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CREEPYPASTA STORY►by CreepsMcPasta
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. 
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This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:02):
I hadn't been sleeping well, not in the dramatic, tortured way,
just the usual late nights dragging into early mornings. Too
much screen time, too much silence. You stop noticing how
tired you are when it's constant. I thought maybe it
was the recent job loss, or the break up, or

(00:22):
the fact that I was living in a sublet with
a ceiling fan clicked like a metronome made to measure disappointment.
People said I seemed distant. I was. I'd tell people
I was fine. I'd say it enough that I almost
believed it. But a few nights in something changed. I

(00:46):
was washing dishes, staring out the kitchen window at nothing
in particular, when I heard it. Not a voice exactly,
more like a sentence dropped in my head, complete dal
He dries the glass, He stares too long. I blinked,

(01:09):
the sponge slipped to my hand. It wasn't my thought,
That's what threw me. It didn't feel like me thinking.
It felt like someone else was thinking at me. I
told myself it was stress, insomnia, internal monologue with too

(01:31):
much flair. The next day, on a call with my sister,
she asked how I was holding up. I open my
mouth to lie. Before I could speak, it came again.
He takes the call, he lies, And then I said it,

(01:52):
without even meaning to, I'm doing all right. I remember
the exact moment after, how my fingers trembled slightly around
the phone, how the line was silent for a beat
too long before she replied. That was the first time
I joked aloud, guess I've got a narrator now. But

(02:16):
it wasn't funny. It didn't stop, and it was starting
to get things right that I hadn't done yet. At first,
the voice stuck to narration, little summaries of what I
was already doing. He scrolls too long, he reheats leftovers.

(02:37):
He pretends to read, almost funny in a pathetic sort
of way. But after a few days it started to comment.
The first jab came while I was sitting on the
couch scrolling job listings. He won't apply, he never does.

(03:00):
I was thumb hovering over the screen, then closed the app.
I told myself it was a coincidence that my brain
was catching me in old habits, building sentences around guilt.
But the timing was too sharp, the phrasing, too pointed. Later,

(03:20):
while I was drafting an email I didn't want to send.
It said, he's already lying and he hasn't hit send yet,
and I was. I deleted the email entirely, stared at
the blinking cursor and to the words felt like they
had been scraped out of my head. The voice didn't

(03:42):
sound angry or emotional. It just sounded sure, confident in
a way I hadn't been in months. It was like
reading from a script I hadn't seen. I started testing
it small things. I'd reached a glass of water, just
to see what it would say. He reaches for the glass,

(04:06):
Then quickly I changed my mind. He hesitates, he pretends
that makes him unpredictable. My hand shook so badly I
nearly dropped the glass. I thought maybe this was a breakdown,
sleep deprivation, anxiety, some kind of disassociative loop. The Internet

(04:29):
had words for it, intrusive thoughts, auditory hallucinations, derealization, except
it didn't feel like a voice in my head. It
felt like someone was watching. By the end of that week,
I'd stopped turning on the TV, stopped playing music, and

(04:50):
stopped doing anything that made me feel less alone, because
that's when it started. Saying things I hadn't done yet.
He won't sleep tonight. I laughed when I heard it, nervous, brittle,
Sure I will, I thought to myself. But the power

(05:11):
went out around one a m. The hum of the
fridge died. The room folded into silence so deep I
could hear my own pulse. I got up, fumbling through
the dark for my phone's flashlight. The air felt heavy close.
I checked the breaker, the fuse. Nothing. Then from the hallway,

(05:36):
a faint creak. When I turned, I saw it the
front door wide open. The cold night pressed in, sharp
and deliberate, and behind my ribs, that same quiet voice
said something's going to break. I didn't sleep the rest

(06:03):
of that night. I checked every room twice, every window,
every lock. Nothing was disturbed. The only thing out of
place was the front door, wide open, with no signs
of forced entry, and my phone sitting on the night stand,
battery drained to zero. I plugged it in before bed.

(06:26):
I was sure of it. The next day I filed
a police report. They didn't find anything, no finger prints,
no signs of tampering. The front door hadn't even been scratched.
It's probably stress, the officer said, handing me back the
form with practice sympathy. Sometimes people forget they opened a door,

(06:52):
but I hadn't, And when I got home, the voice
was waiting. Who wonders if he's imagining it. I froze
halfway through the threshold. He steps inside anyway, I stepped inside.

(07:15):
It was like someone writing over my life in real time,
erasing the possibility of free will with every line. I
couldn't surprise it, couldn't get ahead of it. That night,
I slept with the lights on, dragged a chair in
front of the door, tied a string between the handle
and my wrist. I needed proof of a person, of

(07:38):
a thing, something. The voice didn't speak for hours. I
almost thought it was gone. Then as I was drifting off,
it whispered, he thinks he'll be safe if he prepares.

(07:58):
I didn't sleep after that either. By morning, the knot
was still tied, the door was unmoved, everything untouched, but
the house felt used, not in a way I could name,
just lived in by something I hadn't seen. And for

(08:19):
the first time I realized I hadn't done anything wrong.
I hadn't committed some great sin. I wasn't cursed or
haunted or chosen. Something was toying with me. I wasn't
going to I knew how it would sound, but it

(08:43):
had been weeks. I wasn't sleeping. I kept second guessing
every thought before I could even think it. It felt
like my brain wasn't mine anymore. So I called Emma.
We'd known each other since college, the kind of friend
you could call after six months of silence and pick

(09:04):
up like nothing had changed. She met me at a
diner near the edge of town. I told her everything,
the voice, the predictions. I didn't even care how I
sounded any more. I just needed to say it out loud.
I needed to see someone else react, to anchor me

(09:25):
to reality. She listened, She really listened, asked questions, took
my hand. At one point. You're under a lot of stress,
she said gently, But I believe you believe it. That
counts for something. It wasn't full belief, but it was something.

(09:51):
That night, as I lay in bed, the voice returned, slow, deliberate.
He told the wrong person, boring, remove her. I sat up,
reached for my phone. Emma's name wasn't in my contacts.

(10:13):
I opened her old text. The thread was there, but empty,
just the gray bar that said no messages. I called her.
It rang once, then her robotic voice, This number is
not in service. I scrolled through photos. I knew I

(10:33):
had dozens with her birthdays, Halloween, that awful karaoke night.
But in every one I checked, she was missing, whole frames,
cropped others where she should have been beside me, empty space.
The next day, I drove to her apartment. Different name

(10:56):
on the buzzer, new mailbox label, anyway. A woman I
didn't recognize, open the door, mid thirty's, short blonde hair.
She looked confused. No one named Emma's lived here, she said,
not since I moved in six years ago. Six we'd

(11:20):
had coffee yesterday, hadn't we. I sat in my car
for an hour, holding my phone like it was a
dead animal. A story doesn't need side characters if they
aren't part of the ending. The voice whispered, smooth as oil.

(11:42):
I didn't know what this meant. I just drove, and
every street sign I passed felt like he could vanish. Next.
It wasn't the voice that changed. It was everything else.
A clock on the ste I've always read a time
that made sense, just never the same Twice I'd look

(12:05):
away look back, and somehow it had jumped ten minutes
forward or back. Once it was midnight, three times in
a row. With a voice. It stayed observant, a steady
interjection that jutted in at random intervals. He notices time

(12:26):
is wrong, but keeps eating. He's starting to realize this
is in stress. I tried ignoring it. I tried pretending
the world still worked. Then it said something new. He
looks at himself and wondered when he stopped being real

(12:50):
that one hit too close. I stared at my reflection,
waiting for it to blink. First. It didn't. It just
stared back, hollow and quiet, like it knew more than
I did. But fear still ran through me. If his
voice could make Emma just disappear, what could it do

(13:12):
to me? And I snapped. I punched the mirror full swing.
I watched it shatter, felt it shatter, glass scattered everywhere.
Then I blinked and the mirror was whole. The glass
was gone, and the cut across my knuckles had vanished.

(13:35):
I staggered back, heart pounding. The room wasn't mine, not completely.
The layout was correct, but off. The coffee table was
on the wrong side. The couch was in all the model.
There were pictures in the wall. I didn't recognize a
smiling family I'd never seen. The narrator was still calm,

(13:59):
still sure he understands now, but not enough. I sat
on the floor, shaking. This wasn't just in my head.
Someone was building the world around me piece by piece,
and I was slipping between versions all week. I tried

(14:21):
to explain it away, drown it out, reason with it,
but the voice was always there, narrating like I was
the joke of some sad, slow story. So I screamed, loud, ugly,
what are you? The air didn't answer, not right away.

(14:46):
Finally took you long enough. It wasn't a whisper. It
wasn't inside my head anymore. It was everywhere, the ceiling fan,
hom in the fridge, compress sir, in the space between
my heart beats. I'm the only real thing here, it said.

(15:09):
I felt myself go cold. I didn't fully know what
it meant. You're a story. You are supposed to be
a story, but you're nothing. You hesitate, you mope, you
repeat yourself. You don't give me anything. I paused at this,

(15:29):
not knowing whether the voice was being literal or metaphorical.
I want attention, conflict, growth, but you just exist. I
shook my head. No, this isn't real, this is You're

(15:50):
not real. I wrote to you, I tried to care
about you, to get people to care about you. But
this is going nowhere. The lights dimmed, the walls seemed thinner.
So I've been trying to fix it at some stakes,
a little fear, a little mystery, something that might save

(16:14):
this train wreck from total irrelevance. I backed into the corner,
heart pounding, but nothing works. You just survive, You stall,
you bore. There was a pause, then, like the edge

(16:35):
of a blade. I want an ending. Silence returned, not
calm but coiled. Something was coming, but with how things
were the scope of what scared me. In the silence,

(16:56):
I had time to think a story. It called me,
like a character in a play. The only way for
a story to progress is by participating. This whole thing
was something I couldn't fight. It wasn't physical or external,
so my only idea, the only thing I could think

(17:17):
to do, was nothing, pure nothing. The next morning, that's
what I did. Nothing. No longer paralyzed by fear, this
was pure choice. I didn't get out of bed, didn't drink,

(17:40):
didn't eat, didn't speak. I just stared at the wall
and counted the cracks and the paint and the voice.
It waited. At first, it tried the usual. He woke up, confused, anxious, hard,
still racing from the confrontation. Nothing. He got up, poured

(18:07):
coffee with a shaking hand, tried to convince himself none
of it was real. Still nothing. I stayed in bed,
face blank, like a body, no longer connected to the script.
Then it got bolder, meaner. He screamed, he begged, he cried.

(18:32):
I didn't flinch, didn't even blink. If this were a story,
then I figured it couldn't move unless I did, so
I gave it nothing. Days passed, I grew hungry and thirsty,
but I didn't move, even for the bare essentials. I

(18:53):
truly committed to giving it nothing. The fridge hummed, the
sun rose and set, and the voice unraveled. He's breaking down,
losing it. He wants to scream, but can't. He misses
his friend, the one who forgot him. He regrets everything wrong, wrong, wrong.

(19:19):
I didn't miss anyone, didn't feel anything. I was done
being a character. Every second I stayed still was another
second it didn't get what it wanted. Let it lie,
let it twist, let the story rot on the page.
Eventually it stopped narrating. Altogether, there was no momentum, no tension,

(19:45):
just me rotting in a room, not knowing what came next.
So when the door clicked open, I thought I imagined it,
but the footsteps were real, soft, familiar. I didn't look
up right away, afraid that if I moved the world

(20:08):
would snap back into fiction. But then I heard her voice,
Are you okay? I turned my head slowly. She stood
in the doorway, My wife, the real her, wearing the
coat she always said, made a look too grown up.

(20:31):
Her eyes were full of cautious worry, and next to
her a daughter, small, quiet, watching me with a seriousness.
Children aren't supposed to have. My mouth opened, but nothing
came out. She stepped in, took a breath like the
place smelled bad, and it probably did. I hadn't showered,

(20:55):
hadn't cleaned, hadn't done anything but sit and wait to
be raised. What happened to you? She asked? Why won't
you answer your phone? I didn't know how to explain.
I didn't know where to begin. So I just said
I'm sorry, and that was all it took. She moved

(21:21):
across the room and sank to her knees in front
of me. Her hands touched mine, dry skin, cracked knuckles,
but hers were warm, solid human. We were so scared.
She said, you don't just disappear like that. I didn't

(21:42):
know how to come back, I said, the words catching
in my throat. Everything stopped making sense. I didn't know
what was real. I still don't. She looked at me,
really looked, and then leaned forward and rested her head
against my chest. My daughter climbed up into my lap

(22:06):
without a word, curling up against me like she'd been
waiting to do it the whole time. And for a moment,
one impossible moment, I felt okay. The narrator didn't say
a word. It was just us, me and them, breathing, warm, alive,

(22:31):
and I thought, maybe this is the ending. But in
the interim of silence, it started with pressure, a kind
that makes your ears ring, a sudden drop like the
air forgot how to breathe. Then came the wind, not

(22:54):
a gentle breeze, a full body shove. The apartment groaned,
the windows trembled, curtains flared inward, as if something was
trying to get in. My daughter screamed a small, piercing sound.
My wife pulled her close, shielding her from nothing and
everything all at once. It's okay, I told them, it's

(23:19):
just the storm, because storms don't come from nowhere, and
they don't make the floorboard shift like footsteps. I stepped
into the hallway. The front door was wide open, the
knobs still turning, like someone had just let themselves in. Outside,

(23:42):
moonlight poured down in a flood of silver. But it
wasn't gentle. It looked wrong, too sharp, too focused, like
a spotlight through fog. It painted the threshold like a stage.
And from this basking glow, oh, something moved. A ripple

(24:04):
in the light. A shadow, slick and smooth, crawled across
the ceiling, thin as a trickle of oil, fast intentional.
I whispered, what the hell is that? Then a shriek

(24:26):
from behind me from the bedroom my daughter. I ran.
The bedroom door was already open, already waiting, And for
a second I thought maybe it was a false alarm.
Maybe the scream was fear and not pain. For the

(24:47):
moment I crossed the threshold. I knew they were on
the floor, My wife, my little girl, twisted together in
a tangle of limbs, eyes ware, a mouth slack, as
if they hadn't even had time to scream again. Their
throats had been opened, messy and jagged, like claws had

(25:09):
dug in and tore their voices out. The blood hadn't
pulled yet. It was still moving, still hot, and above
them the thing floated a smear of black, oily and
slow moving, no eyes, no face, just motion, constant swirling.

(25:34):
The ceiling above it cracked, paint, blistering, as if reality
itself was struggling to hold around it. I couldn't speak.
I dropped to my knees, landing in the blood. I
didn't feel hands trembling as they reached stupidly, pointlessly for
what was already gone. I wanted to scream, but nothing

(25:57):
came out, no breath, no word, just the silence so
heavy it rang in my bones. Then the voice came,
smooth and measured, predictable. It said painful, yes, but still dull.

(26:20):
My head whipped around, but there was no source, just
the voice. It was back. This isn't real, I whispered,
voice cracking this can't be real. Of course it isn't.
The tone shifted, not mocking or cruel, just disappointed. I

(26:47):
gave you a family, steaks texture, and you squandered it.
Do you know how hard it is? The salvage tension
after the second acts all you say, you stared, you moped.
Now we're crawling toward an ending with nothing to show
for it. I couldn't breathe. This wasn't even supposed to happen,

(27:13):
not like this. But you left me nothing, no ark,
no drive. My wife's body flickered once twice, and then
she dissolved, like static noise and distortion that tore her
apart in a thousand little digital blinks. My daughter followed

(27:37):
one second, clinging to me in memory, the next gone.
Only two dark, wet outlines remained on the floor, like
shadows that forgot to leave, memories of a life filled
with love fading, And in that space where grief should
have consumed me, something worse crept, in the cold realization

(28:05):
they were never real. I never had a family, I
lived alone. I had a girlfriend, but we had broken
up recently. But the moment I saw them, I accepted
it like it was real, like it always was a
tragic footnote, meant to make me compelling, and even that

(28:29):
hadn't worked. I stared into the red stained floor, into
those empty shapes, and wanted to scream until my throat
tore open. But I didn't because I heard the voice again, quiet,
this time close. Let's try something else, And the world

(28:56):
blinked out. I woke to cold, to pain, already blooming
in my arms with a rope bit deep. My wrists
were tied to a chair, thick splintered wood beneath me,
the legs uneven on a cement floor. Pipes lined the walls,

(29:17):
rusted and dripping. A single bulb swung overhead, buzzing like flies.
The lights stuttered, the air waked of metal, mildew, and
something sharp underneath, something alive. Across the room, a man
hum softly, off key, childlike. He stood with his back

(29:42):
to me, laying out tools on a tray, not surgical
but domestic, familiar, things made wrong by arrangement. Pliers, box cutter,
flat head, screwdriver, a hammer with something dried on the handle,
turned and smiled. Two wide lips stretched to unnatural corners,

(30:08):
like someone who had studied humanity in a mirror and
still hadn't gotten it quite right. He stepped closer. Conflict,
The voice said, steaks pain, Let's make them care about you.
The man reached for the pliers. I screamed out a reflex.

(30:32):
He didn't pause. The pain was real, so real. When
the first fingernail peeled away, bright and white, hot and immediate,
the sound was worse, the squelch, the snap. My body
jerked so hard the chest scraped the concrete. I cried out, pleaded, cursed,

(30:57):
But the man was humming again, like he didn't even
hear me. Blood ran down my fingers, hot and quick,
pattering onto the floor. I begged for it to stop,
but it didn't. He carried on with each finger on
my right hand and started on the left, each rip.

(31:18):
I forced words out, begging for an answer. Please, I gasped,
what do you want from me? The humming stopped. The
man froze, head tilted, fingers twitching. The tools slipped from
his hand with a soft clatter, metal bouncing off concrete

(31:42):
one after the other. Silence fell. Then the voice returned,
like narration, bleeding through the ceiling, with a hint of frustration.
Not this, it said, flatly, It's too repetitive. The bulb

(32:04):
above me flickered, sputtered, The edges of the room blurred,
shimmered like heat waves. Torture is lazy, the narrator continued.
Anyone can suffer, doesn't make you interesting. You're still boring.

(32:25):
The man or whatever he was, lifted his head suddenly,
like a puppet cut loose. The pain didn't fade, it
just stopped, like someone pressed pause and reality. I could
no longer see, hear, or feel. No body, no room,
just darkness, endless and silent, except for the ragged sound

(32:51):
of my own breathing, and then from somewhere above, or
inside or beyond, pages and a sound like paper being
considered judged. I didn't know what form I was in anymore,
whether I had a mouth or a throat or a voice,

(33:13):
or the words forced their way out of me anyway.
Don't stop the story, I whispered, barely able to form
the words. Please, if you stop, I stop. By this
point I realized I only existed as long as the

(33:36):
story did. When the story ended, so did I. I
didn't know how to give the voice what it wanted,
but that didn't stop me from trying. Silence. Then a
sound low and familiar pages, turning, not nearby, above somewhere,

(34:00):
out of reach, out of understanding. So the voice said,
finally you understand now. I nodded, or tried to. I'm
not real, I said, but I'm still here. Another pause,

(34:25):
no sarcasm, no contempt this time. Then maybe you've earned
another draft. The light dimmed, folding inward like paper curling
in flame, and I let the dark take me. Sunlight

(34:46):
warmed my face. I blinked. I was on the couch,
the stained chair, the concrete room. The screaming gone, no
blood or bindings, just the soft hush of morning and
the low harm of the TV. My phone buzzed on
the arm rest, unknown number. I answered, unsure of what

(35:11):
to expect. A chip of voice beamed through the speaker. Hi,
just calling to let you know you got the job,
full benefit, competitive salary. Was so excited to have you
on board. I didn't respond at first, just stared at
the far wall, mouth dry, nodding to no one, then

(35:35):
hesitantly thanked them and hunger. Another buzz, A notification from Instagram.
A new message flashed across the screen. Hey saw your profile,
thought you were cute. When I grab a drink sometime,
smile your face. I clicked the profile and it was

(35:56):
the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, exactly my type,
the interest on a profile where everything I was into.
I sat up slowly. The room felt artificial, like someone
tried to remember what a morning should feel like. On

(36:17):
the TV, a news anchor rattled off last night's lottery numbers.
I barely heard her, and other numbers hit my ears
one by one. My eyes struck to the coffee table.
A lottery ticket sat there, perfectly aligned. Every number matched,

(36:38):
every single one, And in the quiet that followed, I
didn't smile. I didn't move because I understood now, despite
everything that was happening, how I was receiving more than
I could ever dream story was about to end.