Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I got a job at an Abandoned TV Station. I just found a STRANGE V.H.S Tape | Scary Stories

Episode Date: January 28, 2025

I shouldn't have watched it.  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 an Abandoned TV Station. I just found a STRANGE V.H.S Tape.         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 moved to the city, I thought I'd finally escape the suffocating small-town life. Back home, everybody knew everybody. Their business, their dreams, their failures. I was just Rory, the guy who worked at the gas station, the kid who'd never leave. When I finally packed my bags and left for good, I promised myself I wouldn't end up like the rest of them. Stuck, forgotten. I wanted more, even if I didn't know what more was. yet. It's been three months, and I'm still sleeping on my friend Mike's couch. He's been a saint,

really. Doesn't charge me much, just enough to cover utilities and groceries, but I can tell he's getting tired of me being around. They can't blame him. This place barely fits him, let alone me and my pile of secondhand clothes shoved into the corner. He's got a job, a girlfriend, a life. I've got my laptop and a growing list of rejection email. from every job I have applied to. Most days, I start with coffee, cheap instant stuff that tastes like cardboard, then sit at the tiny kitchen table scrolling through job boards.

I've applied for everything from office assistant to warehouse worker. It's a numbers game, right? It's everybody says, keep applying, and eventually somebody will bite. But the bills are stacking up, and little money I saved before moving. Well, it's almost gone. Mike's been cool about it.

But I'm not about to free load forever. I need something, anything, to keep me afloat until I land a real job. And that's how I ended up on Craigs' list, searching for odd gigs. Wasn't my first choice, obviously. But when you're desperate, you stop being picky. I'd already done a few random gigs. One was delivering flyers door to door in a neighborhood that reeked of garbage and bad decisions. Another was helping some guy move a couch up three flights of stairs.

Easy money, but, you know, nothing steady. And I needed steady. And then I saw it, a job posting that felt like it was written just for me. The title said night security needed. No fluff, no BS. The description was even shorter. Looking for someone to monitor an old property overnight. 500 per shift?

Call JJ. 500 bucks a night. My heart skipped. That was more than I'd made in weeks back home. But it also felt off. The ad was plain, like whoever wrote it didn't care about selling the job. No fancy fonts, no pictures, no details. Just a phone number.

and the promise of quick cash. First, I thought it had to be a scam. Who pays that much for something so simple? But the more I stared at the screen, the more tempting it looked. $500. One shift. Even if it was shady and be worth it. I'd be able to pay Mike back, maybe even get my own place if the gig lasted a while.

Still, I hesitate it. The lack of information bug bug bugged me. What kind of old property needed monitoring? Why couldn't they hire a real security company? Was JJ even a real person? But then I thought about the bills, the rejection emails. The way Mike's girlfriend gave me tight-lipped smiles whenever she came over, like she was trying not to say something mean.

I couldn't sit around waiting for life to fix itself. The ad might have been strange, but the high pay was too good to pass up. Before I could second guess myself, I called the number. A man answered, confirmed the job details, and gave me the address. He said to come immediately if I was serious. That was all I needed. I grabbed the flashlight and my thermos full of coffee, threw on a jacket, and headed out. The address led me far outside the city, past stretches of empty roads and forgotten fields. As I drove, the streetlights thinned out until there was nothing but the glow of my car's headlights cutting through the dark. I passed an old crumbling farmhouse leaning to one side, its roof sagging, like it was exhausted from holding itself up for so long.

The place next to it was my destination. The building looked like a relic from another era, blocky and cold under the faint moonlight. A rusted sign out front read WCLT Channel 8, an abandoned TV station long past its prime. The chain-link fence around it had seen better days, with sections leaning and sagging under the weight of neglect. A parked, stepped out, and locked the gate of,

gate behind me as instructed. The air was damp and smelled faintly of old wood and metal. The building loomed ahead, its dark windows like empty eyes staring out into the night. As I got closer, I noticed wires hanging from the ceilings of the entrance, swaying slightly in the breeze. The faint crunch of gravel under my boots echoed in the stillness, pushing the heavy door open. I stepped inside. My flashlight beam cut through the darkness, revealing the remnants of a bygone era. TVs were everywhere, piled on old desks, stacked in corners, or just lying on the floor as if someone had dropped them and never bothered to pick them up.

Tangled wires snaked across the rum like overgrown vines, their loose ends jutting out from walls and ceilings. The air smelled. What caught my eye next were the tapes. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands, scattered in haphazard stacks. Some were labeled neatly, while others had scribbled words or no markings at all. A few towers of tapes leaned dangerously, as if one wrong step would send him tumbling. It was overwhelming, like walking into a museum of forgotten media. But some of the same. But some of the same thing, Something else stood out. The cages. They were small, the kind you'd use for a rabbit or something

close to that size. They were everywhere. On desks, stacked against walls, even tucked under some of the tables. Most were empty, though a few had tufts of fur or what looked like old straw bedding inside. The sight of them sent a chill through me, though I didn't know why. As I moved further in, my flashlight landed on a tape lying on a desk in the center of the room. It stood out because of the label. Written in bold black letters were three words, Watch me first. Underneath that, my name, Rory.

I stared at it for a moment, my pulse quickening. The logical side of my brain told me it was just part of the instructions, some kind of orientation. But another part of me felt uneasy. How'd they know my name? I hadn't told anyone when I called, at least I think I didn't. Shaking off the thought, I slid the tape into the nearest player and turned on the TV in front of me. The screen flickered to live, and a voice filled the room. It was JJ from the phone call, I recognized it immediately. His tone was casual, almost friendly. But he seemed a little nervous, too. Hey, welcome, Rory.

Glad you made it. Well, here's a deal. Your job's simple. Stay inside, watch you over the place, and make sure nobody steps foot in here until your shift ends. That's it. Don't go poking around where you shouldn't.

Just stick to the security room, keep an eye on the monitors, and you'll do fine. The screen went black, leaving the room eerily silent. I took a deep breath. and tried to ignore the feeling of unease I had. I found the security room without much trouble.

It was tucked to the back of the building, a small windowless space with a desk, a chair, and a wall of outdated monitors. Most of the screen showed static, but a few displayed live feeds of the building's interior, hallways, storage rooms, the entrance I'd come through. The system was old,

The image is grainy, but it worked. I set my thermos down on the desk and settled into the chair. The tape's instructions played over and over in my head. J.J. hadn't explained much, and that was what bothered me the most. The way he spoke, it was almost like he was hiding something. But I couldn't afford to dwell on it. 500 bucks was, well, 500 bucks. For now, my job was to sit back, watch the screens, and keep everything out of my head but the task at hand.

The place was silent, except for the occasional hum from the old monitors. I'd put on the uniform left folded neatly on the desk, a dark blue shirt with W-C-L-T security stitched on the chest and a pair of stiff black pants. The fabric smelled faintly of mothballs like it had been packed away for years. It felt strange sliding it on like I was putting on someone else's identity. I don't know, the weight of the job, the mystery of it all was starting to sink in. The framed newspapers on the walls caught my eye as I paced the hallway to keep myself awake. They were old, yellowed with time, but the headlines were red. bold and proud. WCL Channel 302 had been a big deal once. The station had covered major events,

interviews with local celebrities, and even a feature about some groundbreaking children's show. The photos on the front pages showed smiling anchors, bustling studios, and cameras rolling in what must have been the station's heyday. It felt strange to think of this dusty, forgotten place as once being alive with energy. Curiosity nodded me, and I decided to explore. The building had an odd charm to it, a mix of nostalgia and decay. As I wandered, I stumbled upon a room tucked away in the corner of the station. It was cluttered with old files, equipment, and stacks of paper.

On a shelf half hidden under a pile of loose paper, was a thick photo album. The leather cover was cracked, and the edges of the pages were frayed, but it seemed intact. I carried it back to the security room, sat down, and flipped it open. The first few pages were filled with pictures of the station's staff. They were normal, even heartwarming. Groups of people stood shoulder to shoulder, grinning at the camera. There were shots of co-workers in the control room, the studio floor, and the break room. One photo showed two men arm wrestling over a coffee table while others cheered them on. Another had a group of women sharing a cake, their laughter, frozen in time.

But as I turned the pages, the photos began to change. Subtally, at first, a shot of the studio had what looked like red splenet, ladders on the corner of a table. Another photo showed a red handprint smeared across a window. I squinted. Unsure if it was part of the photo or just an odd stain on the page.

And then it got stranger. There were pictures of a stark white room with tanks labeled laughing gas stacked against the walls. The people in these photos weren't smiling anymore. They were laughing, but it wasn't joyful. Their mouths hung wide open. Their expressions strained and unnatural.

It looked painful, like their faces were stuck. The further I flipped, the worse at God. Page after page of people laughing in that same unsettling way, their mouths too wide, their eyes too empty. I shut the album and pushed it away. On the desk in front of me, among the scattered papers and random equipment, was a small pile of tapes. Most were unlabeled or had cryptic titles scribbled on him.

But one stood out. The label read simply W-C-L-T history. My curiosity got the better of me. If the photos had hinted at something strange, maybe this tape would explain more. I slid it into the VCR, hooked up to one of the monitors, and pressed play. The screen flickered, and grainy footage appeared. It was shot on an old handheld camera, the kind that jittered slightly with every movement.

The timestamp in the corner read 1985, and the first shot was of a man holding the camera to his face. He had a big smile and a head full of curly hair, and he waved and thought. enthusiastically. He panned the camera around the station, showing off the bustling energy of the place. People were everywhere, setting up equipment, unpacking boxes, hanging decorations. It looked like the first day of something big. Workers stopped to wave at the camera or shout greetings. Their faces lit up with excitement. It was clear they believed they were part of something special. The next scenes showed more of the station's early days.

There were clips of people chatting in the break room, sipping coffee, and laughing over shared jokes. Meetings were shown, with large groups of staff crowded around long tables. Their enthusiasm palpable. Someone clapped a co-worker on the back as they presented plans for a new show. Another shot showed a group of anchors practicing their lines, their voices overlapping and cheerful chaos. Everything seemed alive and hopeful,

the kind of environment where dreams felt achievable. As the tape continued, the footage shifted. The camera didn't capture the same vibrant energy anymore. The timestamp jumped forward a few years, and the station was no longer bustling. The office looked emptier. Desks were unoccupied. their surfaces bare, except for outdated equipment gathering dust.

Workers who had once smiled and waved at the camera now avoided it. Their expressions tired and withdrawn. The conversations had changed too. In one clip, a small group of executives sat in a meeting room, their voices low and tense. Words like budget cuts, downsizing, and plummeting ratings were thrown around. and it was clear things were falling apart.

The station that had once been full of life was struggling to survive. Another jump in the footage showed even fewer people. The bright posters and decorations that had once covered the walls were gone, replaced by blank spaces and peeling paint. A shot of the breakroom showed only a couple employees, sitting silently with their heads down.

Then the tone of the tape shifted again. A group of people were gathered in what looked like a last-ditch effort to save the station. They were huddled around a table, covered in papers and sketches. The camera zoomed in on one particular image, a colorful drawing of a puppet with an exaggerated smile. Beneath the drawing in bold letters was the title, The Laughing Man. The footage cut to a series of quick, chaotic scenes. Someone scribbled furiously on a whiteboard, circling numbers, and slamming the marker down in frustration. Another shot showed boxes being unloaded from a van, stacks of costumes, oversized props,

and stage equipment spilling into the loading dock. The camera lingered on the chaotic scene before cutting to a brightly colored set under construction. Large cartoonish decorations were propped up against the walls. At the center of the set was a large puppet stage. It looked playful at first, but the longer the camera stayed on it, the more the forced whimsy felt uncomfortable. The show's title, The Laughing Man, was scrolled in bold letters across the stage. The tape abruptly cut off. Leaving me staring at the blank screen, I leaned back, my mind buzzing.

I needed answers. Routing through the piles of tapes, my hand landed on one labeled pilot and faded marker. My chest tightened as I slid it into the VCR and hit play. The screen flickered to live, revealing the finished set. It was a riot of bruce. colors, oversized furniture, fake trees, and walls covered in swirling patterns. Sitting in the center was the laughing man, a puppet dressed in patchwork clothing, its mouth

hanging wide open. In its hand, it held a small white rabbit, its fur pristine, its red eyes catching the light. The episode began, like any other children's program. The puppet waved cheerfully. Its voice high-pitched and sing song as it addressed an unseen audience. As I watched, snippets of childhood memories flickered in my mind. I had seen this before, sitting cross-legged on my parents living room floor, captivated by the bright, noisy chaos of the show. But back then, I hadn't noticed the things I noticed now. The laughing man was unsettling, in a way I couldn't quite describe. Its movements were jerky, its laugh too drawn out. The jokes didn't land. The rabbit in its hand was always present, its bright red eyes unblinking as it hopped across the set or sat quietly

in the puppet's lap. The episode became increasingly disjointed. Scenes of the laughing man playing games or telling stories were interrupted by odd close-ups of rabbits. They were everywhere, hopping across the stage, perched on props, or sitting motionless in the background. The camera would zoom in on one of them without warning, focusing on their red eyes. By the end of the episode, I understood why the show had failed. It wasn't just strange. It was wrong. I ejected the tape and stared at it in my hands, the images replaying in my mind.

I searched for more tapes. I found another one, unlabeled but worn from use, sliding it into the VCR. I braced myself for what might come next. The footage began with shots of the station's executives. Their faces were drawn and tired. Their movements hurried. Papers and books covered the tables. Their pages filled with strange symbols and scribbled notes. They looked like they were searched. for something, flipping through the books with an urgency that made my skin crawl. The next clip showed the rabbit farm. Workers unloaded crates filled with white rabbits, placing them into rows of small cages. The animals were still, their red eyes bright in the harsh light. The camera followed, as the workers carry the rabbits into a small room, its walls covered in dark markings. Inside, an altar sat in the center, draped with fabric bearing the same symbols.

The footage didn't linger on what happened in the rum, but it was clear enough. The rabbits were brought in, and they didn't come back out. The next clip showed workers pouring something into bowls and painting the station's walls with it. For a time, the sacrifices seemed to work. The station came back to life in brief flashes of celebration. Staff clinked glasses in the break room, and new equipment was delivered to the studio. But the relief didn't last. The next jump in the footage revealed the farm abandoned.

The cages were empty. The rabbit's gone. The room that at once housed the rich one. now contained different objects, smaller, more personal, backpacks, shoes, toys. The bulletin board in the background was covered in missing person flyers, the faces of children staring blankly at the camera. The tape ended abruptly, leaving me staring at the dark screen.

I couldn't process what I'd just seen, the desperate gambols, the weird rituals, and the terrible implications of what the laughing man had become. My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of faint footsteps echoing in the hallway. My head snapped toward the door, and my heart jumped when JJ stepped in. At first I was relieved. He was here. Maybe he could explain everything. But as he moved closer, the relief quickly turned to unease. J.J. didn't look right. His eyes were wide in bloodshot, like he hadn't slept in weeks.

His face was locked in a smile, and he chuckled between breaths, short, strained laughs, that seemed to escape him involuntarily. He leaned against the dead. He leaned against the dead. desk, trembling slightly. His smile stretching very wide. You've seen too much. Way too much. You couldn't just sit still, could you? Had to dig around. Had to poke at things. You don't understand. I stepped back. He wasn't here to check on me. This wasn't just a casual visit. Something about him felt off, like he was no longer the same man I'd spoken to on the phone. You're the one who brought me here, I said. If there's something I'm not supposed to know, why leave all those tapes lying around?

JJ's laughter grew louder, a sharp bark that filled the small room. Why? Because curiosity is part of it. part of it. You're exactly the kind of fool I needed, desperate enough to take the job, curious enough to go do some stupid and dig too deep. I stared at him, trying to piece it together. What do you mean, man? What is this place? What hell's going on? His laughter stopped sunlight, and his grin faded for just a moment, replaced by a... anger. This place was mine. It was all mine. Station, the fame, the money. And when it started

slipping away, I made a deal. I did what I had to do. But deals like that, you know, they come with strings. They always do. I felt the chill run down my spine. You're talking about the laughing man, aren't you? He's not just some puppet, is he? I said. Jay J.'J.'s grin returned, more twisted than before. Of course you know now. He's hungry, Rory. Hungry for you. That's the deal. That's how I get it all back. I had to bring someone in, someone desperate, someone stupid, somebody curious. You fit the bill perfectly, he said, you're crazy, man, I began. You think I'm just going to sit here and let this happen?

I'm not going to be a pawn in your sick game. J.J. tilted his head, his laughter bubbling up again. It doesn't matter what you think. You're already his. Whether you like it or not. You can fight it if you want to. Scream all you want. But it won't change a thing.

He'll take you piece by piece. And there's nothing you can do to stop it. My pulse quickened as he stepped closer. His movements jerky and unhinged. His hand darted toward his pocket, and I knew I had to act. My keys still clipped to my belt, caught my eye. With one quick motion, I unhooked him and gripped him tightly. As J.J. lunged toward me.

I swung my arm and stabbed the pointed end of the keys into his shoulder. J.J. howled in pain, his laughter breaking into a guttural growl as he staggered back, clutching at the wound. His wide eyes locked onto mine, burning with anger. I didn't wait for him to recover. I shoved past him, my heart pounding as I sprinted out of the security room and into the hallway. Behind me, I could hear him yelling. You can't run, Rory. He'll find you.

I ignored him. My footsteps echoing loudly as I tore through the halls of the station. My mind raised. fueled by adrenaline and a single thought. I had to get out. I burst through the front door and into the cold night air, gasping as I ran to my car. The parking lot was eerily quiet,

the station looming behind me. My hands fumbled with the keys as I unlocked the door, threw myself inside and started the engine. As I sped away, I couldn't stop trembling. I kept thinking of JJ's smile and him laughing, his words playing over and over in my head. The station disappeared in my rearview mirror. And, well, that was over a month ago. Since that night, I've done everything I can to put the station and JJ behind me.

As soon as I could gather my thoughts, I went to the police, and I told them everything. about the station, the tapes, JJ, and the madness he'd tried to drag me into. They listened, nodded, and filed the report. But as the days turned into weeks, I don't think they followed up. No phone calls, no visits. It was like my story had been lost somewhere in the system.

Or maybe nobody cared enough to dig deeper. I tried again, but eventually, I stopped checking for updates and I just let it go. I found a new job soon after, one that made sense. The fresh start. It wasn't glamorous, but it was stable. I was hired as an accountant for a small firm downtown. It felt good to finally use the degree I'd work so hard to earn,

to sit at a desk and crunched numbers without the weight of something demonic and sinister hanging over me. My days were simple. Spreadsheets, reports, and coffee breaks. The kind of routine I used to find boring now felt like a blessing. I moved out of Mike's apartment, too. I found a small place of my own, nothing fancy, but enough to feel like I was standing on my own two feet again. The couch I'd slept on for months was now a distant memory. As for the station, I never went back. the thought of it, the dusty hallways, the endless tapes, and that puppet, it made my skin crawl. I avoided the outskirts of town entirely, just in case.

I've put the word out online to avoid that place. I've told my story on Reddit and forums, and I'm calling the police again tonight, warning them again about that evil place. I will continue getting the word. out and warning as many people as I can. That thing never came after me. Not yet at least. Something tells me that it can't get me as long as I don't go back.

Now, I wake up each morning, go to work, and I live a life that feels almost normal. If you're ever driving through Western Ohio and you see an old abandoned TV station, keep driving. Whatever you do, do not stop there. And do not go inside.