CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio
Apr 15, 2026 · 43 min · 19 segments
CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Pieryl: / i\_was\_hired\_to\_demolish\_an\_abandoned\_monas... Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums…
America's social casino.
As a former Navy EOD diver and demolition specialist, when there's a specific job for ordnance disposal, I'm one of a handful of people called on.
Fourteen years in the service, mostly underwater clearance and ordnance disposal in the Gulf and the Horn of Africa.
I got out after a bad dive that took two of my teammates and left me with nightmares that still wake me, tasting saltwater and diesel.
These days, I take private clearance contracts.
Ugly, isolated jobs that most people won't touch.
The kind where they send one man because it's cheaper than sending a team.
I've been doing it for three years now, telling myself it's temporary.
An abandoned 18th-century monastery on the Baltic coast that the Soviets turned into a coastal defense bunker during the Cold War.
Half the structure is flooded now, slowly sinking back into the sea.
My job was straightforward on paper.
Complete the final inventory of all remaining equipment and hazardous materials, conduct a structural assessment of the flooded levels, and carry out controlled demolition of the critical, unstable sections so the site can be declared condemned.
Ten days alone on a remote, half-submerged rock with nothing but stone, seawater, and my own head for company.
After this, I was done.
One more job and I'd retire unhappily to figure out how to live the rest of my days.
The supply boat's engine cut out with a guttural cough, leaving only the slap of cold Baltic water against the concrete dock.
I stepped off onto the slick surface, boots skidding slightly on a film of salt and algae.
The sky hung low and bruised, and the wind sliced straight through my jacket like it had been waiting for me.
I hauled the heavy gear bags onto the landing one by one, the straps cutting into my shoulders.
Ahead of me rose the half-submerged monastery bunker complex.
Rotting Gothic arches fused brutally with Soviet-era blast doors, faded frescoes of saints peeling away under thick crusts of barnacles.
Seawater licked lazily at the lower steps, patient, almost affectionate.
This was it.
My last clearance contract.
America's social casino.
As a former Navy EOD diver and demolition specialist, when there's a specific job for ordnance disposal, I'm one of a handful of people called on.
Fourteen years in the service, mostly underwater clearance and ordnance disposal in the Gulf and the Horn of Africa.
I got out after a bad dive that took two of my teammates and left me with nightmares that still wake me, tasting saltwater and diesel.
These days, I take private clearance contracts.
Ugly, isolated jobs that most people won't touch.
The kind where they send one man because it's cheaper than sending a team.
I've been doing it for three years now, telling myself it's temporary.
An abandoned 18th-century monastery on the Baltic coast that the Soviets turned into a coastal defense bunker during the Cold War.
Half the structure is flooded now, slowly sinking back into the sea.
My job was straightforward on paper.
Complete the final inventory of all remaining equipment and hazardous materials, conduct a structural assessment of the flooded levels, and carry out controlled demolition of the critical, unstable sections so the site can be declared condemned.
Ten days alone on a remote, half-submerged rock with nothing but stone, seawater, and my own head for company.
After this, I was done.
One more job and I'd retire unhappily to figure out how to live the rest of my days.
The supply boat's engine cut out with a guttural cough, leaving only the slap of cold Baltic water against the concrete dock.
I stepped off onto the slick surface, boots skidding slightly on a film of salt and algae.
The sky hung low and bruised, and the wind sliced straight through my jacket like it had been waiting for me.
I hauled the heavy gear bags onto the landing one by one, the straps cutting into my shoulders.
Ahead of me rose the half-submerged monastery bunker complex.
Rotting Gothic arches fused brutally with Soviet-era blast doors, faded frescoes of saints peeling away under thick crusts of barnacles.
Seawater licked lazily at the lower steps, patient, almost affectionate.
This was it.
My last clearance contract.
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