August 21, 2025 • 9 mins
#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #hauntedhouse #traumacleaner #unmappedplaces #psychologicalhorror #cursedbuilding When a trauma scene cleaner is called to a home that isn't listed on any map, things quickly take a turn from unsettling to unexplainable. Bloodstains that never dry. Rooms that shift. Whispers that echo from nowhere. As he delves deeper into the house, reality starts to unravel. What began as just another job becomes a descent into something ancient, cursed, and impossible to escape. A story of psychological horror, haunted spaces, and the stains death leaves behind—both physical and spiritual. horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, hauntedhouse, cursedhome, traumaresponse, deathcleanup, hauntedbuilding, stainsneverdry, cleanerhorror, psychologicaldescent, spatialhorror, cursedspace, deathresidue, supernaturalencounter, liminalspaces, realitybending
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
I've always said there's nothing clean about death. It stains
the carpets, the walls, the air, your dreams. You scrub
and scrape and sterilize, but it clings to you like
the stench of ammonia. I should know. I've been a
crime scene cleaner for seventeen years. My name is Felix Granger.
(00:22):
I'm forty four years old, divorced, no kids. My closest
relationship is with the bottle of industrial bleach I keep
in the back of my van. That stuff eats through
everything blood, brains, bone, but not memories, not guilt, not
(00:42):
whatever the hell followed me home last Thursday. It started
with a call at two thirteen a m. The despatcher
said it was a level four that means a decomposition
over seven days, a real bloater. I didn't even ask
what caused. It doesn't matter. My job isn't to ask questions.
(01:04):
I show up, I clean up, I go home like
a ghost. This scene was in a forgotten stretch of
town called Hallowick, mostly empty warehouses and condemned buildings, the
kind of place even cops don't like to patrol. When
I pulled up, the house looked wrong, not run down,
(01:25):
just off. Something about the angles the windows seemed too narrow.
The front door was warped inward, like it had been
sucked in by a vacuum, and yet all the lights
were on. I stepped inside. The air hit me like
a brick wall, Hot, metallic and putrid. It was the
(01:46):
kind of smell that settles into your lungs and refuses
to leave. I pulled my mask tight, snapped on the gloves,
and began my sweep room to room. I documented the scene.
Blood on the ceiling, viscera on the walls. Something had
torn this place apart, but there was no sign of
(02:07):
forced entry or of the body, which was impossible. Despatch
doesn't get it wrong. Ever. Still, my job was to clean,
so I got to it. I worked in silence, except
for the hum of my UV lamp and the squelch
of blood beneath my boots. That's when I heard it,
(02:28):
A whisper, soft, feminine felix. I froze. It wasn't the
usual mental noise I hear at late night scenes. This
wasn't my imagination. It came from the hall, Felix. Help.
The voice was familiar, my ex wife's voice, Julie she
(02:50):
died three years ago, suicide, pills and wine. I spun around, heart,
hammering against my ribs, but the hall was empty, just
wallpaper peeling like rotted skin, and a busted picture frame
hanging crooked. I told myself it was sleep deprivation, a
trick of the mind. But then the house breathed on,
(03:14):
not being poetic. The dry wall pulsed, the ceiling bowed
like a lung inflating. I heard the groan of wood stretching,
the moan of old pipes, not under pressure but pain.
That's when I found the door in the floor wasn't
on the blueprint, wasn't even visible at first, just a
(03:34):
metal ring buried under the blood soaked rug. I lifted it,
expecting a crawl space. What I saw wasn't any basement.
It was a stairwell, made of bone, real human femurs
and vertebrae, arranged like bricks. They spiraled downward, far deeper
than the house should go, far deeper than anything should go.
(03:56):
I should have turned and left, called the copse, pretended
I never saw it. Instead, I descended one step two.
The air grew colder, wetter. I could hear something below,
something moving in the dark, scraping bone against stone. It
(04:16):
was rhythmic, almost like breathing. Then I heard her again, Felix,
why didn't you come home that night? Julie's voice closer,
now crying Julie. I whispered no reply. I took another step.
My foot slipped. The flashlight clattered down the stairwell, spinning
(04:41):
in slow motion, illuminating flashes of horrors on the bone
white walls, faces screaming, carved into the marrow, hands reaching
from between the vertebrae, eyes open in sockets that had
no skulls. I fell. When I woke, I was somewhere else,
not in the house, not underground. I was back in
(05:03):
my old apartment, the one I lived in with Julie.
Only it wasn't right. There was no color. Everything was
washed in gray. The air was thick with mildew and silence.
The walls bled down to the floor in slow moving
rivulets of shadow. Julie sat at the kitchen table. Only
(05:25):
it wasn't her. Her eyes were gone, replaced by black
holes that dripped ink. Her mouth was too wide, her
fingers had no nails, just bone tips, clicking against the
porcelain teacup. She held, you missed dinner again, Felix, she said,
voice soft, echoing. I tried to come back, I said,
(05:47):
I swear, She smiled. You always say that, but you
never clean up your messes. I looked down. There was
a child on the floor, a boy maybe seven years old,
face down in a pool of black liquid. I didn't
recognize him, but he was wearing my father's watch, the
(06:10):
one I buried with him last spring. No, I whispered.
Julie stood, the shadows bent around her. You left me
alone with it, Felix, she said, voice cracking, And now
you'll stay with it too. The walls groaned again, and
suddenly I wasn't in the apartment. I was back in
(06:30):
the house, in the stairwell. Except it wasn't a stairwell
any more. It was a throat. The walls were flesh,
the air tasted like copper and rot. The stairs pulsed
under my hands. Something was swallowing me. I screamed and climbed,
scrambling back up, the walls tightening trying to hold me in.
(06:54):
I ripped through the opening and slammed the trap door
shut behind me. Everything went still. I ran out of
the house, straight into the street, gasping for air. The
sun had risen. The house looked normal again, just a
decaying structure on a forgotten block. My van was still there,
(07:16):
keys in the ignition, but something was wrong with the windows.
They were reflecting a different house, a house with no door,
no windows, no escape. I drove anyway. That was six
days ago. I haven't slept since. Every job I go
(07:36):
to now there's something waiting, something watching. The blood doesn't
come up anymore, not like it used to. It soaks
into the floor and bleeds back out when I turn away.
I've started hearing other voices. Some are people I know,
some aren't. Yesterday I saw Julie standing in my bathroom mirror,
(08:01):
even though the lights were off. She whispered, clean up.
You made the mess. Tonight I got another call, Level four,
same address, Hallowick. The despatcher's voice sounded like it was
under water. You've forgot something, she said, before hanging up.
(08:21):
I don't remember telling her I was the one who
cleaned that house. I don't even remember giving her my name.
But I'm going back. I have to Something was left behind,
something I can't ignore. This time. I'm bringing a different bottle,
not bleach. Gasoline. If I can't clean it, I'll burn it.
(08:46):
PostScript Police report internal use only. Subject Arson twenty three
Hallowick Lane. Time of incident three twenty one A m
details abandoned home found fully engulfed in flame. Fire was
controlled after four hours. Body found one male identity confirmed
(09:06):
as Felix Granger, aged forty four, no signs of struggle.
Victim was found seated calmly in the center of the fire.
Body posture unburned, no signs of trauma. Notable discovery beneath
the charred ruins, fire crew discovered a sealed trap door
opening led to nowhere. No staircase, no basement, just dirt.
(09:33):
End report. Some stains don't wash out, they just find
new homes. Last written words found in Felix Granger's van
the end
I've always said there's nothing clean about death. It stains
the carpets, the walls, the air, your dreams. You scrub
and scrape and sterilize, but it clings to you like
the stench of ammonia. I should know. I've been a
crime scene cleaner for seventeen years. My name is Felix Granger.
(00:22):
I'm forty four years old, divorced, no kids. My closest
relationship is with the bottle of industrial bleach I keep
in the back of my van. That stuff eats through
everything blood, brains, bone, but not memories, not guilt, not
(00:42):
whatever the hell followed me home last Thursday. It started
with a call at two thirteen a m. The despatcher
said it was a level four that means a decomposition
over seven days, a real bloater. I didn't even ask
what caused. It doesn't matter. My job isn't to ask questions.
(01:04):
I show up, I clean up, I go home like
a ghost. This scene was in a forgotten stretch of
town called Hallowick, mostly empty warehouses and condemned buildings, the
kind of place even cops don't like to patrol. When
I pulled up, the house looked wrong, not run down,
(01:25):
just off. Something about the angles the windows seemed too narrow.
The front door was warped inward, like it had been
sucked in by a vacuum, and yet all the lights
were on. I stepped inside. The air hit me like
a brick wall, Hot, metallic and putrid. It was the
(01:46):
kind of smell that settles into your lungs and refuses
to leave. I pulled my mask tight, snapped on the gloves,
and began my sweep room to room. I documented the scene.
Blood on the ceiling, viscera on the walls. Something had
torn this place apart, but there was no sign of
(02:07):
forced entry or of the body, which was impossible. Despatch
doesn't get it wrong. Ever. Still, my job was to clean,
so I got to it. I worked in silence, except
for the hum of my UV lamp and the squelch
of blood beneath my boots. That's when I heard it,
(02:28):
A whisper, soft, feminine felix. I froze. It wasn't the
usual mental noise I hear at late night scenes. This
wasn't my imagination. It came from the hall, Felix. Help.
The voice was familiar, my ex wife's voice, Julie she
(02:50):
died three years ago, suicide, pills and wine. I spun around, heart,
hammering against my ribs, but the hall was empty, just
wallpaper peeling like rotted skin, and a busted picture frame
hanging crooked. I told myself it was sleep deprivation, a
trick of the mind. But then the house breathed on,
(03:14):
not being poetic. The dry wall pulsed, the ceiling bowed
like a lung inflating. I heard the groan of wood stretching,
the moan of old pipes, not under pressure but pain.
That's when I found the door in the floor wasn't
on the blueprint, wasn't even visible at first, just a
(03:34):
metal ring buried under the blood soaked rug. I lifted it,
expecting a crawl space. What I saw wasn't any basement.
It was a stairwell, made of bone, real human femurs
and vertebrae, arranged like bricks. They spiraled downward, far deeper
than the house should go, far deeper than anything should go.
(03:56):
I should have turned and left, called the copse, pretended
I never saw it. Instead, I descended one step two.
The air grew colder, wetter. I could hear something below,
something moving in the dark, scraping bone against stone. It
(04:16):
was rhythmic, almost like breathing. Then I heard her again, Felix,
why didn't you come home that night? Julie's voice closer,
now crying Julie. I whispered no reply. I took another step.
My foot slipped. The flashlight clattered down the stairwell, spinning
(04:41):
in slow motion, illuminating flashes of horrors on the bone
white walls, faces screaming, carved into the marrow, hands reaching
from between the vertebrae, eyes open in sockets that had
no skulls. I fell. When I woke, I was somewhere else,
not in the house, not underground. I was back in
(05:03):
my old apartment, the one I lived in with Julie.
Only it wasn't right. There was no color. Everything was
washed in gray. The air was thick with mildew and silence.
The walls bled down to the floor in slow moving
rivulets of shadow. Julie sat at the kitchen table. Only
(05:25):
it wasn't her. Her eyes were gone, replaced by black
holes that dripped ink. Her mouth was too wide, her
fingers had no nails, just bone tips, clicking against the
porcelain teacup. She held, you missed dinner again, Felix, she said,
voice soft, echoing. I tried to come back, I said,
(05:47):
I swear, She smiled. You always say that, but you
never clean up your messes. I looked down. There was
a child on the floor, a boy maybe seven years old,
face down in a pool of black liquid. I didn't
recognize him, but he was wearing my father's watch, the
(06:10):
one I buried with him last spring. No, I whispered.
Julie stood, the shadows bent around her. You left me
alone with it, Felix, she said, voice cracking, And now
you'll stay with it too. The walls groaned again, and
suddenly I wasn't in the apartment. I was back in
(06:30):
the house, in the stairwell. Except it wasn't a stairwell
any more. It was a throat. The walls were flesh,
the air tasted like copper and rot. The stairs pulsed
under my hands. Something was swallowing me. I screamed and climbed,
scrambling back up, the walls tightening trying to hold me in.
(06:54):
I ripped through the opening and slammed the trap door
shut behind me. Everything went still. I ran out of
the house, straight into the street, gasping for air. The
sun had risen. The house looked normal again, just a
decaying structure on a forgotten block. My van was still there,
(07:16):
keys in the ignition, but something was wrong with the windows.
They were reflecting a different house, a house with no door,
no windows, no escape. I drove anyway. That was six
days ago. I haven't slept since. Every job I go
(07:36):
to now there's something waiting, something watching. The blood doesn't
come up anymore, not like it used to. It soaks
into the floor and bleeds back out when I turn away.
I've started hearing other voices. Some are people I know,
some aren't. Yesterday I saw Julie standing in my bathroom mirror,
(08:01):
even though the lights were off. She whispered, clean up.
You made the mess. Tonight I got another call, Level four,
same address, Hallowick. The despatcher's voice sounded like it was
under water. You've forgot something, she said, before hanging up.
(08:21):
I don't remember telling her I was the one who
cleaned that house. I don't even remember giving her my name.
But I'm going back. I have to Something was left behind,
something I can't ignore. This time. I'm bringing a different bottle,
not bleach. Gasoline. If I can't clean it, I'll burn it.
(08:46):
PostScript Police report internal use only. Subject Arson twenty three
Hallowick Lane. Time of incident three twenty one A m
details abandoned home found fully engulfed in flame. Fire was
controlled after four hours. Body found one male identity confirmed
(09:06):
as Felix Granger, aged forty four, no signs of struggle.
Victim was found seated calmly in the center of the fire.
Body posture unburned, no signs of trauma. Notable discovery beneath
the charred ruins, fire crew discovered a sealed trap door
opening led to nowhere. No staircase, no basement, just dirt.
(09:33):
End report. Some stains don't wash out, they just find
new homes. Last written words found in Felix Granger's van
the end
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