Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Found The Truth About FRIDAY THE 13th. It's WORSE Than You Think | Scary Stories

Episode Date: July 6, 2024

There's only one way to survive... Story from Nick Moorefox Make sure to check out more of their work at u/nmwrites  Cover Art from Samuel Eriksson  Original Post: The Thirteenth : r/nosleep��                 Original YouTube link: I Found The Truth About FRIDAY THE 13th. It's WORSE Than You Think   Merch: lighthousehorror.shop  For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Sound Effects: Freesound Zapsplat Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech  Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

This is going to sound like an urban legend, like some myth echoing around, a diseased brain that you should disregard. It isn't. My hands shake and the gun in my hand feels heavy, but I know there's only one way to end this, and this is it. First though, I need to tell you the story of the 13th before the darkness steals its way across the floor, before I'm faced again with my nightmas. It seems like a lifetime ago at this point, but in reality half a dozen years at most

have passed. I could easily find the exact date, the moment my life shifted so wildly off its axis, but I would rather not at this point. Marking the days would make all of this too final, too real. I'd rather let the past disappear into the haze. I would prefer to lose myself in most days. days. Six of us drove out to the lake that weekend. Two couples, plus Tracy and I, best friends as we were, the fifth and six wheels that everyone always wondered about. I'd asked my friends

to plan the weekend, hoping a nice environment and a little liquid courage would finally give me the courage to tell her how I really felt, to spill the feelings I'd bottled up for so long. I wish I could reach back through time and grab that young man. by the collar. Tell him to find another way. Be brave, I would say. Be bold. The rest doesn't matter the way you think it does. I can't, though. No, some mistakes you don't unmake. Excuse me for a minute, will you? This drink isn't going to freshen itself, and I need to steal myself for this next part. Our schedules that summer were scattered and random. But we all lined up a Wednesday to Tuesday's stretch we had off and booked it.

The house sat on the side of a lake, with a beautiful view of the water. Surrounded by trees and fresh air, it was truly the perfect place to rent for a week. I couldn't even see another house when I stood out back. We spent the first night drinking around a bonfire, me trying to work up my courage and failing each time. On Thursday, though, Thursday was the big man. mistake. We ventured into town to visit the local bar scene, something Scott said, someone he bumped into at the gas station recommended. I wish I could remember that night, but it

reappears only in bits and pieces, fragments of some other timeline I might have lived in once. I do, however, remember the guy we talked to. Young, our age, someone local, talking about the area, at some point the story shifting to scary local legends. He told us about the 13th, some legendary beast that appeared only on Friday the 13th, which the next night happened to be, how it rose from the lake and targeted those who knew about it. We laughed and pretended to be scared, though the moment felt foolish and light. I remember Scott getting sick in the bathroom, helping him to the car, smelling the cinnamon of a fireball shot on his breath as he pressed one of those tiny bottles now empty into my palm, telling me to keep the change. At the time

I half-heartedly wondered where he got it, or how long he'd carried it around. I remember him announcing on the drive back that he'd left his lucky quarter at the bar, and then singing out the window, some old tune with the words changed. I wish I could remember it now. But it happened in another life. Life. We were alive. The next night was magical. That's the night I remember.

We grilled burgers and had a fire outside, and the memories are so infused with vitality. There are nights now. I wonder if so much of this really happened, but not that night. The air in my memory still hums with life. At some point Tracy and I found ourselves alone, our friends generously giving us the space we needed. I got her a blanket and we sat together, both daring the other to speak. You don't get to know the words that passed between us. There are all of that life I still have left, a conversation that is etched upon my soul,

the one thing I'll depart this mortal coil with. You can know that after we spoke those words, we kissed, and in that moment everything in the universe clicked into alignment for one moment, only for a moment. But then again, life can be both ephemeral and cruel. You can know that it was only a minute later when she jumped up, scratching her arms. The blanket I'd found was down and she was allergic. Feathers! What a dumb damn thing to decide the course of her arms!

one's life. She decided to shower, and I volunteered to make the trip up the road to the convenience store to find some Benadryl. I would have been there otherwise, of course, but if I had, I would now be counted among the useless and the dead as well. The house sat still when I returned, too silent. A fog had come in off the lake in a way that didn't make real sense to me. I hadn't been gone that long, and the door told me. the house, sat open. A feeling of dread in my gut told me something was wrong, but I couldn't tell you what. I recall walking to the door, turning as I entered, to realize I could barely see the car just feet away. My shoes hitting the pooled water inside and wondering if the shower

was somehow leaking, as though all the water might be nothing more than a mechanical issue. I remember finding the bodies, too. Lifeless and bloating, horribly bruised and soaking wet, pale, devoid of life. The police called it a chemical leak from some abandoned underground tank, a freak accident, a nonsense story designed to put on a report and they knew it. I found myself alone while the coroner's work, my closest friends in the world all suddenly snuffed out. I don't exactly remember the decision to start drinking after I left the police station, but I don't not remember it either. Some things make sense in the moment, a path

you're supposed to follow. I don't even know which bar it happened in. I shuffled from one to another as I got cut off, but the old man had gentle eyes and explained the 13th to me. He shouldn't have told you. He began. But he thought he had protected you. I was too drunk to recall the exact words that passed, but the old man told me I would be targeted now. Every Friday the 13th, I would find myself hunted by the same beast that killed my friends. I had to leave a small bottle of alcohol and a coin outside my door on those nights. It somehow would ward off the beast. One of us must have moved it, he told me, not realizing the importance. Telling us about it had marked us, some sick game I didn't understand.

Life fell apart after that. I didn't go back to school. Couldn't really. I drifted, living my life one bottle at a time, eyes always on the next Friday the 13th on the calendar. I wish I could tell you I had some purpose during those years, that I sustained myself on the memory of my departed friends, But that would be a lie. Instead, I told myself that each Friday the 13th would be my last, that I would refuse to place the wards, that I would greet the evil that stalked me, but every time I would hurriedly place them outside the door before darkness fell, shaking and cursing myself for my cowardice. I saw it only once in those years, A day I barely placed the protections before nightfall.

It lurked in the shadows nearby, somehow both solid and liquid, huge and menacing, enshrouded in a fog that appeared from nowhere, snarling, before it melted back into the darkness. I know I'll see it once more, and I don't look forward to it. Life, though. Well, life has a way of stabilizing. Nature abhors a vacuum, as they say. I found myself in a town filled with kind people, found a job to temporarily fill my pockets that turned into a life worth envisioning, a boss with a kind heart, who became a friend.

After a year there, living across the street from Steve, my boss, and his wife Karen, I realized that I could see myself in this place. I realized I could see a future again. I could live. Maybe some old scars really could heal. Steve knew I had a secret. He felt it in the silence during those moments. I stared off into the distance, losing myself in the past. The shadows on the horizon never left me, though they dimmed with time, storms passing just out of sight. Steve had a kind heart. He thought he could help. In one night over too many bottles of wine, and a meal his wife cooked, I finally broke down, and I told them about the 13th."

They responded kindly, not believing, no, but recognizing that something horrible had happened in my past, probably imagining that the police had been right, but that my young mind had created some nightmare to explain the things I could not accept. Two months would pass before the next Friday the 13th, and he never mentioned what I told him again. Still, early that morning, I walked silently to his house and hit a coin and small bottle of alcohol outside behind a bush. I would heed the warnings he wouldn't. I would ensure he remained safe. For once on a Friday the 13th, I fell asleep and slept deeply. I blame myself for what happened next.

I woke up to a few text messages from Steve, a selfie of him draining the bottle, and a message saying that he hoped this would show me I had nothing to worry about, that I could begin to work on processing the death of my friends. Poor Steve. He was a good man. His wife was wonderful. The authorities had no idea what to make of their bodies, found. inside a locked house with a dead bolt still engaged, mangled with lungs full of water.

That almost killed me. Well, I certainly drank enough that it might have. I'd go to bars and mouth off, praying someone would be violent enough to do what I was too cowardly to. Got beat a few times, but nothing with the finality I craved. I withdrew, mindlessly diving into the internet. a place I could be drunk and alone. One night, though, one night I found a thread, and it sparked an idea, another bit of life

for me. I began searching in earnest, searching for some way to free myself from this. I went down a lot of rabbit holes, found myself facing too many dead ends, but names bubble to the surface over time, familiar ones. When you're hunting for information on some water monster of lore, you can't exactly Google it. You hear about a professor with arcane interest, then hear about him again. The first time you hear a name might be nothing, but by the third, you point your compass

towards his campus and head that way. It took three tries before he didn't brush me off, but a professor with an obscure interest in Tris-Kidekophobia. of the number 13 couldn't be passed up. I knew I was running out of time. The next Friday the 13th was just two days away. So I showed up at his office and blurted out my truth that I knew why people are afraid of Friday the 13th and I'd been hunted by it for years. I spent the next two nights staying in his guest room as he drilled my mind with questions. I think he feared losing me. I told him about the 13th, and we prepared for that night as I had for years. I wasn't

any closer to understanding, but he took copious notes, circling over and over the facts as I knew them. We would speak, and then I would watch him pour over maps, books, records, silently putting something together. The afternoon of the 13th found him in a happy mood. We'd set the wards out, and began waiting for it to appear, this would mark the first time I looked outside. Normally I hid from its gaze. A celebratory drink led to another, and in a short time the professor finally began filling in the gaps for me, placing my experiences into a broader base of knowledge.

I watched the light drain away outside as he began talking. There have been rumors for thousands of years. He said. He spoke excitedly, the wine loosening his tongue. Some people will tell you this began at the Last Supper that some evil had already infected Judas, but I'm telling you this is older than that. It predates Christianity by a great deal. Hamarabi's code emitted the 13th law, some reference to the darkness. Lunar Colts thought the number 13 to be spiritual, but the number has had power for a long time. What is it? I asked. He shook his head. No one really knows. Some say a beast. Some say it's a living curse.

It's always been largely kept a secret, because the more people who knew of it, the weaker it became. The few texts that exist always made that clear. On Friday the 13th of October in 1307, King Philip IV of France used it to wipe out Knights Templar. It pops up only here and there afterwards for hundreds of years. It's old antediluvian. Something left over from before the flood. He paused here.

Every people to ever live on this earth have a flood mythology, cultural memories of water destroying the earth. He trailed off as he refilled his glass. Something different happened when it came to America. We were founded with 13 colonies, which I believe was some sort of homage to its power, perhaps trying to lure it. There was once a 13 club made up of powerful men, five presidents even joined, with the stated purpose of improving the number's reputation. But I think the real purpose was to transport it here, or lure it here. Powerful men have believed they could use it for a long time. His voice picked up as he got more and more excited.

In 1915, a German U-boat, SMU-28, sunk the British steamer Iberian. Among the debris, the Germans saw a giant aquatic animal in the wreckage, something resembling a crocodile of monstrous size. I think that represented an attempt to bring it here, and I think it may have succeeded in some way, though perhaps not as contained a matter, as some would have hoped. I looked out the window. The sun had completely set.

You provided an interesting piece of information, he continued, the coin and the small bottle of alcohol, some offering to protect you. It is driven to kill all who know of its existence, since in the knowing it is weakened. But you've discovered how men used it for so long, the flip side to the curse of the knowledge. One could tell his enemies of it without telling them how to protect themselves, knowing it would hunt them down once they knew. Genius in its simplicity, really. We sat quietly for a moment, considering this. Hitchcock tried to to make a movie called number 13, you know. He began. It fell apart and the footage vanished.

He paused and I waited for him to resume. He didn't. I need to use the restroom, I said, standing up. It won't be long now. I closed the door and splashed water on my face, staring at my reflection, daring myself to be brave. I remember that. sound, a click, and then metal meeting wood. I knew, but still I checked the bathroom door, locked from the outside. Professor? I asked, as though there was a question. Your libation and your coin are outside the bathroom, boy?

He answered. And you're safely locked in. It's not safe to be out there, I pleaded. Oh. Not for you, no, but I will greet our guest as an old friend. I've known the words for some time, just not how to summon it so I could use them. After this, it will be in my control." I begged through the door, but part of me knew what would happen next.

Minutes passed before I heard anything. It sounded like a trickle of water that slowly grew to a roar, and I felt a pressure that reminded me of diving to the bottom of a pool. The professor remained confident in his abilities, and he began chanting words, words in a language I'm sure died out long ago. I heard his chants grow louder, take on a plaintive tone. I could imagine the thing filling the room before him, with him believing he had some way to stop it. I heard his words stop suddenly, just as I heard the horrible, wet sounds that followed. Time passed again after that night, and I was out of options. I don't know what the professor did wrong if he spoke the wrong words, or if some other weakness

cursed him to a watery death, but there didn't exist much hope for me. The greatest and perhaps only source of information in the world had been snuffed out. So I did what I do best, Lose myself in a drink. I don't know how the universe decides to push these things together, whether some greater force nudged me in a certain way, or whether it was simply the luck of a man who'd spent too many evenings and too many filthy bars. I considered the knife in my hand. Silver, taken from the professor's study before I left.

It had something carved on the blade and seemed very, very old. I don't know why I took it, but it brought me some comfort. The old revolver, with bizarre, ancient-looking bullets was in my motel room. There existed no practical way of carrying the giant thing, but they'd seemed important to take, though they might simply be mementos from a man preoccupied with the past. I mostly laid low these days, grabbing a bunch of stuff from the scene of a violent death, has a way of attracting attention, even if the manner of death was so strange. I heard him while I studied the blade.

His voice still the same as that first night, only this time the tone remained light-hearted, talking about spring training. Pitchers and catchers, truck day, normal life, no tales of darkness and woe. I sat there all night, watching him from across the bar, waiting for him to leave. When he finally did, drunk and tired, I tilled just behind him. Most people are oblivious to these things, men especially, and he remained blissfully unaware of my presence until I pushed him into an alley and pulled a knife, his eyes flickering from surprise to fear.

You killed my friends. I hissed. And now I'm going to kill you. His eyes, full of fear a moment before, changed to acceptance. I deserve this. He began. I didn't protect your friends well enough. The knife shook in my hand, and he kept talking.

His story began in a town hunted by a nightmare the residents didn't understand. They all protected themselves from it, the way a few families had been taught by a stranger, decades before, but it found ways to strike the unprepared, the foolish, those who made mistakes. Over time, the residents created an elaborate plan to kill it, but only being able to strike it on Friday the 13th meant months would pass when movement on such a plot remained impossible. In the meantime, the plant in town closed, people left, and those who remained there, just tried to hang on to life. His mother had lost hope, and he grew worried that she would stop protecting herself, that she would find it easier to choose to see what lay on the other

side than face another day alone. The beast seemed too strong, though. Not enough people knew of it. So he hatched a plan that in his young mind seemed perfect. He decided he'd target a group of tourists, he would lure them into town, protect the house they stayed in, and tell them of the beast. Their safety would be guaranteed, and it would grow weaker in the telling. He would sit unguarded in his home, and when it appeared, he would try to kill it. He didn't know Scott had stumbled across the bottle and the coin, didn't know that even as they sat in the bar that night, Scott had dropped the coin in the bathroom already, that he would do a shot by the jukebox and hand off the empty bottle to me. He didn't know his plan had already failed, and so he

sat alone the next night, waiting for a beast that had already focused on more bountiful prey. He finished talking with tears running down his face and closed his eyes, waiting for what came next. I stared at the tip of the knife, still pointed at him, considering I stare at the knife tip again now. In his hand, he twirls it as we wait for the beast, two men who might be able to slay this nightmare once and for all. So now you know, and in that knowledge it grows weaker. place a coin and a small bit of libation outside your door tonight and you'll be safe. It wants me anyway. And my door will remain unguarded and open for the nightmare that will darken it soon. I'm ready for it. And this time I will succeed or I'll die trying.