CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio
Jul 10, 2026 · 49 min · 11 segments
REEPYPASTA STORY►by frequent-cat: / frequent-cat Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth…
There's land in this part of California that sits below the water beside it.
People don't believe me when I tell them that.
They picture rivers running downhill to the sea, and they can't make it fit that you can stand on a road on Tyler Island and look up at a boat going by on the slough, the hull riding higher than your head, separated from you by nothing but a dirt levee and a pump that's been running since before you were born.
That's the Delta.
A thousand miles of sloughs and channels braided through islands that used to be tidal marsh, drained and farmed 150 years ago, the peat soil shrinking every year since until the islands settled into bowls.
Some of them are 20 feet down now below the rivers.
The tide has been wanting back in the whole time, and the only things telling it no are the levees holding the sides and the pumps emptying the bottom.
Cut the power, walk away, and an island goes back to being a lake inside a year.
I keep one of those pumps running.
Twenty-two years for the reclamation district, the last nine of them mostly alone out on Prospect Island, which is one of the lower and lonelier ones.
A long, dropped rectangle of farmland with a two-lane levee road in.
A pump house at the bottom of the bowl where all the island's drainage collects before we lift it back up over the levee into the slough.
The district has four operators for nine islands.
Officially, we work in pairs on a storm.
Unofficially, when it's bad everywhere at once, there's one man to a station.
And it was going to be bad everywhere at once.
That's why I drove out at dusk with a storm already visible from the causeway, the gray wall coming in off the Pacific.
An atmospheric river.
The weather service had named and capitalized it.
The warm, wet conveyor that rides up from near Hawaii and parks itself over Northern California.
Stacked on top of it, a king tide, the highest of the season, when the sun and moon line up and pull the whole estuary a foot and a half higher than ordinary.
AR storm on a king tide.
The two things that fill the data arriving together at night.
I'd done bad nights before.
Not this exact pairing, but close enough that I knew the shape of it.
There's land in this part of California that sits below the water beside it.
People don't believe me when I tell them that.
They picture rivers running downhill to the sea, and they can't make it fit that you can stand on a road on Tyler Island and look up at a boat going by on the slough, the hull riding higher than your head, separated from you by nothing but a dirt levee and a pump that's been running since before you were born.
That's the Delta.
A thousand miles of sloughs and channels braided through islands that used to be tidal marsh, drained and farmed 150 years ago, the peat soil shrinking every year since until the islands settled into bowls.
Some of them are 20 feet down now below the rivers.
The tide has been wanting back in the whole time, and the only things telling it no are the levees holding the sides and the pumps emptying the bottom.
Cut the power, walk away, and an island goes back to being a lake inside a year.
I keep one of those pumps running.
Twenty-two years for the reclamation district, the last nine of them mostly alone out on Prospect Island, which is one of the lower and lonelier ones.
A long, dropped rectangle of farmland with a two-lane levee road in.
A pump house at the bottom of the bowl where all the island's drainage collects before we lift it back up over the levee into the slough.
The district has four operators for nine islands.
Officially, we work in pairs on a storm.
Unofficially, when it's bad everywhere at once, there's one man to a station.
And it was going to be bad everywhere at once.
That's why I drove out at dusk with a storm already visible from the causeway, the gray wall coming in off the Pacific.
An atmospheric river.
The weather service had named and capitalized it.
The warm, wet conveyor that rides up from near Hawaii and parks itself over Northern California.
Stacked on top of it, a king tide, the highest of the season, when the sun and moon line up and pull the whole estuary a foot and a half higher than ordinary.
AR storm on a king tide.
The two things that fill the data arriving together at night.
I'd done bad nights before.
Not this exact pairing, but close enough that I knew the shape of it.
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