Creepy - I Used To Work At An NSFL Video Store

Episode Date: November 15, 2021

Not safe for someone...***Written by: TheCrookedBoy***Bonus: "Life Extension Program" written by Y2JUSTDOG and narrated by Danielle Hewitt***Find our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. This podcast has made possible thanks to our patrons. Please join me in welcoming and thanking new patrons. Jennifer Savage-Renshaw, Shane Muir, Kathelaine Orr, Narlie Branch, Brandon Smith, Chris Lynn Nicole, and Radiclu. We love our patrons. That's why everyone at Patreon gets immediate access

to all Sunday and Wednesday productions early and commercial free. And the rewards go up from there to include instant access to over 500 stories and counting, not to mention the four new stories added every week. There are also logo merch tiers, whose proceeds go to suicide prevention charity. To see how you can support the podcast, and you're awarded, and for your rewards to have an impact on others, please check out the donation tiers of patreon.com slash creepypod. Now, this is creepy.

A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypasters and urban legend. in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents. I used to work at an NSFL video store. Written by The Crooked Boy. We called it snuff in my day, but I figured I'd update my language for the internet crowd. Most people are familiar with the acronym NSFW.

It stands for not safe for work. That one's usually stamped over vanilla porn, nudes, etc. To keep you from clicking on something you're not supposed to. NSFL is one step up from that. Not safe for life. From what I understand, it's usually tagged over images or videos of a high, highly upsetting nature. Take an execution video, for example, some unlucky schmuck getting flayed alive, or chains out apart while he's still screaming. Or machete-hacked, limb from limb by guys in black

masks. You'll see the NSFL tag before you click the video, so you know to stay away from it if you want to hold on to your lunch. Ever wondered who those videos are made for? Of course you have. And the answer probably sends your meat running cold. and a flash of goosebumps sprouting up over your skin. They're made for teachers. Parents, friends, bus drivers, politicians, bankers. They're made for people who get off on it. People who feel a warm tingle down south

at the sight of a serrated knife running through an unprotected neck. The great rush of blood around the blade, the gurgle of the dying. It gets them hot and bothered. People love it. Nowadays you can find most of it on the internet. Animals being thrown off roofs, torched alive, drowned, all that stuff's just a few clicks away. But back in the 90s and early 2000s, it was harder to come by.

Rare shit. Like a foreign movie you've been itching to see that hadn't gotten an American release. These were foreign films to some. Exotic is maybe a better word. Either way, I didn't realize there was such a market for the depraved until I took a job at Video Kingdom, a local video store on the outskirts of Seattle. I'm hesitant to tell you where. It closed down right after the time of the economy imploded, but I'm fairly certain some of our old stock might be hidden away in the dungeon. That's what we called our back room, the dungeon.

Some guy would come in, usually some white collar sap with a Ned Flats, and a red flag. Lander's haircut and three kids at home. He'd trundle up to the counter, looking around like there might be FBI crouched behind the VHS racks. And he'd say, I'm here to rent a rare film? The dungeon.

By Carl Hinton? There'd be an exchange of glances. I'd look him up and down, pretend like I was sizing the fella up, you know. He'd scan the place nervously, look back at me with an almost apologetic expression, that said, I swear I'm not fucked up. I'd shrug and lead him through a velvet curtain into the back room.

Would navigate boxes of VHS rentals. I'd pull aside an industrial shelf that concealed a hidden doorway. Lead him down a flight of stairs. Neon lights from a kitchie The Dungeon sign guiding the way. We'd hit a subterranean level, and the fellow's eyes would turn to saucers, a hard-on tenting his pants as he wandered into a sicker. goes paradise. Welcome to the dungeon.

I bet you're picturing some dimly lit hellhole stashed with black unmarked videotapes. Not this place. This is a classy establishment. Carpeted, paneled walls, lounge chairs. Dimly lit, sure, but like a cigar lounges dimly lit. We had back rooms with TVs so the clients could taste whatever they'd chosen from our vast array of tapes. There were dozens of categories, like any regular video store, featuring everything under the sun.

We had a whole section dedicated exclusively to people being run over by steam rollers. They were sourced from all over the world, I was told. Mostly Eastern European, Asia. I took it as gospel. I hadn't watched any of the stuff. It should be noted that anything relating to kids was forbidden. That was where we drew the line. If some guy came in asking for that,

we'd send a few heavies to his house with knucklebusters and orders to maim. We were scrupulous. A morally inclined organization. But everything else? Fair game. I know you're probably thinking I'm some mentally warped scumbag, drifting through life one slaughter video after the next. You'd be wrong.

I never watched the tapes. Never joined up to sell them either. I didn't know what I was getting myself into. I was 22 this summer I started working at Video Kingdom, and by the time Halloween rolled around, the owner of the place had me roped into his sixth scheme. By that point, I was too deep to get out. He had me by this scruff with an ugly knife tucked up under my jugular,

metaphorically speaking. I'm going to spare you the story of how I got involved. It's long and boring and surrounds me seeing something I shouldn't have while smoking weed in the storage room after work. The story of how I quit is much more interesting. I'm here to rent a rare film, he said. The Dungeon by Carl Hinton. I could tell this guy was bad news.

He looked like he was grown somewhere dark and moist. A basement dwelling freakzoid, crusty, slightly overweight, enough grease in his hair to keep the McDonald's fire running for a year. big Van Helsing style leather overcoat, combat boots. Unlike most folks, he wasn't nervous either. He was confident, smug even. I could tell he was a veteran.

That gave me pause. I was sharing air with no run-of-the-mill freak. This guy was one stepway making his own tapes. If only had known, I would have said, sorry sir, we don't carry that. That's what we fed down scrupulous figures. It was at the clerk's discretion.

We had carp lunch to turn away anyone we wanted. But I didn't. I gave him the up-down. He never broke eye contact. His eyes were bright, amused. They were alive. Like two black pools of oil just waiting for a spark. I swallowed.

Right this way. He knew his way around the dungeon. That was odd. I'd never seen this fucker before. And if you'd been a regular, I'd have known. There were a few other people browsing. One guy who looked like a wet muskrat. Another was at least 400 pounds.

There was a woman, too. Real dominatrix type. Over six feet, hard features, prim hairdo. My guy didn't spare a glance at any of them. He hurried to the vault. That's what we called the old school vault door tucked into the back corner of the dungeon. It had a wheel handle with a combination dial in the center. All there remained of the bank they used to live here.

I had never been through the vault door. Didn't even know what was on the other side. I honestly thought it was just there for decoration, for atmosphere. My six months as an employee of Video Kingdom, this was the first time I'd ever seen it open. The guy spun the combination, hiding's activity behind a cupped arm, like that annoying kid in class who wouldn't let you copy off his test. I heard that be click.

He cranked the handle and the vault were weased open. The skeevy guy slipped inside, slamming it shut before I got a good look at what stood beyond. He'd an egg the hell out of me. Like an itch you can't scratch. I had to know it was beyond that door. But I knew better than to ask questions in a place like this. I was the highest paid video clerk in the world for a reason.

I could have gone to Carl. Carl is in The Dungeon by Carl Hinton. Fake name, obviously. But a real enough guy. He was short, big personality, like a Danny DeVito type. I'd only met him a few times, but he always treated me like a son. Slaps on the back, musseling my hair. Hell, he even called me, son.

But I didn't go to Carl, because asking questions meant I was curious. And you don't get curious unless you're interested in the merchandise. So I decided to check it out on my own. Christmas Eve, slowest night of the year. I was clerk in the dungeon while my colleague ran the upstairs. It had been empty for a while, so I decided to take a peek. Had I known the guy from a few months ago, it would be showing up. The one I first saw under the vault.

I'd have kept my ass glued to the chair. I wouldn't have gotten curious. What was the fucking combination? I tried a few random spins. 11.2263, JFK's assassination. 4.201889, Hitler's birthday. No dice. The vault was locked up like a nun's-up.

underwear. I thought, racked my brain. Then it hit me like a freight train. The Kissinger tape. This was one of our videos I had seen. Carl made all the newcomers watch it. It was the first known snuff film. It was like the Santa Claus of the forbidden VHS community, a white whale, rare and iconic. Anyone who's familiar with it or worth their scruff can tell you what day it was filmed on. That was easy. Thanksgiving, 1929. I remember watching it for the first time. A sepiatone nightmare. A galaxy of grain shooting across each gory frame. I won't tell you what's on it. Well, what the hell? It's as a family of depression era farmers tied up in their field. Ma, pa, grandma, grandpa, and two gangly teenage boys on the wrong end of their horse.

The horse-pulled plow. The story goes, they had some big beef with one of the big corporations who owned their land. That was all the man got you back then. You sold some of your land for loans to buy seed or whatever, and once he took the loan, there was no getting out from under them. The corporations would twist and squeeze until you owned nothing but the clothes on your back. Paul was clever, figured it out, started corraling up all the farmers in the union to expose the banks. Bankston like that.

So they heard some outside hands to make an example. And it was made at 24 frames per second. Now here I was, some 50 years later, spinning their death date on a dial. I spun to 29 and heard a satisfying click. It had fucking worked. My hand was shaking, trembling a little. Shot with adrenaline. I gripped the vault handle, spun the wheel.

Thunk. The vault door wheezed open, stale air and darkness spilled out. There was a bucket of flashlights on the floor. I grabbed one and clicked it on. A cone of light shot ahead, illuminating a bank vault. Metal walls crushed in. Pegs drilled into the walls held various weapons. It was like a fucked up toy box.

guns, knives, razor wire chainsaws, hacks, saws, pliers, pliers, scalples. Everything that cuts and scrapes and plays with nerve endings was hanging from the walls. There was a pit in my stomach. Not just at the collection of tools, but at the gaping hole eating through the back wall of the vault. It had been tunneled through the flowered steel,

a narrow rocky quarter snaking off into the earth. I inched towards it. hesitant. My heart beating its fist against my eardrums. I grabbed a scalpel off the wall, tucked it into my pocket as I moved into the corridor, figuring I might need a weapon from a loomed ahead. I left the vault door cracked, listening for movement beyond. I didn't hear any. Didn't hear the basement-dwelling guy from before enter the dungeon. Didn't hear him follow me into the vault. I'd already found my way into the studio by then. The passage was rocky and claustrophobic,

just tall enough so I didn't have to stoop. After 20 minutes of banging my shins and elbows on the narrow craggy walls, I hit a dead end. I exhaled, irritated and relieved. A horse race of thoughts been galloping through my head as to what I might find. I was glad my worst nightmares weren't about to materialize. and then I looked closer and saw a false panel blocking off the egress.

I moved the panel aside and stepped forward, finding myself in a crowded basement space. There was furniture, beds, set pieces stacked high. It was like a prop house that a movie studio might employ for set design. There's a concrete ramp at one end. I hesitated, not sure I wanted to see what it led to. But of course I did. I negotiated the crowded room up to concrete ramp. It fed me into a soundstage.

It was a wide warehouse-like space with soundproofed walls and a network of dead overhead lights, surrounding a number of different movie sets. There was a pink bedroom, an executive-type office, an outdoor style scene in a mock forest. There were a few others I couldn't quite decipher from my vantage. It was quiet. And then it wasn't. There was a delicate sound, like an animal caught in a snare, a slight whimpering laced into the silence.

My whole body felt heavy, like it was encased in drying concrete. It was hard to move, breathe. I inch toward the noise. hyper aware of every movement, every crash thud of my heart, each breath sawing through my lungs. I nose towards whimpers and saw cages resolve out of the gloom. Lots of them. A dozen, maybe two. Inside, like tired, broken animals, were men and women, naked, cuffed, ball-gagued, curled up in a sea. soup of their own filth.

Most were limp, unconscious. A few were blurry, nodding in and out of consciousness as whatever drug they were on were out. An icy bolted dread shot through me. We weren't just a supplier of rare tapes. Weren't just a distributor. We were a producer. Carl Hinton made our videos. Most of them at least.

I heard footsteps behind me, sir to turn. Thud. Something hard and blunt cracked across my skull. A light bulb popped behind my eyes. I crashed down into the darkness. I knew my hands and legs were restrained even before I opened my eyes. I could feel the cuff sticking into my flesh. My eyes eased open.

Blinding light hammered my pupils. A violent white light from overhead hurt my eyes, stung them. Slowly a movie set resolved around me. It was a beige office, crowded with paperwork and boxes of VHS tapes. I recognized it immediately. A facsimile of Carl's office. An exact detail-for-detail replica. A camera locked off in one corner, trained on me.

I looked down at myself. I was still in my work uniform. Hands and legs fettered to a bolted down chair. I struggled, groaned, heard hushed voices. My back was to the door, so I had to fight in my seat for enough leverage to look around. The door opened. Carl Hinton entered. For an instant, I saw past him into the area beyond the set.

I saw the greasy basement dweller with a suit who was handing over a pregnant duffel bag. Then the door swung shut, and Carl took his place behind his desk. Sorry it had to be like this, son, he said sadly. But it would have ended here either way. We don't do severance or 401K of Video Kingdom. He smiled at his little joke, like it was the funniest thing in the world. I tried to ask him what the fuck was going on, but I couldn't. I was gagged.

Muted syllables escaped. Carl frowned. Don't bother, kid. You're fired. That's a segment we do from time to time when employees of the dungeon hit expiration. You're fired. We don't stock in a video kingdom for obvious reasons. But I hear it's a big hit in Japan.

I struggled against my binds, fought. screamed into my game. Carl would his watch slightly amused. Go on, keep it up. They love it. You know they do. You're giving them what they want. I fought harder, rattling my binds until my wrist-blood.

Carl sighed. The guy who's going to fix you as a regular. Real vanilla Joe, but he pays well. He'll saw open your throat. One and done. You won't suffer. I screamed something into my gag. He smiled, piecing together my question.

Nobody'll come looking, son. We're processing your paperwork so it looked like you got fired two weeks ago. I liked you, kid. I really did. Sorry it had to be like this. He got up and left. I struggled for a while, not sure how long. At some point the guy in the suit passed through the room like a cold dress.

A real playing guy. Might sell insurance, maybe real estate. Probably had a wife and a few pups back at home. Maybe a pool. He fingered the camera. The red recording light blinked on. With a sigh that said, Sheesh, this is not the position I want to be in.

He claimed the spot behind the desk, pretending to be my boss. He was practically vibrating with excitement as he started through a poorly written script about how my employment was being terminated. I didn't hear any of it. I was focused on something else. The scalpel I'd tucked into my back pocket. My hands grazed the handle, just out of reach. I strained harder, vaguely aware the guy was done talking.

He was rising now, producing a big, bowie knife with a serrated blade. He was walking over to me. I could smell his aftershave. Something minty. I got the scalpel between the tips of my fingers. He yanked my head back, exposing my neck, getting ready to slice through the big net of veins pumping blood to my brain.

The bowie knife went up. The scalpel slid out, slipped, fell. I reached out and caught it just in time. The buoy knife came down. I saw a wink of light off its polished blade. I gripped the scalpel and stabbed. There was a blind stab, inhibited by my lack of wrist movement.

But he was right behind me and standing crotch level within the arch of my swing. The scalpel sunk through hot flesh. I felt it burrow through skin and gristle. I felt something pop as it sunk in further. When he screamed and the boy knife went tumbling, I knew I caught him in the testicle. I fumbled the scalpel, nearly dropped it. It was greasy with blood and seminal fluid.

I got my grip on it, pledged into the handcuff lock, worked it around, click. The handcuffs sprung, fell away. The suit was rolling around, groping his groaning his groin. Blood roared through his fingers. He was howling, agony. I bent down from my leg fetters as the door flew open. Carl and basement dweller tried to rush in at the same time.

They got stuck in the doorway. It was a bit of slapstick, which would have been comical, had I not been on the wrong end of a snuff movie. My leg fetters fell free. By now, Carl and basement dwelling Van Helsing had stormed a room. My scalpel flew up. God Van Helsing and the jugular. He flopped down.

A great spray of arterial blood shooting from his neck. Carl grabbed me, shoved me back. We hit a wall. Framed pictures of the ocean hit the floor and shattered. Carl throttled my neck. His knuckles digging in and sealing off my windpipe. I stabbed blindly. The scalpel went through his cheek with sickening ease.

I ripped up. A mist of blood sneezed out as I opened his face like a zipper. He grud. I wanted, howled, lost his grip on my neck. His hands went up to his face, trying to retch free the scalpel embedded there. I planted my foot on Carl's stomach and kicked with everything I could muster. He flew back, toppling ass over tea cattle over his desk. I heard bones break.

The room was a mess of screams and blood. I popped the VHS tape out of the camera and bolted for freedom. I was about to stuff it in my pocket when my gaze caught the chest. duffel bag I'd seen the suit handover. I ripped it open and was met with cash. Lots of cash. Enough to run away on. Enough to start anew. I shoved in the VHS and grabbed the duffel, never looking back. I don't know if any of them survived. But I do know video kingdom remained open. It held its spot in the Seattle Yellow Pages until it closed. I'd sent for the book each year, have them mail at my little corner of America,

along with the newspaper which I'd pour over for articles about my old boss. I never saw any. Since then, I've lived like the Unabomber. My world's limited to a quiet cabin in the woods. My weekly trips to town for essentials. Otherwise, I keep to myself. I was looking over my shoulder. I was carrying the guilt over those men and women I left behind.

guilt over the things I haven't done about what I've seen. You probably think I would have gone to the cops. I didn't. I took the tape and ran. Had I forfeited the footage, I would have lost all leverage against the people who want me dead. That VHS is my bargaining chip. All I have left. After I escaped the dungeon, I mailed an anonymous letter to Video Kingdom,

telling them I'd made copies which would be screening in every police print. precinct in Seattle if I were ever harmed. This was a lie. There was only one copy of the tape. It was hiding in a shoebox under my bed, along with the little cash I had left. I started this transcript because I've been seeing strange things lately. Fresh faces in town.

SUVs with tinted windows. I can't help but feel they're following me. Watching. And sometimes. If I stare at those tin-in windows long enough, I can see the eye of a video camera on the other side. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents,

Life Extension Program, written by Y2 Just Dog and narrated by Danielle Hewitt. It was only a matter of hours before my sweet wife, Ashley, was going to pass. The chronic disease she passed, battled for years was ready to deliver the punishing knockout blow. As I sat by her side in our bed, we had a homemade DVD playing on the TV, showing some of our most

cherished memories. When the DVD reached the end, I popped it out in a fascinating TV commercial grabbed my attention. Do you have a loved one who will soon be leaving this world? Will the pain be too immense without them in your life? We can help. Would the life extend program, we can extend your loved one's life and keep them alive and healthy. There's still time for you to create memories. If this is an urgent request and time is of the essence, dial the number on the screen and we'll send a technician to your door in less than an hour. Act fast because life extension program kits are limited.

I looked at my wife. She looked at me. It's worth a shot. I'm not ready to lose you, babe. I said to her as tears formed around her green eyes. She was unable to communicate vocally with me this far into her disease, but she returned a huge smile and nodded her head to the best of her ability. I called the number, and as promised, Knox arrived at our front door shortly after. A tall, burly man in a blue uniform and a cap walked in with a box filled to the brim with wires and electronic devices. He cleared the bedside table and started setting everything.

up. How long do she have? He asked. Probably two or three hours at most. I grabbed Ashley's hand. It's okay, sweetie. This is going to work. Sign here. Standard procedure in case anything goes wrong. The man said handing me a document. Anything goes wrong? Like, she dies? Have you done this successfully before? That's classified information, sir. Our company is in a private sector. If you just sign here, I can get started. I was beginning to think that it was not such a great idea to go through with it, but seeing Ashley and her eyes closed, fading fast, was too much to handle.

I scribbled my signature. This may hurt just a little bit, but only for a moment. The man inserted wires into her ears and nose. He clamped little devices on her finger. and even her tongue. Just try to remain as calm as possible. Just a small pinch. The man flipped on a switch on a little device

that looked like a portable external hard drive. Ashley winced and twitched as her body stiffened. All done. The man unhooked the wires and returned them to his box. You see? That wasn't too bad. She's a real trooper. You've got a strong woman here.

Congratulations on extending her life through the Life Extension Program. If any questions come up, here's my card. So that's it. She's going to be okay now? That's it. This truly is a revolutionary product we've built here. Thanks again for your time.

An invoice will arrive in the mail. With that, the man exited our house. I cuddled with Ashley as the clock ticked. An hour passed and then another. Eric, I feel. better. She murmured next to me. I could not believe my ears. That was the first time she communicated verbally in six months. Only problem was, my name is not Eric. Thanks for taking care of me, honey. Must have been a bad cold. It is cold season after all. Ashley sat up and rested her back

against the headboard. I looked on confused. You remember me, right? I'm your husband, Jeff. Ashley's face went pale. She jumped up from the bed and stood over me. You're not Eric. You can't be. You look different. Where is Eric?

What did you do with him? Ashley ran out the door and through the living room and eventually outside. I chased after her. She was running like an athlete, too fast for me. I lost sight of her turning around the corner of the block, so I hopped in my car and drove. through the neighborhood looking for her. It was dark and rainy out,

but I finally found her on a swing at a park a few blocks away. From inside my car, I watched her swing back and forth, higher and higher until she let go. She soared awkwardly and smashed her head against the concrete, a wet crunch. I rushed over to check on her. She wasn't breathing. She was dead well before the paramedics arrived.

Over the following few days, I frantically called the Life Extension Program's number, looking for answers. Nobody picked up. I searched online all over for anyone else that may have used their services. I posted threads on various forums. A week passed when I received a phone call from a distraught man in his 60s named Jay. He told me his wife Grace had perished in a swing accident. Jay said that he had accepted a large amount of money to him. allow the Life Extension Program Company to use Grace's body for research.

Ever since I lost Ashley, I have felt betrayed and sick to my stomach. I'm still trying to wrap my head around what exactly happened and how it happened. It's not crazy to think that Grace's memories were planted into Ashley, right? But how did Ashley gain so much strength? I need more answers. I have to keep digging. For even more from creepy, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are used under license and may not be rebroadcast or distributed without the express prior written consent of the stories author.

Please contact us at creepypod at gmail.com for further information on obtaining the rights necessary to rebroadcast or distribute a particular story.