weeks later, by my reckoning, we were joined by two more prisoners. Because of the angles of the cell, apart from the brief moments when we saw them, being brought in. We could hear but not see them once they'd been locked in.

Over the course of the days that followed, the four of us began to talk. One of the new men, John, talked a lot. Like me, he'd never had a run in with the authorities. In a shaky voice, he told us that he was 34 and going through a rough patch. He'd lost his job and become isolated, rarely leaving his apartment. He'd only gone across to the store to spend a few dollars he had on essentials when the armed men came for him. The fourth of us, imprisoned so unjustly, so obscenely, said he was called Henry. Like the damn king with all the wives, he added. He had a degree in computing and a dope problem and was out on probation after a stretch for fraud. He liked prison, he said, because the dope had been cheaper and better quality

than on the outside. Every time the guards came with our trays, he would ask if they had any of the good stuff. Only the good stuff, he'd say, I don't want nothing that's been cut with bacon soda or detergent. The guards blanked him or laughed at him, same as they did with the rest of us. We waited for more arrivals, but that was it. The terror that followed was to be shared between the four of us. The calendar in my head told me that we were in the new year when it began. We'd been talking, griping and cracking jokes, or describing in graphic detail what we'd do to the people responsible, if only we could get our hands on them, when Henry piped up. Hey, my screen's coming on. Mine as well, John said. I looked over at the screen set into the wall

off my cell, and sure enough, there she was, the woman with a tied back hair, a light green blouse. She was silent for a moment Maybe to make sure we were all listening And then she said Your lives are to be given purpose You will be participating in some medical experiment Some of you will be given a new compound Some will receive placebo

That is all Then the screen faded And I heard a click Looked up Saw a faint mist descending slowly from the vent in the ceiling I watched as it flowed out into the cell. My instinct was to flee, to try and not let it touch me.

But where was there to go? What the hell? I heard one of the others call out, John, I think. Opposite me, Marx was standing up at the vent in his cell. He rubbed his face as he'd always did when he was thinking. I learnt a lot about this man since we'd been in prison together. He'd been beaten by his dad and his uncle.

but by the time he was a teenager, he was big enough to stand up for himself and had put them both in hospital, then simply walked out the door and lived on the streets. He'd gotten his tattoos the first time he was in prison. They were meant to be teardrops, but the person who'd done them in return for a payment and pills was so high it was lucky Mokks hadn't lost his sight. He might have a kid of his own, he wasn't sure,

but he hoped he had, and one day he was determined to speak to them, to tell them to follow a different path in life to the one he'd taken. This man, this big, messed up man, sat there and watched the mist settle on him. Smells kind of funky, he said and laughed. I don't feel so good. This came from Henry. Try and stay strong, John said.

He was opposite to Henry, so unlike Mox and me, could see what was happening to him. Stay strong, John said again in a quieter voice. Henry was the first to go. I wasn't so good with my mental tallying up of the hours as I was for the days, but I'd say a couple of hours had passed when John started to shout. Henry? Henry, man, wake up. What is it?

I yelled. Henry's not moving, John called back. I think, I think he's dead. I could hear that he was starting to cry. John was a gentle soul, gentler than the rest of us. It's going to be okay, I said, trying to reassure him, and thought desperately what I could do.

I knew there was no point shouting for the guards to come help. I looked at Mox, hoping together we could come up with something. But he was leaning forward, still on his bed. His head drooped over his knees and his arms. His hands were shaking slightly. Mox, what is it? I said. What's wrong? He never responded, and shortly afterwards, he died.

I know this because his bowels and his bladder let go, and after that there was a terrible stillness to him. I hoped he had found peace. I vowed revenge on those who had killed him and Henry. I waited and listened to my heart raising in my chest and wondered when I would join them. I wasn't next though. John had been crying all the while, and suddenly he shouted, No, not! And then he was silent.

And once more, I was on my own. The lights went out. Still, the guards did not come. There were three dead men lying in their cells. Were the guards going to leave them there all night? I sat in the darkness. I felt an unbearable sadness and an anger. I was possessed.

by both. When the lights came back on, my chest still moved with each breath. I was somehow still alive. I had had the placebo. I looked over at Mox. His corpse was a pale shape in his cell. It was like death had frozen it in place. Good-bye, friend, I whispered. And then I saw, his hand twitched his right hand I shot to my feet cried out Marx Max you're alive

At the sound of my voice His head slowly raised Turned to face me And when I saw his eyes Saw the emptiness in him An icy coldness spread through my body His mouth opened He looked like he was trying to speak

I stood paralysed by fear and stared He was trying to speak But no other words came out His hands flexed He began to stand His frame too tall by far for the cell Was soon twisted

Stooping and still his lips moved Then the silence was broken I could hear something being slammed Against the walls of the cells that were out of sight Had John and Henry risen as well Had death not been the final act in their tortured existence across from me the thing that had been mocks began to tap on a clear cell front tap tap tap then slam his fist connected with it then his other again and again the noise of the three of them built around me like a storm i have talked about how i've been so careful to keep track of time how it was a way of clinging onto a life i used to have one in which i could walk down the street, go for a coffee, think about going for a coffee, but decide I could not

be bothered. Stupid things that are precious beyond words to me. Precious because they are lost. By my reckoning, five years have passed since the mist descended from the vents. And mocks, John and Henry died, and then became... I know there's a word for this, but I don't want to use it. Really don't want to use it. I was closer to those three men than anyone else, save my grandmother who raised me, three men who became no longer recognizable as human. After the mist, after they died and rose, their bodies decayed, their skin fell away, their flesh and their muscles and their organs beneath rotted.

And still, they raged, throwing themselves against the walls of the cells. moks punching and thrashing and silently screaming. The guards did come eventually in the days after the mist descended, but pretty soon they retreated and stayed behind the steel bar door at the end of the corridor. The door of my cell was buzzed open for a good while later. Five years on and I collect my food and drink now from the guards to the steel bar door. I can see the disgust on the faces of the guard. I am numb now to the nauseating stench coming from the cells, but they clearly are not.

I don't think it's just disgust at the smell. I think they are revolted by what has been done here. Through rust, murmured conversations, one of the guards has even agreed to take my testimony, this testimony to the outside world. I have no guarantee. I can only hope there is enough decency in the man I'm trusting. I will finish writing soon and hand it over But first I walk for one more time past the cells

The small dark places John and Henry Who only glimpsed briefly when they were alive As they were dragged into the cells Are little more than masses of ranted flesh and bone That writhe around on the floor They are dead forever And will never be at peace

Always struggling always moving. Mocks is further gone than the other two. His body is so badly reduced, I can see individual teeth, strands of hair, all caught in the putrid gathering of what his corpse had become. And there is more. In the last few days, I've seen a dust rising from his remains, elements of him that are now finer than a strand of hair, a fragment of an individual tooth, elements of him that is still animated with a force that makes a dead man move. And I stand and watch as the dust continues to rise, swirling and rising. And I look up to where the vent is in the ceiling and think,

Keep going, Mox. Because if the dust reaches the vent and goes through and leaves the cell, then her part of you has escaped. a part of you is free