Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I got a Job as an Exterminator. They gave me Six VERY STRANGE RULES | Scary Stories

Episode Date: December 31, 2024

This is my strangest story... 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 an Exterminator. They gave me Six VERY STRANGE RULES      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!

The ad was simple. A phone number in three words. Exterminator wanted. Urgent. The paper was yellowed and the ink in blood slightly, like it had been waiting too long. My phone call was answered after one ring, and the voice on the other end didn't even ask my name. Just the address, the time to be there. And a warning. Show up ready to work.

Or don't bother. I'd been broke long enough to understand the term. I arrived at 6 a.m. sharp to a building that didn't match the urgency of the ad. It looked like an old service warehouse, unmarked, unremarkable, and oddly quiet. My boots scuffed against the cracked asphalt, breaking the eerie silence as I approached. The windows were covered, but a dim glow seeped out from the seams of the doorway. I knocked once. The door clicked a door clicked a open immediately, as if I'd triggered it. Inside, the smell of ammonia hit me hard, and the man waiting behind the desk barely glanced up from his clipboard. He was wiry, his face sharp with angles,

no introductions, no small talk. He slid a folder toward me. You'll ask that today. Read the rules. I opened the folder. There were no forms, just a a single sheet of paper with uneven type. Rules for field work at Northern Extermination Services. Rule number one, never use the front door of any client's house. Always enter through a side or rear door no matter what they tell you. Number two, if a client offers you food or drink, refuse. Do not touch anything that wasn't in your kit. Number three, you may hear you hear movement in the walls or see something unfamiliar in the corners of your vision, do not investigate. Number four, if you encounter an animal or pest that speaks, respond only with,

the house is under service, and leave the room. Number five, check all closets, even if the client insists they've already been inspected. Number six, if the infest, if the infest, Incustation includes unusual nest or eggs. Burn them before removal. Do not attempt to save samples. Number seven. Finish the job by sundown, no matter what. And number eight, never returned to the same house twice. I looked up. His eyes locked onto mine like he was daring me to object. Uh, what kind of extermination work is this? I asked. Follow the rules, he said simply. Or quit now.

Either way, we don't do second chances. Something about his voice made it clear this wasn't just a scare tactic. But I needed the job. So I gave him a nod. He handed me a jumpsuit, a toolkit, and a list of addresses. All right, first job. now out. Don't call me unless it's an emergency. No one does. I pulled up to the house at 7.15 a.m. The neighborhood was quiet. Too much so. No kids, no cars passing, just stillness.

The house itself was an old Victorian, the kind with peeling paint and curtains that looked like they haven't moved in decades. I went to the back door, as instructed, even though the front door had a mat that read welcome and cheerful font. The back door creaked open with surprising ease. The air inside was heavy and warm, carrying a faint metallic tang that tickled the back of my throat. I called out, exterminator, but nobody answered. My toolkit felt absurdly light as I walked through the narrow hallways. The house was suffocating in its clutter, stacks in newspapers, cabinets crammed with glass jars, and an old radio crackling static in the corner. And then I saw it.

The front door. I hadn't walked far enough for it to make sense. I shouldn't have been anywhere near the front of the house yet. And yet there it stood. The welcome mat was gone, replaced by something that looked like burlap, damp and modeled. I froze. Something scraped softly against the other side of the door, and I felt the air shift, as if someone was leaning against it. My first instinct was to reach for the knob, but Rule 1 buzzed in my mind. Never used the front door. The scraping stopped, replaced by a slow, deliberate knock.

Uh, who is it? The words came out before I could stop them. No answer came. Just the knock again. And then the silence returned. I backed away. My eyes fixed on the door until I was sure I couldn't hear anything anymore. I moved deeper into the house, trying to push the incident out of my mind.

The infestation seemed typical at first, dropping scattered across the baseboards, tiny holes chewed into the walls. But then I found the kitchen. A plate sat on the table. Layden was something resembling meat. I couldn't tell what kind. Its surface glistened, slick, and unidentifiable. A glass of water sat next to it, cloudy, and speckled with what might have been dirt.

I didn't hear anyone enter. but suddenly the client was there standing in the doorway. She was older, with thin white hair, and a lined face that didn't quite match her eyes. I made this for you. She said. Oh, I don't eat on the job, I replied. Her face twisted slightly, like I'd broken some unspoken contract. You're rude, you know that.

People like you never last here. She turned sharply and left the room, muttering under her breath. I didn't follow her. Instead, I opened my kit and started laying traps, trying to shake off the encounter. But when I looked back at the table, the plate was gone. The scurrying started almost immediately. At first, I thought it was just rats. Their claws scratching against the plaster.

But as I moved through the house, the noises became more erratic. Like something large, something with weight, was dragging itself just out of sight. In the living room, I thought I saw a flicker of movement near the baseboard. Just for a second. Something small, humanoid, darting too quickly for me to be. follow. I turned sharply, the toolkit rattling against my side. Don't investigate, I muttered to myself. Do not investigate. The sounds didn't stop. I could hear them in the ceiling now, and the vents, above me, below me, everywhere.

I moved to the next room, willing myself not to look back. By the time I read the the upper floor of the house, the weight of the rules felt worse. The list wasn't just a warning. It was a constraint. Every instinct screamed at me that these weren't just guidelines for avoiding trouble. They were survival tactics. The hallway stretched longer than it should have. The warped floorboards creaking under my boots. Doors lined either side, all closed, their chipping paint flaking onto the ground. I stopped at the first one on my right, stealing myself as I reached for the knob. Rule 5 was in my mind. Check all closets, even if the client insist they've already been inspected. This wasn't a closet, but I figured the principle applied. The door swung open

to reveal a bedroom trapped in time. A floral bedspread lay perfectly smoothed on the mattress, dust swirling lazily in the weak light from the window. The air smelled stale, kind of sweet. I checked the walls and corners, but saw no signs of infestation here. Yet the room's stillness felt staged, like something was here.

A sound from the closet made me just, up, a faint rustling, like fabric being dragged along wood. My stomach churned. The closet was small, no more than a sliding door on the far wall, the kind that shouldn't be able to hold anything big. I took a deep breath, crossed the room, and gripped the edge of the closet door. My fingers trembled slightly as I slid it open. The space inside was empty, except for a single coat hanger swaying gently on its rail. No pests, no nest, nothing. But the rustling sound didn't stop.

It was softer now, coming from deeper inside, impossibly deep, considering the closet's visible back wall. I didn't move closer. Instead, I slammed the door shut, turned on my heel, and left the room. As I stepped back into the hallway, I felt something cold brush against the back of my neck. I whipped around, hard pounding, but the air was still. The bedroom door, however, was no longer open. It had swung shut behind me, its handle rattling slightly, as if it had been pushed. I pressed on, keeping my mind focused on the task. The second door revealed a bathroom, its porcelain fixtures stained yellow with age.

The mirror above the sink was cracked, splintering my reflection into jagged fragments. I avoided looking at it directly, my hands working mechanically as I placed traps along the edges of the room. The vent above the shower gurgled once. fell silent. I didn't stay long. The third door led to another bedroom, but this one was different. The bed had been stripped bare, its mattress propped up along the wall. The floor was scattered with debris, splintered wood, bits of insulation, and a thick layer of something sticky that clung to my boots as I stepped inside. The walls were lined with holes, some no bigger than a coin, others large enough to fit a whole fist. I knelt to inspect one, careful not to get too close.

The interior of the hole seemed to pulse, almost like it was breathing. A faint clicking sound echoed from somewhere inside, and it grew louder as I leaned closer. My skin crawled, and I pulled back sharply. My boot slipping slightly in the sticky nose. muck on the floor. I needed to burn these nests, I thought. Rule 6 was clear. If the infestation includes unusual nest or eggs, burn them before removal. But the kit I'd been given didn't include anything for burning. No lighter, no accelerant, just the usual traps and sprays. I almost got frustrated, but I knew better than to improvise. I'd finish what. I'd finish what. I could and report back to the man who'd hired me. He had instruct me as the type to appreciate

excuses, but I wasn't about to break a rule I didn't fully understand. As I exited the bedroom, a sudden thud went through the house. It was low and heavy, like something massive had just landed below me. The entire floor seemed to vibrate. I hesitated at the top of the stairs, looking down. The living room was shrouded in dim light, its furniture casting shadows across the room. I did not want to go back down. Whatever had caused the noise,

I was certain it wasn't a normal bug, but I couldn't stay upstairs forever either. Gripping the railing tightly, I descended slowly, my ears listening for any hint of movement. At the bottom of the stairs, the air felt different, smell different. The kitchen light flickered as I passed, the bulb buzzing faintly. I looked forward, ignoring the faint scuttling sounds coming from the bass boards.

I just reached the living room. When I heard a voice, Why didn't you check it? I froze. The voice was low and rasped. It sounded impatient. It came from somewhere behind me. But when I turned, there was nothing there.

Just the same kitchen. Who's there? I called out. Silence. Then after a beat, the voice came again. You forgot one. It wasn't possible. I'd been alone in the house the whole time.

The old woman hadn't reappeared since our brief encounter in the kitchen, and the voice did not sound like hers. It was wrong. Too layered. I backed into the living room, my eyes looking around the space. The sofa loomed large in the center, its faded upholstery worn with age. The television screen was dark, but the reflection on its surface made me nervous. There was someone sitting in the armchair. The figure was barely visible, just a faint outline of a body,

but the longer I stared, the clearer it became, it wasn't human, and it was just sitting there, waiting. I blinked, and it was gone. I stumbled back, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug. My toolkit fell from my hands, the contents spilling across the floor. I scrambled to gather my tools, my hands shaking as I stuffed them back into the case. When I looked up again, the armchair was empty. Its seat cushion indented, as if something had just been sitting there.

I needed to get out. I didn't care if the job was unfinished. No amount of money was worth staying in this place any longer. The rules didn't say anything about leaving early, after all. I rose to my feet, my knees unsteady, and I made my way toward the back door. The air grew colder as I approached, each step feeling heavier than the last. When I reached the door, I grabbed the knob and twisted, but it wouldn't budge. I tried to, again, harder this time, but it was like the metal had fused in place. I turned ahead for the side door, but the hallway leading to it was gone. In its place was a solid wall of peeling wallpaper, the faint outline of a doorway

visible beneath the layers. No, no, no, no. The rules spun in my mind, their words blurring together. finish the job by sundown, never returned to the same house twice. But what happens if I can't leave? The sound of scurrying returned. Louder now. It came from all around me, filling the walls, the ceiling, even the floor beneath my boots.

I backed into the living room, my head darting in every direction as the noises closed in. I needed a plan something, anything, to regain control. The toolkit was my only anchor, the only semblance of normalcy in this nightmare. I dropped to my knees and opened it again, pulling out the strongest pesticide I could find. It wouldn't stop whatever this was,

but maybe it'd buy me some time. The wrestling grew louder. And then without warning, It just stopped. The silence was deafening. I stayed crouched on the floor, my fingers clenched tightly around the spray can. When I finally stood,

the house seemed different. I glanced at the armchair, half expecting to see that figure again. But it was still empty. And then I heard it. A soft, wet sound, like something being dragged across the floor. It came from behind me.

I didn't turn around. I couldn't. My body was frozen in place, but the sound grew louder until it was directly behind me. A voice whispered in my ear. You didn't follow the rules. I stumbled forward,

nearly dropping the spray can, The voice wasn't just near me. It was like it was inside my head. My legs felt like lead, but I forced myself to move. The only thought in my mind was to get away. The walls seemed closer now. The narrow hallway leading toward the stairs seemed longer. And then I heard the scratching. It started faintly, like nails against wood, but it grew sharper. It followed. me, moving just behind the thin layers of plaster. Whatever was inside the walls wasn't bothering to hide anymore. I turned the corner to face the stairs, and there it was again. The wet dragging sound, but louder this time. I stopped. My breath caught in my throat. Something moved in the

periphery of my vision, a ripple along the cracked wallpaper. I snapped my head toward it, and the movement stopped. Then the voice returned. More distinct now. Did you think you could just leave? I turned sharply, spinning in every direction, but there was nothing. Just the house. Where are you? I said. A low chuckle. A low chuckle. came in reply. You broke the rules. I ran for the stairs. My boots pounding against the warped wood.

The sound of scratching erupted all around me, as if the house itself was coming alive. Something slammed into the wall beside me, hard enough to rattle the picture frames. I didn't stop to look. The staircase felt endless. And when I finally reached the upper floor, the air was colder. The hallway I just walked through earlier was warped and distorted,

the doors now leaning at odd angles. I needed to focus. There were still rules I hadn't broken, rules that might save me. Rule number seven. Finish the job by sundown. I looked towards the windows, but they were dark. their glass obscured by something thick and oily. I had no way of knowing how much time had passed, but I couldn't let myself stop. I forced myself to check the remaining doors one by one.

The first room was a bathroom. The fixtures rusted and warped beyond recognition. The second was an empty nursery. The wallpaper peeling in long, jagged strips. I almost didn't open the closet, but the memory of the voice drove me forward. The closet was empty, thank God, just like before. But I swore I felt something cold brush past my hand as I closed it. The third room was locked. I jiggled the handle, but it wouldn't budge. I took a step back, scanning the door for any sign of damage,

when I noticed something strange, the floor around the door frame was wet, the wood dark and swollen. A faint dripping sound came from the other side, steady and rhythmic. I hesitated. Rule three was clear. Do not investigate. But the rules hadn't accounted for something like this, something blocking my only way forward. The voice returned. You're wasting time. The dripping sound stopped. I didn't realize I was holding my breath until the air escaped me in a shaky exhale.

I reached into my toolkit and pulled out the crowbar. The heavy weight of it in my hand was comforting, even if I had no idea what I was up against. With a grunt, I jammed the metal edge into the doorframe and pried it loose. The wood groaned in protest, splinters flying as the lot gave way. The door swung open, and the smell hit me immediately. Rott and mildew. The room beyond was dark, but as my eyes adjusted,

I realized I wasn't looking at a room at all. It was a tunnel. The walls were jagged, made of dirt and stone, with wooden beams supporting the structure. The floor sloped downward, disappearing into the darkness. I hesitated, gripping the crowbar tightly. I didn't want to go in, but the voice came back. It coaxed me forward. You're almost there.

air, the voice said, and then I stepped inside. The tunnel was colder than the rest of the house, the air damp and suffocating. My boots squelced against the wet ground as I moved deeper, the dim light from the hallway fading behind me. I don't know how long I walked, but the tunnel seemed endless. My legs ached, and my grip on the crowbar was slick. with sweat. Just as I was about to turn back, the walls widened, opening into a cavernous space. The room was massive. Its walls covered in strange, pulsating things. They glowed faintly,

casting the space in an eerie, sick light. In the center of the room was a pile of objects, bones, torn fabric, and pieces of furniture that looked like they'd been dragged from the house above, and standing over it all was something terrifying. It turned toward me, its movements jerky and unnatural. I froze. This house is under service, I said. The creature stopped. For a moment, the room was silent.

Then slowly it tilted its head, as if considering my words. And then it lunged at me. I barely had time to react. I swung the crowbar wildly, the metal connecting with a sickening crunch. It let out a shriek, staggering backward. and I took that opportunity to run. I didn't look back. The tunnel seemed to stretch forever,

but I forced myself forward. The sound of the creature behind me was deafening, its limbs scraping against the walls as it got closer. The house was alive with noise now, scratching, scuttling, and the faint whispers of the voice, laughing at my desperation. I didn't care. I ran for the back door, praying it would open this time.

When I reached it, I didn't hesitate. I grabbed the knob and twisted into my relief it gave way. The cold air of the outside world hit me like a punch, and I stumbled out out of the lawn, gasping for breath. The house loomed behind me, dark and silent once more. But I didn't stop running until I reached my truck, the engine roaring to life as I sped away. When I finally stopped, I was miles from the house, parked on the side of an empty road. My hands trembled as I gripped the steering wheel, my mind racing. I didn't know what I just encountered, but one thing was clear. I hadn't finished the job.

The rules hadn't said what would happen if I was. I failed. But I was about to find out. I didn't sleep that night. The motel I'd hold up and felt flimsy and vulnerable, the thin walls doing little to block the wind outside. I sat in the dark with my toolkit beside me, my mind racing. The rules had been clear and I'd broken him.

I'd left the job unfinished. It was nearly dawn when my son. phone buzzed. The number was unlisted. I didn't want to answer, but something deep inside me compelled me to. My hand shook as I pressed the screen

to my ear. You didn't. The voice said, low and gravely. It wasn't the man who hired me. It was something much worse. I, I, I tried. A long pause.

Then cold and final. You have until sundown, or it'll come to you. The line went dead. I sat there for a long time. There was no escaping this. The house, the thing inside it, whatever rules governed this nightmare. They wouldn't let me walk away. I needed to go back.

Not just to finish the job, but to destroy. whatever I'd unleashed. The thought of returning terrified me. But I couldn't live with the alternative. If the house wanted me, it would find me, no matter where I went. Maybe on its turf,

maybe I might have a chance. I spent the next few hours gathering supplies, gasoline cans from a hardware store, a lighter from a gas station, rope, nails, and a hammer. Wasn't much, I know, but it was all I could think of. As I loaded the truck, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window. I looked haunted.

By the time I pulled up to the house, the sun was beginning its descent. The air was thick with stillness, and the house stood waiting. The back door was a little. open, swaying gently in the breeze, as if inviting me inside. I stepped through the doorway, gasoline cans in hand. The house was quieter than before, but the air felt alive. The same heavy scent of decay was there stronger now. The rules played in my mind like a mantra. Never use the front door, refuse all food and drink, Don't investigate sounds finish by sundown.

This time I wouldn't break a single one. I started in the kitchen, splashing gasoline across the floor and over the counters. The liquid pooled around the legs of the table and chairs, soaking into the warped wood. As I moved through the house, the scurrying and the walls returned louder and more frantic. It didn't matter. I wasn't here to investigate. The living room came next. The armchair sat empty,

its cushion still indented from whatever had been there before. I drenched it in gasoline, the fumes burning my nostrils. As I moved to the hallway, I heard it again. That low, wet, dragging sound. It came from the stairs this time, slow and deliberate. As if something was testing my resolve. I didn't look.

Do not investigate. The second floor was worse. The pulsating nest I'd seen before were larger now. Their faint glow casting sickly light across the walls. The holes in the floor were wider, and the sticky substance clung to my boots with every step. I poured the last of the gas, to the nursery. The empty crib, a stark reminder of how wrong this place was. I had to finish this

quickly. As I descended the stairs, the house began to shift. The walls groaned, and the voice returned louder this time. You don't belong here. I ignored it. You think the fire will save you. You burn with the rest of them. The sound of scurrying grew louder, joined by scratching and scraping that seemed to come from everywhere. I reached the living room, my lighter in hand, and I struck the flint. The flame flickered weakly, but it was enough.

I dropped it onto the soaked floor, and the fire roared to live, consuming the gasoline in a blinding rush. Heat blasted against my face as the flames spread, devouring the walls and furniture. The house screamed. It wasn't just the creek of wood or the crackle of fire. It was a voice deep and gutteral,

reverberating through the air. The walls buckled, the ceiling splintered, as the house seemed to twist in on itself. I ran for the back door, but it slammed shut before I could reach it. I turned, my eyes looking for another way out. The windows were warped, their glass thick and opaque. The flames were everywhere now.

And then I saw it, the thing from the tunnel. It stood in the center of the room, its pale skin glistening, in the firelight. Its head tilted, empty sockets staring straight at me. I spotted the side door, the one I hadn't seen before. It was narrow, hidden behind a wall of smoke, but it was open. I bolted for it, the creature right behind me. As I burst into the cool night air, the house groaned one final time. The roofcase. in, sending a plume of sparks and ash into the sky. I stumbled out of the grass, gasping for breath, as the flames consumed everything. I watched the house burn, the heat warming my skin, even from a

distance. The screams faded, replaced by the crackle of fire and the distant wail of sirens. It was over. The next morning, I returned to the office. The wiring man behind the desk didn't look up as I entered. You survived, he said flatly. Barely, I replied. He slid a folder toward me, identical to the one he'd given me on my first day. Well, what'd you learn?

I stared at him, my mind racing. I wanted to scream, to demand answers, but I knew it wouldn't matter. Instead, I picked up the folder and opened it. Inside was a new set of rules. I closed it without reading. I quit, I said. The man looked up then, his expression unreadable. for a moment, I thought he might argue, but instead, he just nodded.

As I walked out of the office, I didn't know what I'd been a part of and I didn't care. All I knew was this, some jobs are not worth the paycheck.