“In the Nineties I Was A Television Producer Here’s Why I Quit” [Friday CLASSIC] Creepypasta

It’s a popular belief that the television
industry is a big, incestuous cabal of dirty dealings and messes swept fastidiously under
the rug. As a person who’s worked in pretty much every
job that business has to offer – from collecting the coffee to full-on producing and directing
– I have no intention of dispelling any of those notions. The whole game is a goddamn toxic mess and
I’m glad I got out of it, but lemme tell you, it’s what they don’t release to the public
that’s so much worse. There are a million stories about people getting
eaten by the machine – chewed up, and shat out on the sidewalk to bake in the LA sun. Countless budding writers, aspiring starlets,
and big, glitzy personalities have been crushed under the collective boot of the business
I’ve long been a part of. But I’ll leave those for the tabloids. I’m not here to spill the beans on the heroin
addiction of a nineties child star, or the breakdown of numerous pop princesses after
they’ve been built up and knocked down by the latest “groundbreaking” talent show. I’m just here to talk about Colleen Fairweather. She was slated to be NBC’s golden girl in
the nineties – a screen presence with brains, charm, and versatility. There was a certain magic to Colleen that
hadn’t quite been seen before or since, and she was one of the rare people in show business
who I was sure – despite all the cut-throat politics of it all – would have her pick of
the networks. I was lucky to work with her on a handful
of projects, and I can attest to the peculiar magnetism she had. Let me guess, at this point you’re probably
wondering “If she’s all that, why haven’t I heard of her?” We’ll get to that. Don’t worry. Colleen had a handful of minor roles on talk
and variety shows, though I believe those episodes of their respective shows have been
cut from syndication. Bring up the name Colleen Fairweather to Letterman
and I guarantee you the old bastard will get misty. That’s the nature of the trade, when you’re
someone like her, everyone knows you. And when you’re someone like her, everyone
is equally willing to deny your existence once you’ve gone. That’s showbiz, kid. My brushes with Colleen were mostly relatively
transitory, just little “Hellos” and “How’s it goings” whenever we crossed paths. My last major professional interaction with
her was a production role on a pilot that’d been her baby since long before she got into
the television business. She told me she’d had the idea copyrighted
since her mid-twenties. Anyone else who pulled something like that
would get laughed out of town, but not her. She added a certain gravitas to everything
she pitched. “It’s gonna be big, Mike,” She told me, her
voice full of that trademark unwavering confidence, “It’s new, it’s fresh. It’s the enema television needs right now.” “Are you sure it’s not a little, I dunno,
esoteric?” I remember asking, while reading the written
pitch over again. “Esoteric? Nothing esoteric about it, Mike. Fear is in the blood of the American people,
we love it. We feed on it.” “Alright, Lovecraft, calm down. Look, I have faith in the fact you could execute
it, but I have no idea how we’re gonna sell this to the network. It could destroy our credibility.” “Not if it’s true.” This gave me pause. “The thing is, Mike, the American public is
getting sick of being drip-fed celebrity gossip and fluff pieces like they’re on some kind
of shitty IV. That’s what all the other talk shows are doing. We can release something really impactful
here, Mike, something that can change the game.” “Well, Colleen, you said it yourself: only
if it’s true. No network will buy some jackoff host screaming
at pretend spooks.” Time would later prove me wrong on that one,
as a quick browse through modern entertainment channels will easily tell you. “You’re gonna have to give me a leap of faith
on this one, Mike. I’ve got a contact, something special – something
real. We just need to produce a pilot, that’s it. I guarantee you the network will be on it
like flies on shit.” I reclined in my chair and sighed, rubbing
a hand across my already balding cranium. There could sometimes be an unsettling intensity
to her, perhaps just a symptom of overconfidence, but she was a hard person to say no to. In another life, she could have been a dictator
on some tinpot nation in the pacific. “Okay.” I said with a sigh, finally breaking, “But
on your head be it if this thing gets rejected. Don’t expect me to take the fall for Casper
the friendly fucking ghost.” She nodded and smiled, knowing that she’d
gotten what she wanted. It was going to be called “Fairweather Nightmares”,
a talk-show with guests who weren’t celebrities, but people who have had brushes with the frightening,
gruesome, or paranormal. The serial killer victim that got away, the
alien abductee, the person who had irrefutable evidence that their house was haunted by a
malevolent spirit. If it’d been pitched to me half a decade earlier,
I wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but the X-Files craze had been sweeping the
nation and paranormal fuckery seemed to be the flavor of the month. The show would have been an okay cash-grab
if it could be produced cheaply, just making a quick buck off the American zeitgeist. But she didn’t see it like that, no, she wanted
it to be some groundbreaking landmark of television rather than the corny ratings ploy I was looking
at. Perhaps back then she saw further than I,
but looking back, we were both deluded. I got a crew cobbled together and had a set
designed to Colleen’s specifications. I’ve gotta admit, for someone who seemed made
for television on the outside, the more you talked to her, the more you realized that
her actual disposition was planted pretty firmly in the alternative. She wanted the set to be minimalistic, largely
black, and framed by long, red drapes on either side. She was also very specific about the paintings
she wanted on the wall behind the tarnished leather sofa where the guests would sit: Bosch,
Munch, Goya. Real weird shit. Part of me knew that – in the very slim possibility
that the network would be interested in the show – they’d definitely ask for some set
changes. I would have sympathized with that; just standing
there, looking at it from behind the camera, I felt like I was having some kind of weird
fever dream. No exec with his head screwed on straight
would believe that the American public was ready for “Twin Peaks: The Talk Show.” Colleen was different, though. She was in her element. That strange, strange woman. She turned up on recording day like she was
walking on air, this huge, clownish smile painted across her face. I barely even noticed that she had a miserable-looking
family in tow when she walked into our section of the soundstage. “It’s perfect!” She said, an almost sing-song quality to her
voice, “I knew you’d pull through for me, Mike.” “Yeah, well, I hope you can do the same,”
I said, “I’ve been losing sleep over this goddamn thing.” The family that Colleen had brought in were
far too young to be hers. The two parents couldn’t have been out of
their twenties, and the little girl with them looked about seven. I knew from the outset there was something
odd about here, she seemed so gaunt, so empty. Ashen skin and hollow cheeks, like she was
malnourished. “And, uh, who are your friends, Colleen?” I asked, trying to disguise the nervousness
in my voice. “Oh. These are the Baxters. They’re our first guests.” “Right. Pleasure to meet you all,” I said, though
I wasn’t really feeling it, “So, what’s it with you? Alien abduction, haunted house? They all looked at each other, confused and
frightened, like a drunk driver who’d just been asked to take a breathalyzer test. Colleen always spoke on their behalf. “You’ll see,” she said, with another dangerous
smirk, “When will we be ready to record?” “Give us five, and then we’ll see what we
can do.” I won’t talk you through sound-tests, lighting,
and the makeup process, because those details are non-essential to the story. Perhaps I should be telling you that I had
a funny feeling, that some part of me knew this broadcast was damned from the outset,
but it’d be a lie on both counts. The only reservations I had were about the
state of the little girl’s health, and how that’d turn out on camera, but all other worries
were muted by the very tangible fear that my career could take a hit if Colleen’s passion
project tanked. Even when Colleen was sitting in that desk,
and the camera was about to start rolling, I was having terrible, terrible visions of
myself passing fries over the counter at McDonald’s after decades of hard work to get where I
was then. However, those worries quickly dissipated
when filming began. Colleen, like many great talk show hosts,
opened with a monologue – but hers sounded like it should have been delivered by Vincent
Price rather than Conan O’Brien. “Welcome, one and all, to a television experience
like no other,” She began gesturing grandly like a circus ringmaster, “All great television
crosses boundaries, it’s a fact of life. Talk shows cross personal boundaries, giving
information about one person to another, game shows cross the boundaries of human emotion,
delivering excitement and pleasure in the comfort of your living room – and a good fictional
drama will, invariably, cross the boundary of fiction and reality, making your heart
ache for the non-existent product of acing and writing. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, good television
is the art of crossing boundaries, but there’s one boundary that I, Colleen Fairweather,
don’t believe has ever truly been crossed on television. That, my dear viewers, is the boundary between
life and death.” When she paused, the room was flooded in deafening
silence. I think every one of us was floored by her
delivery. “This,” She said, a smile broadening across
her face, “is Fairweather Nightmares.” This would be where we’d insert the opening
credits, but I had to try with all my might to stop myself from clapping. I’d seen Shakespeare delivered with less passion
at the West End, and to think she wrote it all herself? It was unheard of at the time. I’d gone from seeing doom to seeing dollars
in the space of a single monologue, and felt boundlessly grateful that this was a project
my name would be indelibly attached to. It didn’t start going South until Colleen
began interviewing the Baxters. “We have a very special guest tonight, she’s
here with her family,” Colleen said, turning her attention to the Baxters as the camera
did the same, “Helen Baxter is one of the youngest spiritual mediums in the world. She’s able to contact the spirits, and allow
them to manifest through her body.” The girl remained silent, but her young mother
spoke up. “Technically,” she said, “Helen is a conduit. She’s a narrow corridor between our world
and their’s, with a looked door on our end. When she calls them, spirits can wander down
the corridor and peer out through the keyhole.” Colleen grinned. This was exactly the sort of spiritual-sounding
nonsense that raked in gullible viewers. “Do you do it often, Helen?” Colleen asked. “No,” The little girl said, her voice as faint
and shaky as her appearance would lead you to believe, “Not on purpose.” “So it can happen accidentally?” “Yeah. It can.” “Can you talk us through it, Helen?” Helen let out a long sigh, and nodded. “I have to focus real hard to keep them out,”
She said, “They’re always there. Always. I can hear them scratching at the door. If I don’t try to keep the door shut in my
head, they’ll just wander inside.” “What exactly does having them inside feel
like, Helen?” At the time, I thought maybe it was just paranoia,
and that I was the only one noticing it, but Helen was looking visibly distressed. Part of me wanted to call off the show and
assess the situation a little clearer, having known the kind of unscrupulous parents willing
to pimp their kids out for fame and fortune before. But Colleen had everyone in a trance – this
was her show, we were all just along for the ride. “It feels like being in the center of a crowded
room. And you can’t do anything, even if you want
to. You just feel yourself being covered in cold
hands – stroking you, groping you. You try to scream, but the sound never comes
out. You just sit there, quiet, as something moves
your arms and legs and talks with your voice.” If ever there was a time for logical intervention,
it would be when a minor said that on a show intended for prime-time television. “That’s fascinating, Helen,” Colleen said,
“I think millions of Americans will have aching hearts for you right now, even if they can’t
fully understand your experience.” “What if she showed you?” The young father said, his face glowing like
a teenage boy who’d just discovered the Sleeping Beauty. I wanted to curse the bastard, but it became
clear to me in that moment that Colleen had planned all of this. She was the one who found these yahoos, she
was holding all the cards from the beginning. “That sounds like a fantastic idea!” She said, interlocking her hands with excitement,
“Do you think you could give us a little demonstration, Helen?” That poor little girl just gave another sullen
nod. She was about to be humiliated on national
TV. “You heard it here first, folks,” Colleen
said with a laugh, “Authentic contact with the spirit world! Not bad for the pilot, is it?” They all laughed it off like hyenas. The charm was lost on me now. “Well, whenever you’re ready, Helen. We don’t wish to rush you.” I expected the cliché playbook. We’ve all seem the goddamn Exorcist, I was
practically holding a bingo card while I waited for it all to unfold. Maybe she’d speak in tongues, or start swearing
and convulsing. Maybe she’d get her eyes to roll back into
her head, or she might even puke if she was particularly dedicated to the ruse. Either way, it made me sick. But that’s not what happened. To begin with, she just sort of collapsed
like a rag-doll back into the seat, her eyes closed. She remained like this long enough for me
to consider cutting and calling in a paramedic, but just as I was on the precipice of doing
so, her little green eyes suddenly opened and she started sitting back up. Funny thing is, I am absolutely positive that
they were blue before she fell down. For a moment or two, she just breathed heavily. They were labored, ragged breaths, like she
wasn’t used to breathing and was just trying to get the hang of it again. And then, she spoke. In a deep, male voice. “Where am I?” She, or rather, whoever was speaking through
her, said, “How did I arrive here?” I was aghast. This had to have been some kind of ventriloquism,
a variety of weird, live dubbing that I’d never seen before. I started scanning her as best I could for
hidden speakers, but the more she spoke, the more impossible it was to deny that this voice
was coming from her mouth. “You’re in a studio,” Colleen said, treating
this as though it wasn’t completely and utterly fucking insane, “You’re safe here. Don’t worry. What happened to you?” The voice coming out of Helen became frantic. “I…I was in a night club,” he said, as though
trying to reclaim fading memories, “I was having a good time, but I felt sick. And…and I went outside to get some fresh
air, and a guy asks me for my wallet. I tell him I’ve not got any money, I tell
him to leave me alone, but he pulls out a knife. I go to scream, to alert someone of what’s
going on, but he just…he just…” He sounded like he was on the edge of tears
by then. Helen’s facial expressions matched his terrified
rantings. “He just stuck it in my neck, and I fell down. God, I was bleeding, there was so much blood. I could feel my life leaving me, then there
were all these hands. There were pulling me out of my body and into
the deep, cold black. They were doing things, such terrible things,
I don’t want to go back. Please don’t make me go back!” Suddenly, without warning, Helen erupted into
a long, hideous scream before collapsing back on the sofa. When she awoke, her eyes were blue again,
and her voice had returned to normal. “That was incredible, folks,” Colleen said,
even her normally infallible confidence seemed to have been rattled by what we’d all just
witnessed, “A live communique from the spirit world. I don’t think we’ve ever seen anything like
it.” Helen Baxter looked like she’d just run a
marathon in metal shoes. She was a thin, pale waif before the incident,
but afterwards she looked like a noodle with celiac disease. I was a hair’s breadth away from calling the
whole thing off and getting an ambulance on the phone. “Now, for the good people tuning in a little
late, Helen,” Colleen said, some spark ignited by the potential for fame burning away behind
her eyes, “Do you think you could do it again?” “I don’t think I should.” She practically whispered. “I promise it’ll only be once more, sweetie,
and then we’ll be done for the rest of the interview. I’ll call in my next guest and you can have
a nap in the break room.” Helen looked to her parents, perhaps hoping
that they’d defend her from Colleen’s demands. Her hopes were quickly shattered when they
just grinned and nodded, negligent bastards. “Go on, sweetie, you can do it.” Her mother quietly encouraged. Finally, Helen resigned herself to the uncomfortable
process and gave another long sigh. A moment or so later, she collapsed back onto
the sofa again, preparing to rise with a different identity. It took her a little longer to wake up this
time. Something was unquestionably wrong. When she did wake up, and her eyes fluttered
lazily open, they weren’t blue. Nor were they green, brown, or gray. They were a deep piss-yellow – iris, sclera,
all of it – and the pupil had been reduced to a reptilian slit that bisected the center
of her eye. Her voice betrayed no obvious gender, it was
deep, guttural, and – above all else – impossibly cruel. It was a sound altogether difficult to realistically
describe. “It’s good to be back,” She hissed with a
quiet chuckle, “I’ve been waiting for a little while. Didn’t think she’d ever open the door to me.” Colleen seemed to be oblivious to the danger
that was now looming over this whole situation. “What’s your name?” She asked to the voice projecting through
Helen. I still wasn’t sure if she was really buying
it or not. “There’s no point trying,” It said, “This
little girl’s mouth wouldn’t be able to wrap itself around my name. And even if it could, you wouldn’t understand
it.” “Can you tell us who you are?” Colleen asked
instead. “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” It asked back, “Does that gratify you, Colleen? Give you some illusion of purpose?” “I’m trying to be civil here,” Colleen said,
keeping her composure somehow, “I ask you to do the same.” “Ah, you’re asking again. It’s getting dreadfully boring.” The young mother spoke, “You’re on television. Say something for the camera.” The thing laughed through Helen. “Shit. Fuck. Cunt.” It said, giggling to itself. “We’ll, uh, have to bleep that out.” Colleen said, the bizarreness of the situation
finally beginning to dawn on her, “I think perhaps we should move along, thank you so
much for-” “But I just got here,” The voice out of Helen
said, “I don’t want to leave. It’s dull where I come from. The only sound there is screaming. Here, at least I can see myself think, in
spite of your irritating questions.” I thought it was a trick of the light at first,
but Helen looked like she was getting taller. Moment by moment, the bottom of her skirt
got further away from her shoes, and her stick-thin arms protruded further from her sleeves. I began stepping backwards in shock and awe
as the little girl stretched and elongated into something else in front of me. “What the hell is going on?” Colleen asked the young parents, but they
had no answers. Helen continued to warp and bend until she
no longer looked like a little girl. She was long and haunched, her skin stretched
tightly across her bones. Her lips had pulled up, revealing teeth and
gum, as something large seemed to bulge in her throat. “What the fuck is happening?” I said aloud, my voice finally returning to
me. Colleen seemed frozen in place, as an impossibly
long tongue spooled from from Helen’s mouth, dangling around her knees. It was black as tar and stank twice as bad,
and appeared to sharpen to a point at the very end – almost like a stinger. “Oh dear god,” Colleen said, as she finally
began pacing backwards, “What the hell have I done?” She never got an answer to that question. The creature’s tongue whipped at her, embedding
its stinger into the base of her throat and slicing effortlessly through her trachea. I saw its black, pointed tip emerge from the
back of Colleen’s neck, as blood came cascading down her chest and body. The tongue ripped its way back out of her
with an audible crunch, as Colleen collapsed onto her desk, face-down. Naturally, I began sprinting for the exit
as the loping Helen-creature started chasing its parents. Somehow, in the confusion, a studio light
was rattled from its hinges and came crashing down onto the set. The wooden floorboards and Colleen’s precious
red drapes caught fire in no time, and before we knew it the entire soundstage was practically
engulfed in flames. It probably could have been extinguished if
someone had ran back and dealt with it in its earlier stages, but people would rather
take their chances with the stampede than face whatever the hell that little girl had
turned into. I made it out just in time, though I often
wish I didn’t. That night was a night of screaming, and burning. Upwards of 40 people were killed in the blaze
– but how many of those 40 were actually killed by the blaze is still an open question. They found Colleen’s smoldering corpse, and
parts of what we believe are the young parents. It took weeks to scrape the charred bodies
of lighting coordinators and set designers off of the walls, and even longer to identify
them and see to it that they got a proper burial. Worst of all, the never found any body that
was even closely comparable to the monster that started this whole mess, and god knows
where it is now. It’s haunted many a nightmare of mine since
that day. The studio issued a gag order once they’d
found out about the situation. We were paid off or threatened with the loss
of our jobs if we didn’t sign their mountains of non-disclosure agreements. They made the whole thing disappear, and everyone
who died on that tragic night had their deaths reduced to mere accidents, the result of a
freak fire breaking out. Nothing anyone could have predicted. What a bunch of bullshit. No justice, no answers, any sense of satisfying
closure for anyone involved completely taken out of the picture. The tapes we had of the event were destroyed
in the fire, and worse still, whatever evil we all had a part in unleashing on that day
is still out there, somewhere. Then again, I don’t see any point in getting
all that angry about it. That’s just showbiz, kid.

32 thoughts on ““In the Nineties I Was A Television Producer Here’s Why I Quit” [Friday CLASSIC] Creepypasta

  1. This is awesome! And your voice over is so well read and emotional which is a A+!

    I hope you do more! do you do request? I read a few creepypastas that i think is perfect for you to read!

  2. When he said that I was probably wondering "If she's all that, why haven't I heard of her?", I just shrugged. I don't know who a lot of celebrities are.

  3. Hey Man ! I love you voice and delivery! If I had a creepypasta that I wanted you to Read , how would I get it to you ?

  4. Just subbed! I saw your comment on Stuckmanns newest video and checked you out. I really like it! You're voice is so soothing and relaxing, it actually makes the stories creepier. Keep up the great content, I hope you get all the subs you deserve.

  5. Wow… this is awesome and the sound quality's top notch, which is kinda rare, so huzzah for you! πŸ™‚

    And you don't need to be selfconcious about the accent… it works fine and you're easily understandable πŸ™‚

  6. A damn fine job, good sir! You have my subscription now, as well as my respect and eagerness for what you have to offer. A mighty tasty pasta, if I do say so myself! πŸ‘πŸ‘πŸ‘πŸ‘πŸ‘¨β€πŸ³

  7. i didn't like it at all using Gods name in vain is not what i do anytime & the little girl She basicly got herself killed & for what for a show that could only prove that the devil is real , but i already knew that

  8. New sub here…just happened across your channel while listening to narrations of creepypastas!! Great job!

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