Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I found the world's most DANGEROUS MCDONALD'S | Scary Stories

Episode Date: August 19, 2024

May I take your horror? Scary Story exclusively written for the channel by Patrick Rushbrook More of the author’s stories at hgtv_neighbor  Cover Art from Ninerio More of the artist’s works at ninerioarts                     Original YouTube link: I found the world's most DANGEROUS MCDONALD'S   Merch: lighthousehorror.shop  For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech Darren Curtis Music - YouTube  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!

There's a McDonald's in South Carolina that you should never go to at night. A man doesn't truly experience the joys of life until he father's a child. Whether it's the excitement of watching my wife go through labor as she drove us to the hospital, those late night sacrificing sleep to let her know the baby needs a diaper change, or even taking one for the team and heating up a frozen pizza for the family after a long day. I am generous with my time, and I put aside my own interest for the greater good. We are providers, protectors for our wives, and most importantly our children, who will go on to do great things. And then there are some of us who take it to the next level, the real ones, the dads by which all other dads are measured.

My name is Tony, and I'm a sports dad, and my boy Zeke is a budding superstar in the world of competitive pickleball. A once obscure sport that the haters refer to as tiny tennis. It is suddenly captivated the world at a level second only to the bond between Taylor Swift and Travis Kelsey. Once known for 60-year-old women, the future of this game has become a little bit of this game has become a little bit of become obvious to me. College, scholarships, fame, and endorsement deals with the big boys like Skechers and Subway. My son's going pro, and you better believe I'm going with him. Now, believe it or not, Zeke is ranked 17th in the 8-and-under division. I couldn't be more proud of what he's accomplished so far. But with sports, comes traveling to tournaments.

Lots of them. As we do most every weekend, the family and I were driving to attorney. This particular Friday, we were making the long drive from West Virginia to the shores of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, also known as the Redneck Riviera. The drive is roughly eight hours if you can limit your liquid intake. The first six of those hours are general interstate traffic with minimal road changes. The last two, however, are what can only be described as a geographical dumpster fire. Two-lane roads, back roads, construction, detours, plus the endless near-collisions with RVs and giant pickup trucks. It is exhausting to say the least. So on this particular weekend, Not too far from the state line, and just after passing through the town of Dillon, South Carolina,

we hit yet another detour. I was done. The traffic and the heat and the endless prompts from Surrey had finally gotten to me. Even changing the navigation voice to Mr. T didn't improve my mood. I pitied the fool who gave me any lip before we hit the coastline. So after taking that detour onto a pothole-filled dirt road, I decided it was time for a pit stop. Zeke cheered from the back seat when I announced my plan. Everyone was relieved by the prospect of getting a break from the drive.

Problem was, we were in the middle of nowhere. Myrtle Beach is a de facto yearly vacation spot for the entirety of West Virginia. so I had made this drive more times than I dare to guess. Regardless, even with a help of Surrey, Mr. T, and some pop star, the kids chose called Billy eyelids, I still managed to get lost. And it happens every single time. So imagine my surprise when we emerged from somewhere deep in the Long Leaf Carolina Pines to see a welcome sign for a town.

It read, Welcome to Consumption, South Carolina, a great place to eat. Okay, so most small town signs will show a painting of children frolicking in lush grasses while proud parents sit on benches under its name. But instead of that,

this one said in parenthesis, we have a McDonald's. Now, as a lifetime resident of small towns, there are a few things we take real pride in, including, but not limited to, an actor who grew up in town, a professional sports star who attended our high school for half his freshman year, a historical marker showing the birthplace of a state senator from the 19th century. The fact that a large army stopped to camp overnight on the way to a famous battle. We take pride in the small things, because the small things are what we have.

And the small things define a sense of community and camaraderie that just can't be found in big cities. What we don't take pride in is our McDonald's. Why? Well, because every small town in America has one. Scenaries change, trends come and go. our children leave the nest and mollets go in and out of style. But showing up in every nook and crevice of our nation are those greasy golden arches. In our household, McDonald's is considered a last option for meal time,

ranked just below Pop-Tarts and barely higher than a packet of colon-cleans powder mixed in a bottle of Desani. It is the least appealing of the four restaurants in our town, It's what Zeeq has to eat when he loses a pickleball match. In this family, only winners get wings. Which means we had just about hit rock bottom on our road trip. McDonald's had quickly gone from last option to an oasis in the desert. I stepped on the gas a bit more with renewed energy. The ice cream machine would probably be broken, but in my current mental state,

Even something as simple as a Mick chicken or a fillet of filth could lift my spirits up. But as the forest continued to open up, and the town of consumption came into view, my enthusiasm took a bit of a hit. I didn't know what kind of town I'd rolled into, but it certainly wasn't typical. It wasn't even atypical. Although they each have a bit of their own flavor, typical small-town America contains a few common ingredients, a main street, small buildings for a bank, post office, a flower shop, and city hall. You'll also find at least one residential subdivision, and at each end of town, will be a gas station and a dollar general, or in the case of my hometown, there are three dollar generals, and it wouldn't have surprised me if there was another waiting when we got back home.

But as I said, consumption wasn't typical. It wasn't quirky. I don't know how to label it. Other than to just say it was off. For starters, the streets randomly went from flat to sloped, then back to flat again. We're talking about banked streets. almost to the level of a NASCAR track that would suddenly flatten back out. Looking in the rear view and Zeke and Ava, with each turn, they were flopping to one side of the car or the other. Zeke's nose prints were on the window by the time things leveled out.

There were hills and valleys in the road that didn't match the grating of the surrounding landscape, and by halfway across town, we were all on the verge of nausea. As if the streets weren't bad enough, the buildings were even weirder. To say they were oddly shaped would be an understatement. These weren't the typical squares and rectangles. I was looking at sideways triangles,

some of which were leaning against the buildings beside them. The structures were anywhere from one foot to three stories high. some walls were bulging out and roofs that were somehow neither flat nor sloped. There were things I was seeing that my eye couldn't focus on well enough to understand what I was looking at. It was like looking at one of Zeke's Minecraft worlds he made when he was four, or as if Pablo Picasso went on an all-night moonshine bender in a Lego factory. The sides were not sides. The corners were not corners.

The doors were upside down. And some of the windows were just standing up on the sidewalks. I'm not even sure how to describe the color of things because they weren't colors. I mean, they had to be colors, but they just... Warned. The red here wasn't red. The blue wasn't blue. Nothing made sense. There was something wrong with the shops, too. Their names were generic, like they were taken from a knock-off play set. They were simple and sometimes misspelled words, saying things like shoes with two O's, or flowers with a pH. Postal office in different fonts.

My favorite was what I assumed was a barber shop, but the sign over it only had two words spelled H-A-R-E-Cuts, hair like the animal. Going into that place, maybe I was going to get a nice shave from someone in a bugs bunny costume. And there was something else, something creepy. Well, even more creepy than all the other creepy stuff. Every one of these structures almost looked like it was pulsating in and out. Almost as if they were breathing.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Were there people? Yes, there were. Quite a few of them, actually. Vehicles were kind of parked all along the ridiculously crooked streets. They had license plates from all over, North Carolina, Tennessee, Georgia, and Ohio. I even saw a few from California and another one from Ontario, Canada. Listen, I know people love Myrtle Beach, and if you've never been there, I suggest you don't

go. It's crowded enough already. Point is, the plates didn't really surprise me. All the different tourists wandering around was probably the most normal thing about this town. Everywhere we looked, there were tourists just as confused as we were. They were milling about, taking pictures of the buildings, videos for TikTok, and standing around confused when they tried to enter any of the shop. If there was a door handle, it probably didn't turn. If it turned, the door probably didn't open.

And if it opened, there was nothing behind it. The whole thing was just so surreal and overwhelming. I had absolutely no desire to get out and explore this crazy place. Besides, it was making me dizzy. I needed that Mickey D's more than ever. Something familiar, you know. I continued through this bizarre little town, following a long line of cars as the road began to open up a bit more.

About a quarter mile after passing a gas station with no pumps, we saw the first of a few digital signs indicating McDonald's was on the horizon. ahead, try our craft beer-battered smoked brisket, and beer cheese tacos. Wow, I thought. I know that may sound a little odd to you, but my life outside of my son's pickleball savagery literally consists of smoking meats and cheeses brewing my own beer, and cooking anything from steaks to kimchi on my Blackstone griddle. I was pumped. Maybe this McDonald's, McDonald's wasn't so bad after all. My wife, Gemma, bolted straight up in her seat.

Did you see that? A plant-based diet menu is available. Oh, my God. Her plant-based diet was going to kill us. It said brisket tacos, babe. You were probably half asleep. She shot me a disturbingly wild-eyed look. said, I know I was up half the night doing all the packing as usual, but I wasn't asleep.

I know what I saw. McDonald's has finally embraced the vegan way. Then Zeke, surprisingly without his head buried in his pickleball rulebook, chimed in. I saw ketchup and bologna sandwiches. It's like they read my mind. More like they monitor his phone. Honestly, I would have attributed all of this to phone monitoring and targeted advertising, but there's only one little problem with that theory. I love my wife to the ends of this earth. I would do anything for her, outside of missing a chance to see Zeke slay his third-grade peers. But as part of her plant-based hippie lifestyle changes,

she had switched us all to flip phones with no Wi-Fi access. claimed it was a lifestyle cleanse. She said smartphones were burning out our dopamine receptors or something like that. So the likelihood of internet-based targeting and advertising was slim to say the least. Then again, that brisket taco was singing a sweet beer-battered song pulled from the soundtrack of my very existence. Three more signs appeared over the next mile or so. Every one of them was advertising something different to whoever looked at it. Honestly, the accuracy of the signs would have been a little unsettling if we hadn't been

so stoked about the food. And even more amazing, there was an optional buffet. Finally, like a lighthouse along rough seas. The restaurant appeared. And my God, it was perfection. It was the most pristine structure I'd ever laid eyes on, perfectly clean from the curb to the doors, not a piece of trash or a spot of oil in sight. I couldn't find so much as a cigarette butt or dirty diaper laying around.

It was paradise. The exterior was made of immaculate brick. There was even a playland sticking off the front side. It shimmered in the distance. And maybe I had lost my mind, but it too looked like it was breathing. Brisket, Tony, brisket, I said to myself. It was all that mattered. Zeke and I hopped out of the truck.

Gemma gave me her order and chose to stretch. stretch her legs around the parking lot. We hit the door, pulled the handle, and were greeted by the smell of food wafting through the room. It didn't smell like a typical McDonald's. I know what one smells like. Grease, ketchup from the nearest trash can, that pink spray they used to clear the table, and the tiniest bit of bathroom deodorizer.

That's the McDonald's smell we know and love. This one was different, though. It was hard to put my nose on, but it was a mixture of bread, vinegar, and something I could only describe as what the bathroom smells like when my wife is using her curling iron. It didn't matter, though. It wasn't that bad. Just odd. And Zeke was tugging at my shirt, telling me to hurry up and get in line. The place was filling up fast.

with a lot of hungry tourists. Without hesitation, we slid into line. Okay, we actually cut line, but remember it was for tacos. The line was surprisingly fast moving, and I took a glance at the full menu. Or I guess I should say, I tried to look at the menu, because there was none. Despite this, I heard several conversations going on all around me. people talking about all the different food they saw advertised on the way over. I heard rib-eye, caviar, and fried chicken.

But all I could think about was how bad I wanted those tacos. In fact, they made me forget what Gemma's order was. I started to shoot her a text, but the 3G piece of crap phone in my hand had no signal. serves her right. She was now getting tacos. Before I knew it, I was near the front of the line. As if things hadn't been strange enough by this point, nothing could have prepared me for the kid behind the counter.

He looked to be 20 or so years old. His black hair tapered on his forehead, low and close to the eyes. He turned to grab a receipt for the person ahead of me. and I could see the back of his head was parted down the middle. He turned to grab a receipt for the person ahead of me, and I could see the back of his head was parted down the middle. It was like all his hair was backwards on his head. I guess it could have just been a wig, though.

Zeke and I hit the front of the line and got a better look at him. His face was what I could only describe as, perfect. He had symmetrical cheekbones at just the right height, a well-shaped nose, and eyes that could pierce through a person's soul. It all ended in what my sister referred to as a presidential chin. I had seen this exact face many times over the years, because my wife was borderline obsessed with it. I was looking at James Marston. There was no question.

And he shimmered and twinkled like he was sprayed with fairy dust. But below his chin, that would be the envy of everyone from Jay Leno to John Kerry. He was a complete mess. He had a huge scar that, circled the top of his disproportionately fat neck. It continued down to at least his waist. He looked as if his insides were trying to break free. His skin was pale, to the point that I could see his veins, and it was stretched so tight that all of his extremely sweaty pores were visible. His right arm and hand were significantly larger than his left.

and his right hip pushed out so sharply against his pants that I had to avert my eyes due to the level of discomfort I was feeling. Everything on this kid, it was so out of whack. It looked as if someone took a lot of muscle and bone and shoved them into a skin sack that wasn't quite large enough. As my pervy old gas station manager used to say about some of the customers, They look like 20 pounds of ham in a 10-pound sack. The cashier teetered and tottered to the sides, wobbled a bit,

kind of like one of those air-filled things trying to get your attention for a used car lot along the highway. And that same strange, misshapen and misspelled lettering from the buildings in town, the name tag on his chest said, Trevor. Like its two words, under the name, was the phrase, takes orders, guy.

Had I seen all of this in any other situation? I would have been out of the door immediately. But brisket, tacos. He turned back around to face me. Takes your, order? Trevor slurred out. Finally.

Yes, I need two orders of brisket tacos and a bologna and ketchup sandwich. Trevor let out a little burp. Buffet? No, thanks. I just want the meals. Another burp? Buffy. No, I don't want the buffet, just the meals, please.

I was starting to lose my cool a bit. Trevor started quivering and swaying. He had this look on his face, like he was trying very hard to keep something down. And then he reched, like those people on Survivor, when they're made to eat rotten fish. His mouth puffed out.

I took a step back. back. Trevor closed his eyes and breathed deeply, then swallowed some air, hard. The air pocket bulged through his fat neck, and his shirt puffed out a bit as it moved down to his stomach. He then settled down and repeated himself. And as soon as he hit the e-sound, he went into a massive coughing fit, so loud that it echoed throughout the room. Everyone stopped talking and turned in his direction. Uh, okay, sure. Buffet it is, I said.

I threw a couple twenties on the counter. Trevor typed a bit into the register with his humongous hand, then handed me two receipts. As I walked toward a door that would lead me to my luscious tacos. I glanced at the receipts. One said nuggets, and the other said toppings. Whatever. It was a buffet. They know where I was headed. With Z caught on my heels, I swiftly karate kick the swinging door toward the buffet. I'd finally made it. We walked down a short hallway that ended with two doors that faced each other. Between them was a small machine

that said feed receipt. I popped my receipt in the feeder and an arrow pointed to the door on the left. Zeke's receipt sent him to the door on the right. I know at this point you're going to think I'm a terrible father, but the past is the past, you know. I will freely admit that I barely acknowledged him as I had had left, and then I looked back and I felt no regret as I watched him cautiously shuffling toward his own door. My doorway. It led me straight to a moving platform. Like those things people ride to get across the airport, while the rest of us are moving

faster as we walk normally on the carpet. I could see a pair of customers ahead of me, excitedly talking about salad and breadsticks. I rolled up my sleeves and rubbed my hands in anticipation. as I passed through the next doorway into a well-lit room. But as soon as my eyes readjusted to the light, it hit me. This was not a buffet. At least not for those of us on the platform. I nearly wretched as everything opened up before me into a horrific scene.

these, dozens of people hanging upside down from giant claws like you see in the skill crane machine. They were being directed into some kind of contraption, resembling a giant wood chipper. Moms and dads, grandmas and grandpas, and probably a few creepy uncles, were being shaken violently before being whisked away to a screaming death. Littering the floor below were pieces of Hawaiian shirts and flip-flops mingled with various purses and sunglasses. A set of dentures barely missed my head before I was struck squarely in the nose by a yellow crock.

Spraying blood, yellow tinted body fat, and various unrecognizable fluids at a 20-foot radius, the grinding machine made quick work of the people that were dropped into it. Each drop was barely five seconds apart. I managed to take in this entire scene in the split second before I heard that skill crane claw coming up behind me. And let me tell you, I'm no stuffed animal. Now I play a crap ton of pickleball with Zeke, and although he generally beats the piss out of me,

I have picked up a little zigzagging in my time. So I zagged to the left, barely staying on my feet as I avoided the claw's razor-sharp jaws. It zipped in my direction again, and I dropped to the platform. My face landed in a trucker hat that smelled like cigarettes and sweat. I rolled to the right, and I fell off the side of the platform, landing about five feet down on the floor. I flipped onto my back, and I raised my arms up in a bad defensive position. I was ready to face my imminent demise. But the claw had given up and raced off.

I heard screams from above as it snatched up the next person in the way. line. I got to my feet, and I peaked under the platform towards the other side of the room. I could see the grinder had a transparent pipe coming out the bottom, washing its messy contents over to a compactor. A heavy press dropped some 15 feet down, crashing violently against some sort of steel molding, with a loud hiss. The press shot back up, and the mold flipped over. And out popped a giant chicken nugget. Well, not chicken, I suppose.

I'm somewhat embarrassed to say this, considering what I'd been seeing for the past minute or two. But it really wasn't until that exact moment that a chilling realization hit me. I wasn't going to get those tacos. Second thing I realized was that I'd been about 30 seconds away from being stamped into one of those boot-shaped nuggets

you love to find in your six-piece combo. And thirdly, yes, I know this should have been first. Where the hell was Zeke? A world around, and faced the other side of the room. Across that way was the other platform. It had its own wicked set of claws snatching up oblivious vacationers.

I saw Zeke then, and I was so proud. He was dodging the crane masterfully, like Neo and the Matrix. The platform kept moving along as he ducked and jumped, but there was no. No nugget machine at the end of this line.

Instead, there were two giant transparent glass jars filled with liquid and people. They each had a giant label on them. One said dill, and the other said sweet. Oh, my God. My son was about to go from pickleball. to being the pickle on a Homo sapien sandwich. I raced to the other side as fast as my Nikes would take me. I worked my way past machines labeled fries and buns

and various other McDonald's specialties. I managed to run up beside the platform, grab Zeeks' shirt, and pull him down over the side with me. We landed with a crash, and then we both saw. sprang up lightning quick. Suddenly, we heard a deafening crunch accompanied by the sound of lips smacking together. We turned to the far wall

and to our horror saw something strange growing out of it. It was a face, at least 40 feet high. It had yellow reptilian eyes and a wide slit of a mouth. Under it were long, skinny hands reaching towards a pile of human nuggets, and deep-fried legs and arms. Uh, Zeke, we need to get out of here, I said.

We ran until we reached a door labeled bile. We slammed the door shut as soon as we were in. The room was dimly lit and contained several large tanks of orange liquid. That's when it hit me. The door was serious. This actually was bile. We were in the digestive system of an Eldritch monster. A monster so large and powerful that it could disguise itself into a a living, breathing, town, and a fast food restaurant. This thing figured out the one thing that would lure crowds of tired, hungry tourist, and we had to find a way out. Zeke smacked me on the shoulder. Dad, what do we do? My gears were grinding. Think, Tony, think.

And then it hit me. Zeke, we know how it eats, right? And there's bile, so we know it digests. So what's next? Zeke's eyes went wild. We both know what we need to look for. But it's not going to be pretty. We both ran out of the bile rum and headed back onto the production floor.

There were two more doors nearby. One was labeled in and the other was labeled out. We ran to the inn door, opened it, and wished we hadn't. It was the stomach, flesh mixed with bones, and hair slid down, giant tubes, into a huge tank. acid dripped from above, dissolving the slurry. We ran back onto the floor once again, and headed for the outdoor. And there it was. The exit, hopefully. It was essentially a trough.

Waste from what I presumed was the stomach ran down into a big pipe. I could see daylight bleeding into the room from the end of the pipe. The smell was unbelievable. But we were jumping in. We both took a big breath of air. And then I grabbed Zeke, tossed him down the tube and jumped in after him.

Five seconds later, we emerged, dropping down into a ditch full of purayed humanity behind the restaurant. We climbed out over the side of the side. and then collapsed to the ground. Disgusted and exhausted. We gave each other a slimy high-five that meant more than any words we could have spoken.

I love my son. He's my best buddy. And we just shared a unique experience that no one can ever take away from us. Hand in hand, we made our way back to the truck. But when Gemma got a look at us, her face contorted into a mixture of horror, disgust, and anger. I had no idea how I was going to explain this one. The truth would never fly.

And there was no way we were going back inside to prove it. But good old Zeke had my back. With an excited smile on his face, and both of us drenched in slime. time, Zeke called out to his mother through her open window. Hey, um, mom, the cashier Trevor threw up on us. I offered a shrug. I think we're going to have to go to Wendy's.