CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio
Jun 2, 2026 · 1 hr 5 min · 11 segments
CREEPYPASTA 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…
I've been tearing things down for twenty-six years.
That's what I do, all I do, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
It's a one-man operation on paper.
I quote, hire the guys, and invoice.
I source my men through a guy named Aldo, who runs a crew call out of a parking lot south of Borman Expressway.
They're hard workers, cash-in-hand folk who show up at six in the morning and don't ask questions.
Since they're non-union, there's no insurance or safety certifications, which is fine with me since certifications cost money, and the kind of men Aldo supplies don't have Social Security numbers anyway.
With Aldo's men, I underbid legitimate contractors by forty percent.
That's the margin.
And business is good.
The Murphy's meatpacking plant sat on a four-acre lot on the south side of Gary, about a mile east of the rail yards where the freight trains stack up overnight.
It stood two stories tall, made of brick and concrete, flat-roofed, built in the late forties when Gary was still Gary.
Steel mills running, population growing, the whole machine humming.
The plant processed cattle for thirty-something years, closed in two thousand and three when the parent company folded, and had been sitting empty ever since.
Twenty years of nothing.
The city wanted the site cleared.
Redevelopment was the word they used.
The funding was probably federal.
I could only imagine the timeline was imaginary.
But the demolition contract was real.
The money was real.
And my bid was the lowest.
The survey photos made the plant look manageable.
The site report mentioned asbestos in the roof tiles, which my bid conveniently didn't address.
I've been tearing things down for twenty-six years.
That's what I do, all I do, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
It's a one-man operation on paper.
I quote, hire the guys, and invoice.
I source my men through a guy named Aldo, who runs a crew call out of a parking lot south of Borman Expressway.
They're hard workers, cash-in-hand folk who show up at six in the morning and don't ask questions.
Since they're non-union, there's no insurance or safety certifications, which is fine with me since certifications cost money, and the kind of men Aldo supplies don't have Social Security numbers anyway.
With Aldo's men, I underbid legitimate contractors by forty percent.
That's the margin.
And business is good.
The Murphy's meatpacking plant sat on a four-acre lot on the south side of Gary, about a mile east of the rail yards where the freight trains stack up overnight.
It stood two stories tall, made of brick and concrete, flat-roofed, built in the late forties when Gary was still Gary.
Steel mills running, population growing, the whole machine humming.
The plant processed cattle for thirty-something years, closed in two thousand and three when the parent company folded, and had been sitting empty ever since.
Twenty years of nothing.
The city wanted the site cleared.
Redevelopment was the word they used.
The funding was probably federal.
I could only imagine the timeline was imaginary.
But the demolition contract was real.
The money was real.
And my bid was the lowest.
The survey photos made the plant look manageable.
The site report mentioned asbestos in the roof tiles, which my bid conveniently didn't address.
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