Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I got a Job at a STRANGE School. They gave me 8 RULES to Survive | Scary Stories

Episode Date: December 27, 2024

I wish I had never taken this job... 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 at a STRANGE School. They gave me 8 RULES to Survive.     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!

On my first day, I arrived early. The school was old, tall, and neglected. Wall stained from years of repainting over what couldn't be scrubbed away. The classroom they assigned to me was at the end of a corridor, just beyond the main stairwell. The plaque by the door read Room 302. It had the smell of every old classroom, thick with dust and chalk, that had been ground into the floorboards over decades. Old wooden desks lined the room,

some with the initials of former students carved into them. There was something unsettling in the silence, but I shook it off. I was just nervous, I told myself. First days were always strange, especially in new schools, and this one did have its own peculiar reputation. But work was work, and I'd been in need of a job for months now. Then came the envelope. It was lined neatly on my desk when I arrived. There was no name on it. Just the words read carefully, scrolled across the front in looping black ink. It was addressed to Mr. Lee, which meant someone knew I was coming. I picked it up, tore the top off, and slid out a single sheet of paper. It read, Rules for Room 302. Number one,

Do not let any child sit too close to one another. They must sit at least one desk apart at all times. Number two, when a child stares at you for longer than a few seconds, look away and pretend not to notice. Number three, if you hear scratching from under the floor, ignore it completely. Number four, do not look at the clock between 2.11 and 2.13 p.m. Number five, if a child brings you a gift, do not accept it. Politely decline and tell them to take it back.

Number six, do not acknowledge any child who knocks on the door after the bell rings. Number seven, if you find a child standing in the corner facing the wall, do not disturb them. They will leave on their own. And rule number eight, when the bell rings at 3.15, leave immediately. Do not stay behind to grade or organize. I read the list again, feeling a chill, but I brushed it off as some initiation prank for new teachers. Every school had its way of testing the new guy. I folded the paper and slid it into my bag. Maybe I'd keep it for later just for laughs.

Then, as if on cue, the door opened and an older woman stepped in. She wore glasses perched low on her nose. Her silver gray hair pulled back in a tight bun. She didn't introduce herself, just nodded in my direction, then gestured to the desk. Her eyes were sharp, and I could tell she'd been here a long time. Are you Mr. Lee? She asked. I nodded.

Yeah, yeah, I got her early. Just wanted to set up, you know. Good, good. Keep to the rules, she said. They aren't a joke. And with that, she left, the door clicking shut behind her. I wanted to laugh, maybe shout after her, all right, nice try. But something stopped me.

The way she looked at me, like she knew something I didn't, lingered long after she'd left. I shook it off and got back to setting up my room. By the time the bell rang, I was seated at my desk, pretending to be relaxed. Students began to file in, looking as ordinary as any other kids, maybe a little pale, and yes, some were quieter than I was used to, but I told myself that was normal. New teacher, new year, nothing out of the ordinary. I quickly noticed that the children had a strange habit. None of them sat next to one of another. They chose their seats automatically, one desk apart, scattered. I hadn't even needed to remind them. Halfway through attendance, I felt a pair of eyes on me. I looked up, meeting the eyes of a

girl sitting by the window. Her face blank and unreadable. Her stare was relentless. Her eyes oddly wide and too focused. I remembered rule number two. I dropped my eyes to the attendance sheet, my fingers clenching the pencil tightly. She was still staring. I could feel it, but I forced myself to keep looking away, skimming the list over and over, until I felt her finally look away. When I dared to look up again, her attention was back to the window. An hour passed, and the lesson moved along slowly. I was going over multiplication tables, trying to gauge their attention spans,

which seemed remarkably good, but only because they didn't fidget. They sat eerily still, their eyes fixed on me with a seriousness that I hadn't expected. Then, during silent reading time, I heard it, a scratching,

faint but distant, coming from below the floorboard, boards. I stiffened. I wanted to look down, but rule number three surfaced in my mind. Ignore it completely. I kept reading out loud, forcing my voice to stay steady. The scratching grew louder, as if something just below us was clawing, trying to break through. It was hard not to react, but I forced myself to focus on the book willing the noise to fade. The scratching finally stopped. A few of the kids exchanged looks, but none of them said a word about it.

They returned to their books, and I realized that this was normal to them. They'd heard that noise before. I told myself I'd get through this day. I just had to follow the rules. During the next activity, I noticed two students. students, a girl and a boy, eyeing each other with what seemed like thinly veiled contempt. The boy had unnaturally sharp features. His eyes were the strange cold gray. The girl, seated a desk away, had teeth that seemed a little too pointed, even from where I sat.

Rule number one, don't let any child sit too close to another. I realized what that meant. I kept an eye on them, noticing how tense they were. Their eyes flicked towards each other now and then, and though they didn't make a move, there was something strange in the way they looked that it made me feel like I was in a room full of predators, like they were watching each other for weakness.

I cleared my throat, attempting to sound casual. Um, all right, everyone. Time to switch activities. Let's get out our spelling workbooks. The students move slowly, each one pulling their workbook from their bag with almost mechanical precision. The boy's cold gaze never left the girl. Her lips curled in a slight smirk, as if she was daring him. to do something. I wondered how close they'd been seated last year before someone thought up this rule.

I decided to walk the room just to break the tension. As I passed their desks, I noticed something unsettling. The girl had claw marks on the back of her chair. Deep scratches gouged into the wood. The boy's chair was equally marked. I glanced down and saw that both of them had faint scars on their arms, hidden mostly by the long sleeves of their uniforms. They each noticed me looking, and their eyes sharpened without a warning. I pretended to be interested in the next student's workbook instead, feeling their eyes following me as I walked away. Lunch came and went without much incident.

I took my break alone, eating my sandwich at my desk, trying to act normal, despite the strange events of the morning. I kept my eyes on the clock, noting the time. I didn't want to accidentally glance at it in the wrong moment, but there was an odd itch of curiosity. What would happen if I did look between 2.11 and 2.13 p.m. As if on cue, the intercom crackled to life. It was the same older woman who'd met me this morning. Her voice was clear and flared. flat, and she didn't greet me or ask how my day was going. She simply said, Remember the rules. Then the line went dead. The rest of the day crawled forward, every minute bringing me closer to that dreaded hour. I'd covered the first three rules

without too much trouble, though I had to admit I had never felt so tense in my life. I tried not to watch the clock, and the children, for their part, seemed unbothered, like they'd done this dance countless times. And then at exactly 2.10, I looked away from the clock, determined not to slip. I glanced around the room, trying to focus on anything else, but something felt wrong. The room seemed quieter. I couldn't explain it, but the usual shuffling. the sound of pages turning. It all faded. When I looked up, the children were sitting motionless.

Their eyes fixed on their desks, as if waiting for something. I counted the seconds in my head, my pulse racing, wondering what would happen if I dared look at the clock. But the thought of breaking the rule kept me rooted to my chair, my eyes pinned to the wall above the students' heads. The silence pressed in, thickening with every tick of the second hand that I could hear but not see. It was the longest two minutes of my life. Then, at exactly two-thirteen, the silence lifted, and the children moved again, as if nothing had happened. I let out a slow breath, shaken but relieved. I'd followed the rules, nothing had happened. I'd got through the worst of it, or so I thought. But then, as the clock edged toward the final bell,

one of the girls, the one who'd stared at me earlier, got up from her desk. She didn't look at me or anyone else as she walked to the front of the room, clutching something in her hand. She stopped in front of my desk, staring down at the object she held. It was a crudely made doll sewn from scraps of fabric and buttons. Its face was drawn on with ink, dark eyes staring up at me from the fabric. I made this for you, she said, holding it out. Her voice was barely a whisper. I remembered rule number five.

Thank you, I said, my voice steady. But I can't accept it. Why don't you keep it? She blinked. her expression unreadable, and looked down at the doll in her hands. For a moment, she looked almost hurt. But then, with a strange, vacant nod, she turned and walked back to her desk, tucking the doll into her bag.

I glanced at the clock, noting that we only had a few minutes left. I just needed to get through until the bell. But as I looked back at the class, I saw a boy standing in the corner facing the wall. He hadn't been there a moment ago. My stomach twisted as Rule 7 echoed in my mind, Do not disturb them. They will leave on their own.

He was completely still, hands at his sides, head tilted downward. The other students ignored him, eyes forward, as if he didn't exist. I forced myself to turn back to my desk, fighting the urge to glance over my shoulder. Seconds ticked by, each one stretching longer than the last, until I heard the bell ring.

I didn't hesitate. I grabbed my things, barely sparing a glance at the class as I walked out the door. The older woman was standing by the exit watching me. She didn't smile or say anything, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes. Approval, maybe. Or a pity, I couldn't tell.

You did well, she murmured as I passed, almost too softly to hear. Outside, the afternoon air was sharp and cold, biting at my skin as I walked to my car. I didn't look back at the building. Didn't want to risk even a glimpse of room 302 through one of its grinding. me windows. I told myself I'd get used to it. Maybe it was just a rough first day and that things would get easier. But as I drove away, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd left something behind or that something had followed me. That night, I tried to push everything from my mind. I'd chalked it up to my nerves, strange kids, a strict set of rules meant to scare the new guy. I'd been

sleep deprived, and who knew? Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me. But as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I could still feel those strange, hollow eyes on me. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw them, the boy standing in the corner, the girl with her doll, the silent classroom waiting, as if for something hidden in the silence. I slept poorly, plagued by a dream where I stood alone in room 302, counting desks in the darkness, feeling like I was waiting for something that never came. I'd look down at the clock, its hands locked at 2.12, ticking but never moving. I'd wake up to the pitch black room, my heart hammering, and stare into the darkness,

half expecting to see one of those kids standing in the corner. The next morning, I arrived at school early again, determined to keep the routine steady. If the kids were playing some game, or if this school had its own bizarre culture, I'd just handle it. I'd managed unruly classes before, and I wasn't about to let a bunch of middle schoolers spook me out of a job. Room 302. It felt different, though. As I walked in, the air was stale, almost thicker.

as if something had changed overnight. I checked around the desks, almost on instinct, and froze. The desk where the boy with the gray eyes had sat the day before was empty, bear of all the usual scattered papers and books that the other students left behind. And there was something else. A faint dark stain near the corner of the desk, as if someone had spilled ink or something else. The bell rang, jolting me out of my thoughts, and students began to trickle in.

The kids filed in one by one, taking their seats with that same robotic precision. The girl who had offered me the doll entered last. She hesitated at the door, glancing toward the empty desk. And for the first time, I saw a flea. flicker of emotion on her face. And that as if catching herself, she took her seat by the window, turning her face away from me. After I took attendance, I couldn't help myself.

Hey, where's? I stopped. Realizing I couldn't remember the boy's name. I'd taken it down yesterday, but it slipped from my mind. I cleared my throat, trying again. Anybody know where the boy who sat there is today? The silence that followed was suffocating. Every eye turned toward May, blank and unreadable.

Not a single one spoke. Even the girl by the window refused to look at me. Her shoulders were tense. Her eyes fixed downward. I tried to shrug it off, but there was tension in the room. I turned to the lesson plan, guiding them through their work, trying to ignore the unease in my stomach. The kids moved through their exercises, their faces expressionless,

their eyes too wide and glassy. The day stretched on, slower than before, each hour bleeding into the next. By lunch, I felt like I'd been there for days. I couldn't stop glancing over my shoulder, half expecting to see that gray-eyed boy sitting in his seat, seat or standing in the corner watching me. The other teachers ate in a separate lounge, but I wasn't sure I wanted to talk to him about this. They probably thought I was the weird one. And then just after lunch, I found another note on my desk. It wasn't an envelope this time,

just a single slip of paper torn at the edges, as if it had been ripped quickly from a notebook. It read, There are consequences if you don't follow the rules. I stared at the note. Someone was trying to mess with me, maybe the other teachers, maybe one of the students. But the handwriting was strange, thin, and uneven, as though written by someone who hadn't held a pen in a long time.

I crumpled it up, shoving it into my bag, and forced myself to continue. When I looked up, every single one of them was watching me. The whole class. Their heads were all turned in my direction. Their eyes blank. Their expressions too still. I cleared my throat, turning back to the chalkboard, but I could feel them watching.

Their eyes boring into my back. The rest of the day passed in a blur. I moved through the motions, keeping my hands. head down. Careful to avoid the clock between 2.11 and 2.13. The scratching from beneath the floor started up again. Louder this time, as if something was getting closer, clawing at the boards right below me. I kept my face expressionless, ignoring it, waiting for it to end. It wasn't until dismissal that things really went sideways. I was packing up my things when the things, when the girl who'd offered me the doll approached again. She was clutching a small object wrapped in cloth,

holding it out with both hands. Take it, she whispered. I took a slow breath, remembering rule number five. I'm sorry, I said. I really can't. Why don't you keep it, okay? Her expression darkened, and for a moment her lips curled into something close to a snarl. But then, as quickly as it appeared, the expression vanished, and she looked down at the wrapped object, clutching it to her chest. I tried to warn you, she murmured. She turned and walked to the door, joining the other students as they filed out in silence. The bell rang, and I packed up quickly.

remembering rule number eight. I grabbed my things, checking the room one last time to make sure I hadn't left anything, then headed for the door. As I reached the threshold, I felt a strange urge to look back. Just one last look, you know? Something about that empty classroom felt wrong. I resisted, stepping out into the hall, but the feeling followed me. On my way down the hall, I saw the janitor, an older man with a weathered face,

mopping the floor with slow, careful precision. He looked up as I passed. His eyes lingering on me with something close to sympathy. They didn't tell you much, did they? I paused, unsure of how to respond. About the rules? He nodded. His eyes dark and knowing.

They don't tell anyone everything. They think it's easier that way. But easier, ain't always safer. What does that mean? I asked. He sighed, glancing down at his mob. There's no way to keep it safe. Not completely. Not with those things.

He looked up at me. Just remember, Mr. Leigh, those kids are only part of it. There's more here. Things even they don't understand. Before I could ask anything else, he turned back to his mopping, his shoulders hunched, as though the weight of his own words pressed down on him. I drove home with those words in my head. the image of those empty eyes staring back at me.

I wondered if the janitor had once been like me. Somebody knew there who was just trying to follow the rules. The next morning, I almost didn't go back. My alarm blared at 6.30, and for a long time, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about quitting, finding another job, telling myself I wasn't right for this place. But I needed the work, and leaving felt like admitting defeat. So I went back.

Room 302 was silent when I arrived, but something was different. There was a new desk in the back, one I hadn't seen before, a small empty seat waiting for someone who hadn't arrived yet. I remember the gray-eyed boy and a chivaled. chill hit me. I'd never seen him again after that first day. It was like he'd vanished. The students arrived, filling the seats one by one. Their faces blank and their eyes hollow. The girl who'd offered me the doll avoided looking at me. Her expression was dark. When she took her seat, I noticed something in her hand, a small, wrapped bundle, just like the one she'd

offered me the day before. It was quiet for the first half of the morning. Almost too quiet. The children moved through their exercises with that same robotic precision, as if they were puppets acting out a familiar scene. I kept my distance, watching them with unease, trying to keep track of all the rules. And then just before lunch, I heard a knock at the door. I froze, Remembering rule number six, I wasn't supposed to acknowledge any child who knocked after the bell, but this was different. The knock was slow, deliberate, echoing through the room with an eerie rhythm. The kids didn't react. They kept their heads down, their eyes fixed on their desks, as though they couldn't hear it. I stared at the door my hand halfway to the doorknob, and then I caught

myself. The rule was clear. Don't acknowledge it. The knock continued. Louder now. A steady insistent sound that seemed to reverberate through the walls. I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to ignore it, to focus on the lesson, to pretend I couldn't hear the door shaking on its hinges. But then, just as suddenly as it started, The knocking stopped. After a moment I exhaled, my shoulders slumping with relief. Whatever that had been, it was over now. But when I turned back to the room, I realized I'd made a mistake.

The students were no longer sitting at their desks. They were standing, each one motionless, facing me with those same empty eyes. My stomach dropped, and I took a step back, almost tripping over my own feet. The silence was suffocating, filling the air with an unnatural stillness. The girl by the window, the one with a doll, stood slightly ahead of the others, her hands in front of her, holding that small wrapped bundle. Mr. Lee, she whispered. I didn't respond.

I couldn't. You didn't follow the rules, she continued, a hint of sorrow in her voice, as though I disappointed her. I did, I blurted out. I didn't break any rules. She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly. You looked back yesterday, after the bell rang. You weren't supposed to. My heart sank. I had looked back just for a second to see the empty classroom.

I hadn't even thought it would count as breaking a rule. Rules are rules, she said softly. And the other children echoed the words. Their voices are chilling chorus. Rules are rules. The words hung in the air Like a judgment passed down Look, look, come on

I didn't mean to I started But the girl raised a finger Silencing me Sometimes one mistake Is all it takes She said Stepping forward and holding out the wrapped bundle

I tried to help you I wanted you to be safe. I took a shaky step back, unwilling to take whatever she was offering. My instincts screamed at me to run, but my feet felt rooted to the spot. The girl's eyes darkened, and for the first time I saw something else behind them. Something ancient. Something far older than the child she appeared to be. The other students began to move, slow and methodical, forming a half-circle around me.

They held their hands at their sides, their expressions unreadable. Their eyes fixed on me with an intensity. I tried to step backward, but I felt the wall at my back. Look, it's okay. I won't break any more rules. The girl's expression softened. almost pitying. It's not that simple.

And then without warning, she unwrapped the bundle in her hands. Inside was a small wooden figure, crudely carved and twisted, its features just barely resembling a human form. But it wasn't the doll itself that terrified me. It was the fact that it looked exactly like me. The figure's face was painted with a dark smudge where the mouth should be.

Its eyes hollow and empty. I felt a wave of nausea as I stared at it, and the room seemed to close in, the walls pressing closer. The children even moved closer. Their eyes fixed on the doll, as though waiting for it to do something. And then slowly, the great. the girl held up the doll facing me and twisted its head. A searing pain shot through my skull, blinding and sharp, like ice pressing into my temples. I clutched my head, doubling over, barely able to keep myself upright.

The room spun and my vision blurred. It felt like my very thoughts were being pulled apart, like strings. unraveling in my mind. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. My throat was closed, my voice gone. I was trapped in my own silence, the agony radiating through every nerve. The children's voices began to echo in my ears, distorted and overlapping, their words merging into a single relentless chant. One mistake is all it takes. I could feel the weight of their stairs pressing in on me. I wanted to run, but my body wouldn't do it.

I was frozen. The pain in my head got worse, and I could feel something pulling at me. It was suffocating. And then, just as suddenly as it started, the pain stopped. I collapsed to my knees, my vision swimming as I struggled to regain control. When I looked up, the children were still watching me, their expressions blank, but their eyes seemed different. They were sharper, more focused, as if they were studying me, waiting to see what I'd do next. The girl with a doll knelt down in front of me. Her face inches from mine.

You have to stay here now, she said softly. I tried to shake my head to protest, but the words wouldn't come. My throat felt tight, my body numb. I could feel the pull of the doll the way it seemed to reach inside me, like it was anchoring itself to my very soul. The bell rang, signaling the end of the day. But none of the students moved. They stood there watching me, as if waiting for something.

And then slowly, they began to file out of the room, one by one, their faces expressionless, their steps eerily synchronized. The girl was the last to leave, pausing at the door to look back at me one final time. See you tomorrow, Mr. Lee. we'll try and be nice. When the last of them laughed,

I staggered to my feet, clutching the desk for support. I glanced around the room, my heart pounding, my heart racing. I took a shaky breath trying to steady myself, but I could still feel the doll's presence. I knew deep down that something had changed,

that I'd left something behind, or that something had latched onto me, pulling me into a world I couldn't escape. For a long time, I just stood there, staring at the empty classroom, the desks arranged in their neat rows, the faint scratches on the floorboards barely visible in the dim light. It looked ordinary, but I knew better. Months have passed since then. Maybe years, I don't know anymore. But every day is kind of the same.

I come in, follow the rules, teach the lessons, and ignore the strangeness of it all. I see the doll on my desk, watching me with those empty eyes, its head twisted at an odd angle, and I always feel the pull of it. The rules have become second nature. I avoid the clock between 2.11 and 2.13. I ignore the scratching from below, whatever the hell that is, the knocking at the door, the children's strange looks. I've gotten to know the kids more actually. Some are very scary. But most of them aren't that bad. They do like to learn. They always pay attention. They actually even remembered my birthday. and got me a special cake. It was really good, actually. It tasted like strawberries and memories. I do wish I could leave, though,

or at the very least have the summers off. Every morning I wake up, knowing I have to go back to that room. I've become a part of the rules, you know, a fixture there. And no matter how much I want to, I know that I can never leave.