Creepy - Ronald McDonald House

Episode Date: August 20, 2017

If you keep messing up, there's one last option...***Presented by Sable (https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/sable/id1114024060?mt=2)***Written by Dkingsbury***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.

This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends 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. Credited to D. Kingsbury. I'm sure you've heard of the Ronald McDonald's house charity. They provide housing for families of sick kids when they're in the hospital.

Seems pretty innocent, right? Well, there's another side of the charity. There's another type of Ronald McDonald's house, one that not many people know about. There's one in most big cities. You won't find it by looking for it. It doesn't have an address. It doesn't have a sign above the door, windows.

The only way you'll find it is if you're taken there. That's how I found it. I've never met my real parents. I've been in and out of foster families and group homes here in Detroit since I was a kid. I'm 15 now, and I'm what they refer to as a bad kid. always causing trouble, always getting thrown out in place with another unsuspecting do-gooder who thinks they can help me. I always prove them wrong. My caseworker sat across the black metal table, looking wary and frazzled.

On the table between us was a thick, letter-sized brown envelope. My case file. Well, your reputation has preceded you, she said. and now you only have two options, military school in Lansing, or the Ronald McDonald House, which has miraculously cleared you for acceptance. I don't have the patience for drill sergeants and five of him revely, and how bad could a halfway house named after a fast food clown possibly be? Ronald McDonald's house, it was.

There clouds loomed above me the day I climbed into the back of my caseworker's town car. My few belongings in the backpack and the clothes on my back. That's all I could take. One of the few belongings I had was a photo of them, filled with pictures of all the foster families I'd been with. It was nice to remember some of them, even though I had really fucked it up each time. I've had a few cases who went through Ronald McDonald's house,

the caseworker said from the front seat, Things went so well for those kids. I never had to transfer them anywhere else. In fact, the house took over their case files and everything. We drove into downtown Detroit, past all the familiar landmarks. I'd been thrown out of one foster home just outside town because I snuck into downtown Detroit with some neighbor kids to sneak into a dive bar. Good times.

Well, here we are. The car came to a stop. I looked out the window. We parked in front of a tall gray windowless building, sandwiched between two other industrial buildings and a narrow city street. I noticed there was an address on the building to my left and one on the right, but not on this particular building. Not even a sign.

Are you sure? I asked, hesitating as I opened the car door and climbed out. of the back seat. I slung my backpack over my shoulder, clinging tightly to the strap and followed the caseworker up to the windowless metal doors. She pressed the buzzer and spoke to someone inside and the door clicked on lock. We walked in. As soon as the metal doors closed behind us, I noticed the pin drop silence. It was that sort of silence that's so oppressive and empty, it almost deafens you. Across the dimly lit lobby, there was a glass window with someone inside.

A secretary. She was turned away typing something intently. We walked over to the window. The caseworker rang a bell on the corner and the secretary spun in her chair. Her face was painted like a clown. Like Ronald McDonald in fact. She even had the short curly red hair. Otherwise, she wore a typical white nurse's dress.

I wanted to laugh at how bizarre it was, but I couldn't. A chill swept down my spine. Something was not right. I watched as a nurse and my caseworker interacted. Paperwork was passed through the window. Caseworker slid my case file under the glass as the nurse slid. her some papers to sign. As my caseworker signed the papers, the nurse looked at me.

Her smile should have been warm and welcoming, but all I saw in her eyes was hung. Can't stay here. Take me to military school in Lansing. Please. What's the matter, sweetie? The nurse asked, her voice muffled slightly by the glass. Afraid of clowns. I looked into her hungry eyes.

Now there was a moment. malicious glint as she laughed. My caseworker laughed too obliviously and said, Now, now, don't overreact. You would hate military school. Besides, this will be good for you. Yes, said the clown nurse. This will be good for you.

Before I could object, I heard a slam behind me. I spun around to see an open door in the far corner of the lobby to the left of the front desk window. There was no one there, just the light that flooded in from the door. Then the creeping shadows. Shrill, echoing laughter and growing shadows along the wall inside the door. Oh, said the caseworker, Here comes a welcome committee.

As I stared in horror, clutching the strap in my backpack, my caseworker patted me on the shoulder for the last time. Don't worry, honey. It'll be different this time. You'll feel right at home here, I promise. She turned to leave. I felt bile churning in my stomach. No.

I said desperately, you can't leave me here. Oh, no, I've got to get going. I never did like clowns. What, that she left me there. The metal door slammed behind her, and I was alone. I faced the open doorway by the front desk again. The shadows had almost entered the room

and the piercing laughter was filling with lobby of sound. I ran for the front doors, pounded, and yanked and pushed, and screamed, screamed for help, scream for my caseworker, screamed for anyone, please God. I turned to see the nurse behind the class smiling at me again. And then they entered, laughing all the while. A whole group of laughing nurses with clown faces and red hair, some male, some female, but all with the same terrifying Ronald McDonald makeup.

When I did the lobby, I could see the glint of metal tools in their hands. Coming up the rear was a pair of clown nurses rolling a metal table, complete with restraints. Get the fuck away from me! I screamed, I pounded at the metal doors again. Let me out of here! Surrounded me. Grab me as I thrashed and screamed and tried to tear me. myself away. Laughing as I kicked and squirmed, they slammed me onto the rolling table and strapped me down.

I looked around wildly. I was surrounded. Let me go! They screamed, twisting and turning and pulling at the restraints. They rode me through the open doorway and down a seemingly endless white hallway. They laughed and laughed and laughed. They waved their shiny scalples and razors and needles mere inches from my face just to make me flinch and scream. Aftor. The last thing I remember before one of them finally ejected me was the hands, gloved fingers prodding inside my mouth and pulling at the sides of my mouth, distorting my screams and forcing an unnatural grin on my tears, treaked sweaty face, hot, rancid breath in my face,

and the whispered, perverted voice speaking the words, We'd love to see you smile! The maniacal laughter seemed to warp and wind down like a dying record player. Everything faded to black. I opened my eyes, and I was blinded by bright lights above. Shielding my groggy eyes from the fluorescent bulbs, I turned on my side and looked around. A cell. Tall white walls covered in scratch marks and stains.

A small drain in the corner of the floor. my toilet, perhaps, a door with no windows, and on the floor by the door, my knapsack. I tried to sit up. My body ached, and the moment I sat upright, my vision started spinning what they trugged me with. I realized I was shivering. I looked down. I wasn't wearing my own clothes anymore. I was wearing a dirty, ripped hospital gown, bright yellow with the pattern. and Ronald McDonald heads all over. Nothing underneath. I heard faint muffled sounds from somewhere in the building.

It sounded like screams. I tried to stand, but I couldn't keep my balance. My vision was beginning to stabilize, but my body still felt like rubber. I sank to my knees and crawled over to my backpack. Before I got there, I tried to open the door. As expected, it was locked. I slumped onto the floor beside my backpack and unzipped it.

All that remained inside was the photo album. They had taken my notebooks and pens and my cell phone. Of course I did. I rarely opened the photo album. But instead of photos that had been there, photos of myself with my previous foster families, photos where I'd attempted to look happy and hopeful even though I knew I wouldn't be there for long. Instead of those photos... They were like crime scene photos.

And in each one I recognized one of my former foster families brutally murdered and covered in blood. My heart raised and my stomach churned. I began to turn the pages quicker. Each page a new photo, a new family, carnage, and as their faces and the inside of their homes. I had lived with all these people. And now they were all dead. It came to the last few pages. A photo of a house in night.

Then a window of that house. Then inside the house. A dark hallway with light coming from one doorway. Then a photo of my caseworker. Your teeth at her bathroom mirror. Then a photo of her looking at the camera in horror. Then a photo of the caseworker. Naked.

Covered her in her own blood contorted into an unnatural. position in her bathtub. I turned to the last page, written inside the back cover of the photo album with three words. You never existed. I felt bile rising in my stomach. I threw the book to the ground and crawled over to the hole in the floor and vomited. They were right. Haven't killed everyone who ever knew me. It was as though I never existed. I heard morphine screaming in the distance. I knew I had to get out. I wiped the vomit off my face with my hospital gown and crawled back over to my backpack. Hopefully they hadn't found my secret weapon.

I zipped the front pocket and reached down into the very bottom. My fingers scraping the fabric. Sure enough, they were there. Sure enough, they were. Flushed with the seams of the bag, nearly undetectable, the pins I used for picking locks. I told you I'm a bad kid I leaned against the door and listened

I could hear footsteps approaching but just as soon as they'd come they faded in another direction I knew I had to work fast I jingled the handle with one hand and picked the lock with the other hand it was surprisingly simple holding the handle I solely pulled myself to my feet

I can maintain my balance now I pulled the door open just to crack A clown nerve started past. My heart almost stopped, but his foot steps in slow or change and soon faded. He didn't notice me. I poked my head out the door, seemingly endless white hallways in either direction. The distance screams were louder now, coming from all around. Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind me.

I decided to go to the right, passing doors identical to the door I'd just been behind. I heard the screams and sobbing come from behind each one. I stopped for a moment in one door. I heard the crying of a child inside. I jingled handle to see if I could let them out. Locked, get moving. Looking behind me every few seconds

to make sure no nurses had come into the hallway. Then I passed this at white double doors. I stopped for a moment. The word play place was written in tall, thin letters across the width of both doors. I heard more screaming coming from within the screams of multiple people and laughter The insane shrill laughter of the clown nurses

I shuddered I was afraid to find out what sort of torture was happening inside I knew I had to keep moving I saw a door I had with the stairway symbol As I opened the door I glanced behind me and saw two clown nurses emerging from the playplace room Their white nurse outfits were covered in streaks of blood I quickly shut myself into the stairwell, hoping they hadn't noticed me.

The stairwell was dimly lit with cement walls and rusty railings. I looked behind at the door. I just closed. There was a red number five on the door, so I must be on the fifth floor. I decided I had to get to ground level. Each footstep echoed as I began to descend the stairs. I couldn't hear the screaming anymore, just a low, deep humming sound like pipes in the walls. That was a welcome respite. I finally came to door number one.

The staircase seemed to descend a few floors lower, but I stopped here and slowly peeked through the door. More white hallways. No clown nurses to be seen. So far, so good. I stepped through the door and walked into the hallway. I noticed I couldn't hear any screaming on this floor, just the buzz of the fluorescent tube lights above. I came to the end of the hallway and another set of double doors. A large red cross.

The kind you'd see a lifeguard stand. her first aid kit was painted across the width of the doors. I pressed my ear to the door. All I heard was a slow rhythmic pulse like a machine at work. And faintly, a beeping sound like you'd hear in a hospital room. I knew I shouldn't open the door. I knew this wasn't the exit. I knew I should keep looking.

I'd to see. Turned the handle. It wasn't locked. I peeked inside. It was a cavernous white room. fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed. I saw wires hanging all around. And hanging from the ceiling.

And rose. Kids. Kids in hospital gowns like mine attached to white wooden crosses affixed to the ceiling. Literally crucified. They were silent. Their heads drooping forward, their eyes either closed or staring at nothing. Some seemed to twitch a bit, but most were still.

Their crosses swung back and forth very slightly. And the hanging wires. They weren't wires. Their intravenous tubes attached to the kid's wrists. Tubes sucking out their blood. I almost vomited again right then and there. And in the very center of the room amidst the rows of hanging crosses, I could see where the rhythmic pulsing sound came from.

A huge steel cylinder Which seemed to be collecting the blood From all the tangled tubes I tangled from the kid's wrists I opened my mouth to scream To cry out in anger All I could say was What the fuck? That's when the alarms began to sound

Loud piercing Like the police sirens of hell They must have realized that was missing I shut the doors and frantically glanced around the hallways to see if anyone was coming. No signs yet. I ran for the stairwell. As soon as I entered the stairwell, I heard the laughter from above, echoing and reverberating throughout the stairwell. The clown nurses were coming.

I stumbled down the stairs as fast as I could. I must have gone down another three stories before I reached the basement. I found myself running through a dark sewer-like hallway, with small light bulbs overhead every ten yards or so. The smell of decay and rotting flesh grew more and more pungent as I ran. The laughter continued behind me. I managed to glance behind and see a group of them running after me. I sound of them come into the light and then become silhouettes again. Their smiling faces and gleaming knives and needles pushing my adrenaline into the max.

I ran past the all coast full of stacked rotting corpses, but I couldn't stop. I couldn't think of anything but escape. I turned a corner and found myself facing them. metal rungs of a ladder in the wall. I climbed until my head smacked the ceiling. Below me, the shadows and laughter grew closer. Their footsteps slowed. They were close, and they knew it.

I pushed at the ceiling above me, heaving upwards and panting and screaming. The clowns were below me laughing and waving their scalpels. Something cut my leg. I screamed and pushed one last time. The ceiling gave way as a manhole cover slammed onto asphalt above. A circular open. I climbed out and frantically pushed the manhole cover back over the hole, blocking at the left where the clown nurses below. I laid there on top of the manhole cover for a few minutes as I caught my breath.

Rain fell onto my skin. The turbulent night sky above was a welcome sight. I looked around. Abandoned buildings, broken glass. No lights, no cars, no sounds, no signs of any life at all. A police iron Somewhere in the distance To silence

I climbed to my feet Pain shot through my leg I looked down and saw the cut on my ankle Where the clown nurse slashed me Lumping the best I could I stared to walk Hello The answer was a distant roll of thunder

Somebody help me please My foot fell on something soft and mushy I looked down in newspaper I peeled it off the wall What asphalt. Most of the ink had faded, but I was able to make out the date. July 13th, 1992. I dropped it. An icy dread filling my stomach. I kept walking. Can anyone hear me? He screamed. Please. Anyone? Please. The words faded into delirious sobs.

I said still for a moment. The rain had soaked through my thin hospital ground. I shivered as the wind blew. Then I saw light in the distance. There was a big yellow M in the sky. A McDonald's. Of course. When I came to the McDonald's, I saw that apart from me

and the rest of the building was completely dark. I walked cautiously toward the broken windows and looked down. Darkness. I turned and surveyed the play place, outdoor playground, 10-foot-tall structures of colored tubes for kids to crawl through. Sitting at one of the benches was a familiar figure, the Ronald McDonald statue. You know the one where you could sit beside him and look like he's got his arm around your shoulders. If you could see it, I shuddered at the sight.

The doors were unlocked. I walked in, out of the rain. Silence. I noticed that the decor wasn't like the modern McDonald's, you see. It was still the same as it was in the 80s, with the white plastic booze and the red and yellow tiles. The one seemed to whisper through the broken windows. I noticed something on the front counter,

a black rectangle. I got closer. A laptop. A nearly new laptop. I let out a soft, delirious, laugh. I knew what I was supposed to do. So I took the laptop outside and sat beside the Ronald statue. I opened the laptop and began to type this story. The rain is falling on the keys, but I don't care. I have to do now, but wait, because I've been noticing. Out of the corner of my eye, Ronald is trying to look over my

shoulder. He's laughing now. All I can do is join him. This episode of creepy is presented by Sable. Hello, creepy listeners. Allow me to ask you a few questions. Do you like horror? I know, I know, silly question. Do you like stories that span multiple dimensions, deal with angry gods, and contain giant armored birds? If you've answered yes to any or all of these, May I guide you towards my show, Sable? It's kind of like an audiobook, with each episode a different chapter in this tale of death, loss, and the unfortunate souls forced to rebuild our worlds.

Just go to www.s.sabell.com, or just look up Sable on all your favorite podcast apps. And thanks for listening. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this story. podcast or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us at CreepyPod on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook, or email all stories told on this podcast can be found at creepypasta wikia.com and are protected by a Creative Commons license. Some rights reserved unless otherwise stated.