Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Got a Job as a COP. They gave me Six STRANGE RULES to Survive the night | Scary Stories

Episode Date: December 24, 2024

I barely survived... Scary Story exclusively written for the channel by The Lighthouse Horror Team Cover Art from Ninerio More of the artist’s works at ninerioarts  Original YouTube link: I Got a Job as a COP. They gave me Six STRANGE RULES to Survive the night    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!

When I first got the job, they didn't tell me anything strange about the night shift. No one pulled me aside with a wink and a warning. No old-timer whispered ghost stories by the coffee pot. It was a small town, population 4,000 on a good day, and the most excitement anyone expected was a rowdy football game or a call from Mrs. Turner about her stolen mail again. The most unsettling thing I figured would be the silence. The quiet, hollow kind of dark that hangs over towns like ours after midnight.

The chief met me on my first night. A tall guy with tired eyes and graying hair. He shook my hand firmly, his grip lingering a second too long. You read the rules I left on your desk? He asked. I nodded. But I hadn't. I glanced at the papers before stuffing it into my pocket, assuming they were standard shift protocols, reminders to lock up the station or fill out my logs. He didn't need to know that, though. And he seemed satisfied enough, giving me a stiff nod before sending me out on patrol. Only then, sitting in the cruiser under the dim light in the station lot, did I take the paper

out again? In plain blocky handwriting, six rules stared back at me. Rule number one, stay in your car between midnight and 3.33 a.m. Do not leave for any reason. Lock the doors. Number two, if you see a pair of headlights coming towards you after 2 a.m., turn off your lights, put the car in park, and keep your head down until they pass. Number three, if you hear someone tapping on the window, ignore it, even if they call your name. Number four, around 3 a.m. you might see someone in the rearview mirror. Do not look directly at them. Keep your focus straight ahead until they're gone.

Number five, there may be a patrol car that looks like ours, but the numbers will be all wrong. Do not acknowledge it. And do not get out of your car if it pulls up beside you. And rule number six, never answer your radio after 3.33 a.m. If you hear any voices, turn it off. Don't turn it back on until sunrise.

I frowned. All right, this was some kind of initiation joke. Maybe that chief got a kick out of haze and the new guy. You know, it felt stupid. But there was an uneasiness that sat heavy in my stomach, as I reread each rule, trying to rationalize them, trying to find some angle that made sense.

When midnight rolled around, I found myself in the parking lot of an old gas station that hadn't been in business for years. I cut the engine, leaned back in the seat, and tried to settle in. The night air outside was dead still. No hum of life or distant traffic. Just an almost oppressive silence. For the first half hour, I thumbed through my phone, scrolling through old messages and news stories to pass. the time. The rules itched at the back of my mind,

each one hovering like a threat. Midnight to 3.33am. A strange, precise window of time. I kept the doors locked, my hand absently checking the latch as I sat there. There was no good reason to leave the car anyway. The last thing I wanted was to stumble around in the dark, hearing nothing but my own footsteps off the empty street.

Somewhere after one o'clock, a soft fog began to roll in, settling low over the streets. It wasn't thick, just enough to blur the edges of the world outside. I adjusted in my seat, watching as it twisted around the street lamps, coding the already quiet town in stillness. I checked my watch. 205 a.m. And that's when I saw it. the first test of the night.

Headlights. Faint at first, glowing like distant fireflies on the opposite end of the street, slowly coming toward me. A perfectly normal sight on any other night, just a car driving through town. But I remember the rule. If you see a pair of headlights coming towards you after 2 a.m., turn off your lights, put the car in park and keep your head down until they pass. Reluctantly, I reach for the light switch, clicking it off. The interior of the car

plunged into darkness, the only glow coming from the faint red numbers on the dash. I put the car in park, and I waited. My head tilted forward, but my eyes sneaking a glance up as the lights got closer. The car was old, the kind you might see in movies from the 70s. It rolled slowly. Its headlights cutting through the fog in thin, eerie beams. There was something about it, something I couldn't put into words. The way it moved, felt off, almost like it was floating rather than driving. As the car neared, I forced myself to look down, squeezing my eyes shut and pressing my forehead against the steering wheel.

Every instinct screamed to lift my head, just a glance, you know, just enough to confirm it was some harmless late-night driver. But I stayed putt, feeling a cold sensation spread over my skin as the car passed, slow and deliberate. Its engine purring quietly as it glided by. I waited until I could no longer sense its presence, until the faint hum of its engine faded into the night. When I finally looked up, the street was empty. Only the fog drifting lazily with a car had been. My hands were clammy, fingers stiff as I gripped the steering wheel. It was ridiculous, you know.

I was a grown man. I was a cop sitting here terrified of a rule that was probably. designed to haze rookies. But as I sat in silence, the unease only deepened. Hours stretched by in dead silence. I could feel myself starting to drift, the heavy drowsiness of a long night settling over me. I checked my watch, 3 a.m. on the dot. I rubbed my eyes, fighting to stay alert. I could feel the minutes dragging every tick of the clock a subtle taunt. My gaze drifted up to the rearview mirror, out of habit more than anything. And that's when I saw it.

A shape, faint, but unmistakable, hovering in the back seat. At first I thought it was the fog, maybe some reflection from outside. But the shape didn't move, didn't waver. It was as if someone were sitting right behind me, close enough to reach. forward and grab me if they wanted to. Around 3 a.m., you might see someone in the rearview mirror. Do not look directly at them. Keep your focus straight ahead until they're gone.

My fingers tightened around the steering wheel. My breathing shallow. I wanted to look, to turn around and see what the hell was behind me. But the words of the rule sat like let in my mind. I forced my eyes to stay on the road ahead. My pulse a steady thud in my ears as I stared into the foggy emptiness beyond the windshield. The figure didn't move. It stayed there.

Just a dark silhouette. I could feel its presence, solid and wrong. Minutes passed. And then finally the weight lifted. I didn't dare look in the mirror. not even a glance, until the feeling completely vanished. When I finally looked, the backseat was empty again. I took a shaky breath, finger stiff, as I flexed them against the wheel.

I felt a sense of dread, and no amount of logic or self-assurance seemed to shake it. I'd follow the rules. I was still here, but the night wasn't over. and somehow I knew I'd only scratch the surface. The hours continued to crawl. As I sat alone in that car, my mind running through the rules over and over. The silence grew heavier.

Every now and then, I'd catch myself looking at the rearview mirror or the foggy streets, expecting to see something that shouldn't be there. As the first hints of dawn came, A small part of me began to relax. The rules had felt like some kind of fever dream, a trial of my nerves, but I had survived. Whatever haunted this town at night, whatever old, twisted things came out, they'd left me alone.

When I finally drove back to the station, the chief was waiting by the door, watching me with those tired eyes, as if he already knew what I'd seen. He didn't ask me if I'd followed the rules. I don't think he had to. The look he gave me was enough, an unspoken warning, a grim reminder that the night shift here was far for normal. I didn't ask questions. I didn't need to. I clocked out in silence,

the chief's eyes on me as I left, feeling the weight of a night that lingered far longer than it should have. After that first night, sleep didn't come easily. I spent hours lying awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the events over and over. The feeling of that thing in the backseat wouldn't leave my mind, nor would the memory of the old car rolling by. Part of me tried to brush it off. But another part, the one that it felt something unnatural, it knew better. On my second night, I arrived at the station just before midnight, trying not to notice the way the air felt heavier.

I nodded to the chief as I clocked in. He just nodded back, wordless, and handed me the same paper he had the night before. I still had it, folded in my pocket like a talisman, but I took the new one anyway. Something about his face told me he wouldn't appreciate questions. So I didn't ask. I tucked the paper into my shirt pocket, though the words were burned into my mind well enough by then. It felt like they'd been there forever, and something told me they'd be staying with me for a long time. Midnight hit, and I started my shift. The streets were quiet as they'd been the night before. Too quiet, really. In any other town, you might hear a few distant voices, maybe the dull hum of late-night tea.

from the houses with curtains open. But here there was nothing. The fog had returned thicker than the night before, coiling around the street lamps like smoke. It was almost as if the town had been drained of life. I drove the main roads first, checking intersections, passing darkened storefronts and empty parks. The feeling of being watched crept over me. But I ignored it, forcing my myself to follow the routine. A simple patrol, nothing more. An hour passed by without instant. Then two, I was just beginning to let my guard down when the first tap came. It was soft at first, a little noise, barely noticeable over the hum of the engine. I thought it was the radio for a second, maybe some weird static or a misfire from the equipment.

But then it came again, louder, like a finger tapping against glass. I remembered the rule. If you hear someone tapping on the window, ignore it, even if they call your name. I froze. The taps were coming in a steady, unnatural rhythm. It moved from the driver's side window to the back, each tap precise and somehow too hollow, too deliberate. Like someone outside the car

was making sure I heard every single sound. Then I heard my name. It wasn't loud, barely more than a whisper, but clear enough to leave no doubt. The voice wasn't one I recognized either. Officer Cod. The voice paused, letting my name hang in the air. I grabbed the wheel tighter, my eyes fixed on the dashboard refusing to turn.

The fog got signed thickened, and the tapping resumed. Faster now, as if whoever it was was growing impatient. The voice was closer this time, just outside my window. I looked ahead. My breathing shallow but controlled. Part of me wanted to look sideways, just to confirm it wasn't real, to see nothing, and laugh it off as some late-night delusion. But the other part, the one that remembered the rules, it wouldn't let me move. The tapping grew louder, angrier, shifting between windows,

as though it was circling the car, looking for a way in, a bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, trying to keep myself anchored, refusing to acknowledge it. I didn't know how long I sat there. The tapping wouldn't stop, each knock more violent than the last, until it felt like something was hammering on the glass, desperate to break through. And then just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. The silence that came after was almost worse. I could feel something outside watching me, but I didn't move.

Didn't so much as blink until the feeling lifted, until the fog began to dissipate. Only then did I dare look around, finding the windows perfectly intact, not a single mark on the glass. Whatever it was had left, at least for now. I took a deep breath. The air thickened my lungs as I forced myself to relax. My hands were sore from gripping the wheel. My knuckles pale. The night continued on in silence.

The minutes dragging into hours as I drove through the empty streets. Every instinct on high alert. Around three in the morning, I found myself near the edge of town, where the main road cut into the open stretch of forest, that bordered the county line. The fog had thinned out, drifting in patches that floated across the road, almost like they were watching me. I kept my gaze steady, the rules running through my mind like a mantra. And that's when I saw it. A patrol car parked just off the road, its lights off, but the shape unmistakable. It was an older model, maybe a few years out of commission, but definitely one of ours.

A Ford with the same stripes, same decals, everything in place except the number on the side. The number was all wrong. I forced myself not to slow down, not to look too closely. I'd almost convinced myself it was just some abandoned car left by a previous shift. when its headlights clicked on. My stomach dropped as the car pulled onto the road behind me. Its lights dim, but focused on me. I kept my speed steady, my eyes glued to the road ahead,

refusing to acknowledge the vehicle creeping closer to me. The urge to speed up, to pull over to do something clawed at me, but I didn't dare break the rule. It followed me for a good mile, always staying just behind me. Its headlights a dull, unnatural glow. And then without warning, it sped up, closing the distance until it was right on my bumper. My heart pounded in my chest as the car seemed to push closer, practically nudging me forward. I fought the urge to look in the rearview mirror, but the rule was.

clear, do not acknowledge it. For a second, I thought about breaking, about forcing it to stop, but I knew that was a bad idea. There was something deeply wrong about that car, something that went well beyond mere imitation. After a long time, the car finally backed off, its headlights dimming as it slowed down, drifting back into the fog, like it'd never even been there. The road ahead stretched out in a desolate line. The fog thickening once more as I drove on, my hands gripping the wheel tightly, and the rest of the shift was a blur, the silence pressing down on me. Every now and then I caught myself glancing at the mirrors, waiting for something. When the first light of morning broke through, I felt a physical weight lift off my shoulders.

I drove back to the station, each mile feeling like a reprieve. I parked in the lot, taking a moment to collect myself before stepping out of the car. The chief was waiting by the door, his eyes scanning my face with a knowing look. How was your shift? He asked. Though his tone made it clear, he already knew. I didn't respond. Instead, I handed him the folded paper.

He nodded, tucking the paper into his pocket without a word. All right, get some rest, he said. Tonight's the hardest night of them all. I didn't know what he meant by that. Part of me didn't want to know. As I left the station, the weight of his words settled over me, and I realized just how deeply those rules had messed with my head. There was no doubt now.

This town had secrets, and whatever was out there in the dark had no intention of letting me leave. On the third night, I arrived at the station with a feeling I hadn't had since joining the force. A quiet dread. The chief was waiting by my car when I pulled in, and his expression was grimmer than usual. There were lines on his face that I hadn't seen the night before. His eyes were heavy and unblinking.

Last night of the training shift, he said, handing me the paper with the rules again, as if I needed reminding. His hand lingered on the paper as I took it. There was something in his eyes, something close to sympathy. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then he just nodded and stepped back. His silence, somehow making this even worse. I settled into the car, checked my radio, and listened to the static hum over the speakers as I looked at the rules one last time.

Rule six, never answer your radio after 3.33 a.m. if you hear any voices, turn it off, and don't turn it back on until sunrise. Now, the other rules had taken their toll each night grinding away the last bits of logic and rationality I'd held on to. But that last rule was the scariest one to me. I'd been a cop long enough to know that a radio was a lifeline, the only connection we had out there. It was a rule that seemed meant to push me past the point of reason. A test I didn't fully understand. Midnight came quietly. The town was cloaked in the same heavy fog, thicker than the other nights. The first couple hours passed without incident. But as I sat there in silence, I felt something heavy in the air.

At around two, headlights flared in the distance. They moved slowly. cutting through the fog as they made their way toward me. This time I didn't wait to test it. I clicked off my lights, put the car in park, and ducked my head low, keeping my eyes on the floor as the lights came closer. I could hear the hum of the engine as it passed. The sound wrong, hollow, echoing like it was coming from a different place altogether. When I looked after it was gone, I saw the fog.

settle again, undisturbed, as if the car had never been there. And then, as the clock ticked toward three o'clock, something happened that made me grip the wheel. From the corner of my eye, I saw a figure, a man standing just outside the driver's side window. He was far too tall, and his head was tilted. Do not acknowledge it, I thought. I could see from the corner of my eye that the thing was waving at me now, slowly waving. And I don't know how exactly, but I knew it was smiling. Finally, after a long time, the tall figure faded into the mist. Time dragged on. I was exhausted. My nerves frayed.

I kept glancing at the clock watching the minutes crawl past, and then, at exactly 3.33 a.m., the radio crackled alive. I jumped, the sound cutting through the silence like a knife. Static buzzed from the speaker, crackling with faint, indistinct voices that shifted in and out, as though someone was trying to reach me from far away. I turned to switch the radio off, my hand hovering over the button. But then, through the static, I heard a voice that I hadn't heard in years, one that I knew better than my own. Daniel, Daniel, please. Can you hear me? My blood ran cold. It was my father's voice. He died six years ago, buried in the small, cemetery just outside of town. I'd stood by his grave, watched as the dirt covered his casket, and yet here he was, speaking to me through the crackling haze of the radio.

Please, Daniel, I need your help. I froze, my hand trembling. Every instinct screamed to turn it off, to follow the rule, to leave the past where it belonged. But the voice continued, pleading. Daniel, you've got to listen to me, please. I'm stuck here. I can't leave. You have to help me, son. You're the only one who can.

The word scratched at something raw inside of me. Memories of late-night shifts in his study. The smell of his aftershave lingering in the air. His hand heavy on my shoulder. as it gave me his old stories of life and loss, of pride in the force. Every piece of logic I had was melting away, replaced by that familiar ache of grief. Dad? The word slipped out before I could stop myself.

My voice barely a whisper. There was silence on the other end for a moment, and then his voice came back. softer this time and more real. Daniel, thank God. I knew you'd hear me. I knew you'd find me, son. I just need you to come, come to the place where we used to go by the river. Please, son, you have to hurry.

The river? We'd spent so many weekends there when I was a kid, fishing off the banks in the early morning light, watching the water as it drivet. lifted by. I could almost see it, you know, smell the fresh dewy grass, feel the rough bark of the old oak tree where we used to sit together. But something was wrong. I could feel it deep in my bones, a wrongness that didn't belong in my father's voice. The radio crackled again, his voice fading in and out, slipping between familiar tones and something colder, something that shouldn't

have been there. Turn it off, I whispered to myself, trying to tear my hand away from the radio. But the voice kept pulling me in, tugging at memories I hadn't visited in years. Please, son, just come to the river, Daniel. I'm waiting for you. My hand hovered over the dial, my mind spinning, and then I thought of the rule, never answer your radio after 333. If you hear voices, turn it off, and don't turn it back on until sunrise. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to turn the knob, cutting the voice off

mid-sentence. The silence that followed was deafening. pressing down on me. I sat there, the only sound, the faint hum of the engine. The voice had sounded like him, every inflection, every hesitation, just as I'd remembered. But I knew deep down, I knew that whatever I'd heard on that radio couldn't have been him. It was something else, something that knew him, something that had reached into the depths of my mind and pulled out the one voice that could have broken me. I finished my shift in a haze, barely noticing as the first light crept over the horizon. When I returned to the station, the chief was there, waiting for me by the door. His eyes were dark, hollow, like a man who'd seen him.

one too many things he wished he hadn't. I didn't say a word. He just gave me a slow understanding nod and placed a hand on my shoulder. When the shift ended, I drove straight to the cemetery. The morning sun cast long shadows across the graves as I walked between the rows, making my way to the simple headstone near the back, marked with my father's name. I crouched down, setting a hand of wildflowers on the grass, the cool morning air, chilling my skin. I don't know what I heard last night, I murmured.

But I know it wasn't you. The wind rustled through the trees, the leaves whispering as they drifted down around me. me. There was a stillness here, a peaceful silence that I hadn't felt since the beginning of my shift three days ago. Whatever haunted those nights, whatever lived in the dark corners of that town, it hadn't followed me here. I stayed there for a while, listening to the quiet. The memories drifting around me. And as the sun rose higher, I felt a strange sense of calm. settle over me. A feeling that maybe, just maybe, I'd made it through something that was meant to

break me. When I finally left, I didn't look back. The rules stayed with me, though. A warning. A reminder that some things in this world exist beyond the edge of reason, and that sometimes survival depends on following rules we can't understand. I drove back to town, and as I passed the station, I saw the chief standing there, watching me drive by with a look that told me that he understood.