Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Got a Job on a Texas Cattle Ranch. There's Only One Rule | Scary Stories

Episode Date: September 26, 2023

We found something...   Story from DarkNightTales Make sure to check out more of their work at u/DarkNightTales | Dark Night Tales - YouTube                         Original Post: We don’t go into the trees of Graves Stand : r/nosleep                                     Original YouTube link: I Got a Job on a Texas Cattle Ranch. There's Only One Rule              For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Merch: lighthousehorror.com  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 day, 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!

I reached with a rag and pulled the cast-iron skillet from the smoldering embers at the edge of the campfire. The scents of the smoked sausages mixed with those of the onions and peppers, and my stomach growled loudly in anticipation of dinner after a long day riding fences. Almost done, I thought. Turning the sausages with a fork and returning the skillet to the glowing coals. It was my first time out on the double-k ranch, riding along with a couple of older hands, the border of the 50,000-acre cattle ranch at the edge of the Piney Woods region of Texas. I'd worked other ranches before, mostly in central Florida, but the prior year I felt it was

time for a change of scenery, so I picked up and headed west a bit. I found the weather a bit nicer, and the scenery a bit more varied, so I liked it well enough. It was an hour past sundown, and we just finished setting camp for the night. Nearby, I could hear the quiet shuffle shuffling of the horses as they grazed a bit at the ends of their tethers. Above, a billion stars lit the moonless and cloudless sky, and I could see the wispy streaks of the Milky Way stretch out across that dark blanket. The air had grown chilly, but it felt good after a hot day in a saddle. You did good today, kid, said Tommy, the oldest of us three. He looked to be about a hundred years old

in the flickering light of the campfire, though he was probably no more than 60. I guessed a lifetime spent working in the Texas sun will do that to a man. His skin was weathered and dark, and his eyes looked like they were perpetually squinting against the glare, even when there was none. He smiled a lot, though, so it helped to soften the hard edges a bit. Hard to find a good worker these days south of forty, he said. I ducked my head in thanks. I appreciate it, Tommy.

I looked over at Jonas, who just finished tending to the horses, and now took his seat with us at the fire, leaning back into the collapsible nylon chair with a grunt. He accepted a tin cup of what I knew was whiskey from Tommy with a nod. Jonas was tall and thin, with a bushy gray mustache and close trimmed hair beneath his age-worn cowboy hat. And no matter how much time I spent around the man, I couldn't get past the fact that he looked like he'd stepped right out of an old Western movie. He even wore a revolver on his hip, preferring the wheel gun to the more modern automatics that the rest of us tended to favor. Yep, good work, David. He nodded toward me and raised his cup a little. We're making

good time, figuring we'll be just about ready to wrap this job up day after tomorrow, get you home to that pretty little woman of yours, he said with a grin. We'd been out riding the fences for what seemed like months, though in truth, it was only a couple of days. There was another crew working the South Line, but we were responsible for the more rocky and uneven northern border of the ranch. I envied the other crew. They were out in open land, mostly flat and even, which meant they were able to use jeeps to work their sections. That also meant they were able to go back home each night and sleep in their own beds. The northern boundary ran through the hills and piney woods.

However, much of it inaccessible to anything not on two or four legs. So we rode the horses, just like our predecessors did a hundred years ago. this very land. I didn't mind so much. It was peaceful. Quiet. A man could think out here. Still, I was only six months wed and still in that phase where it hurt my heart to be away from Sophie. Maybe next time I'd get put on the southern team. Maybe not. So, I began, stirring at the peppers and onions to make sure they weren't sticking to the skillet. There's something I don't understand. Why'd we avoid that section of fence line today? You know the one that ran back into the woods?

Reckon it wouldn't have taken much time to follow it. It was brief, but I didn't miss the look that Tommy flashed at Jonas. Jonas took a sip from his cup and leaned forward slightly, nodding almost imperceptibly. You mean that lowland tree line we bypassed around noon? That's grave stand. We don't go in there, he said. His voice low and gravelled. It's swampy and difficult to navigate.

Cattle don't go in there anyway. Tommy nodded his agreement, staring into his own cup, eyes distant. I pulled the skillet from the heat and set it aside, letting our dinner cool a bit before serving it up. Yeah, but shouldn't we've at least checked it out for fence breaks? I'd hate to think of what Colton would say if he found out we skipped the section. I've known foreman like him before, and instruct me as a sort to take kindly to shortcuts, I said. Jonas waved away my concern and fished a cigarette from his breast pocket, lighting it

with a smoldering twig. Colton knows we bypass it every time. Hell, he was the one who told us to keep clear there in the first. first place, Jonas said. Ever since that kid, um, Tommy started, then paused, snapping his fingers, trying to recall a memory. Ricky from Georgia, Jonas applied. Tommy nodded.

Right, right, Ricky. I don't know why I can never remember his name. Ever since Ricky went missing back in there, back in 2000. five or six, it's been off limits. It was really off limits before then, Jonas added. He drained his cup and set it down next to his chair. He paused a long moment in silent contemplation, and then finally nodded, almost to himself, and said, I'm going to tell you a story, David, so you don't end up getting curious and

wandering where you shouldn't. Ricky did. The first time I ever saw it. I was about your age, maybe a hair older. I'd been worked in this ranch as a hand for most of my life even back then. I'd never been out riding fences before that day, though, spent most of my time tenting to the herd and helping to maintain the equipment. One day, the old boss, Trent Jackson, came to me and told me I'd be joining the next group to ride the North Line since the old man, that was Nick Terry, had taken ill and wasn't expected to get back in the saddle anytime soon. Well, as you can imagine, I was fairly excited about the opportunity to do something

different, to step up a rung and take on some more responsibility around here. Jonas picked the cup up and held it out to Tommy, who splashed a bit more into it. It was the third day of the ride when we came across that section of fence line, the one where it just disappears into the dark pines. The two guys I was with at the time were both pretty new, and I guess nobody had ever told them to keep clear of that land. So when we reached it, we just followed the fence line into the shadows of the trees. It's funny.

I remember it was a hot day. the summer, as I recall. I was anxious to get out of the sun and into the shade of the pines, but when we broke the tree line, the air wasn't cool and pleasant like you'd expect. It was more like walking into a closed shed in the middle of a hot day. It was humid and still, and I think we all felt a little ill at ease. Hell, the horses didn't even want to go. Tommy smiled at that. I always thought they were smarter than you," he chided. Jonas chuckled a little at that, nodding his head. I suppose you're right. Anyway, in we went, following the rusty barbed wire fence,

watching for slack or broken wires. Even then. I thought it was a little strange that the cattle never wandered back into the trees in that spot. You've seen the ground all around that area. It's churned up something awful from their grazing, even today. He looked at me and gave me a tight smile. And we all know the cows ain't the smartest thing out there. How many times we had to go out into the eastern woods to bring some wanderers back home who couldn't figure out how to get out once they got in? Still, something kept them out of that tree line, something they could sense.

Well, that old fence line runs on for half a mile or so back into those dark woods before looping back out in a gentle curve. Not even sure who the hell thought it was a good idea to set it out there in the first place. Probably one of the original Kirkman clan when they first bought the land, I suppose. Anyway, first thing we all noticed was that the fence in this whole area was in a pretty bad state of neglect, like it hadn't been seen to in decades. Jim Tillman, the head man of our group, made a note of it. Figured we'd probably be back out here in a couple weeks replacing the whole damn thing. We had supplies for repair, not replacement of an entire line, so we just kept on, making sure there weren't any breaks. Jonas paused for a second,

Taking a pull from his cigarette before continuing, his eyes now distant. Bill was the first one to notice him. You always had the sharpest eyes of us. Here and there, scattered among the trees, were these little hanging ornaments of some sort, made up of sticks and string and bits of animal bones. Almost like those stupid dream catcher things that you see folks hang in from their rear-view mirrors. but different. These looked old. Real, if you take my meaning. These weren't some sort of souvenirs you can pick up at those roadside tourist stands.

They were ugly. Menacing. Like, they meant business somehow. We didn't know quite what to make of it. But Bill seemed a little uneasy after we started seeing him. He had Wichita blood in him, and I think that part of him was trying to send out some sort of warning. We were committed, though. We'd already spent a couple hours winding through the trees and didn't want the foreman finding out that we'd been spooked and skipped the whole section of the fence line, figured we'd be out of it, and back into open land soon enough. Besides, we were all armed, and we weren't about to be scared off by some trinkets

left by God knows who. The ground had been mostly marshy and soft, and the horses were starting to have a hard time in it, until it finally started rising back up some and becoming firmer. It was getting late in the afternoon by that time, and we decided to find a clearing where we could tie the horses up and set camp for the evening. And that's when Bill spotted the shack. Jonas took another sip and continued, his pale gray eyes glistening in the firelight. At first, we weren't really sure what it was we were looking at. Look like an old homesteader shack, probably abandoned for generations at that point. It was situated in the middle of a fair-sized clearing in the trees, with a bit of a creek

running off to the side of it, though. We figured it was as good a place as any to make it. make camp. Bill went off to gather firewood, while Gemini tied a makeshift corral for the horses, and set to clearing away the pine needles and leaves and find it want rocks we could keep by the fire ring. By now the sun had dipped low, throwing most of the area into deep shadow, though there was still some light in the sky yet. As Jonas spoke, I started dishing out supper for him and Tommy, almost without thinking. I'd never seen Jonas so caught up in a memory and had never heard him say so many words strung together before. He was normally a quiet man,

always watching and listening, but rarely speaking. When he did open his mouth, I'd learned early on that everyone tended to listen to what he had to say. He was that kind of man, if you know I mean. We'd finished getting the area set for us to bed down, he continued. Back in those days, mostly just slept on bed rolls under the stars, since that was before they started with all the ultra-line, compact tents we have these days. Bill still hadn't come back with a firewood, and we figured he was probably having a tough time finding dry wood and kinlan among all the damp and rotting ground clutter we'd seen. While we were waking, we were waking. Jim said that we should probably check out the shack before it got full dark, just to make

sure there wasn't anyone inside that was going to cause us trouble. I didn't think that was too likely, but part of our job was to make sure there weren't any trespassers on Mr. Kirkman's property, so I went along. We walked over to it, maybe 20 yards from where we set up for the night. I noticed what looked like a braided rope lying in front of it. And I thought that maybe at one time it had been stretched across the door until time and the weather took its toll, and it eventually let loose and fell to the ground. It was strange, though.

Not anything like the twisted hemp ropes we used. It was more ornate, I suppose, is the word. The braid was intricate, and it was dotted here and there with patterns made from beads. wondering why anyone would string a rope around this little shack. But I didn't give it much more thought, to be honest. So we get to the door, and Jim reaches out to pull it open. When I spotted some strange-looking writing and symbols carved into the face of it, spanning the door from one side to the other, and even running under the walls of either side, Neither one of us recognized it.

Certainly wasn't English or any other language I'd seen for that matter. Jim said it looked like Comanchee to him, but I thought he was full of shit and wouldn't know Comanchee if it bit him in the ass. Hell, I wasn't even sure that Comanche had a written language. We were starting to lose the light about them. So we both grabbed our flashlights and, without another word, he pulled hard at that door. First, it didn't budge, but Jim was a big old boy and put all his strength into it, until finally it gave up and flung open, all with a sudden crack like a gunshot, like it'd been locked

or barred on the inside. Jonas paused a moment at that point, setting his untouched plate on the ground beside his chair and taking another sip from his cup. His eyes drifted to the flickering flames of the campfire. I could tell he was wrapped up in his memories. Not looking away, he started again. Soon as that door came open, I knew something was off. We both did.

You could feel it in the air like you can feel when a powerful storm is coming. But it was different. Wrong. It felt like we shouldn't be there. He shifted his eyes up to mine. I felt like we just made a mistake. I was starting to wonder if Jonas was having me on, you know, hazing the new guy and all. I looked from him to Tommy, and I could see the old man's eyes were fixed hard on the fire.

His thoughts distant and maybe a little unpleasant, if the set of his brow was any indication. Jonas looked up at the stars for a moment as he continued. It's strange. I remember that very moment like it was yesterday, like it's branded in my memories. The air got cold all of a sudden, and the world around us fell silent. Still, it was like everything was just holding its breath waiting to see what was going to happen. The shack was empty, or near enough. In the middle of the dirt floor was a jagged black hole.

in the ground. Probably three feet across. Couldn't tell you how deep it was. We stepped up to the edge as carefully as we could, and we shined our lights down in there. But if there was a bottom to it, it was beyond what we could see. Jim towed a rock over the edge, and we listened to it bounce along the walls as it fell for a long while before we couldn't hear it anymore. Never did hear it hit the bottom, though. What we did hear was a different sound, like the scrabbling of something, way down there in the dark, maybe climbing up the rough walls of a pit even while we stood there, shining our flashlights into it like a beacon, like a couple of dumbasses.

We could hear what sounded like claws or nails on the hard dirt and rock of that hole. They sounded frantic, eager, hungry, maybe. Hell, I don't know, but it sounded like a lot of them. One thing that was pretty clear at the time was it sounded like they were getting closer and fast. I don't know what manner of beast can climb a sheer vertical tunnel with that sort of speed, and I was pretty certain I didn't want to find out. I stepped back out of the door of the shack, keeping my light trained on the hole, just listening to that sound get closer.

Jim hadn't moved. He stood there at the edge of that black abyss shining his light down into it, like he was transfixed by something he saw, or something he expected to see, maybe. I realized that at some point I'd switch the flashlight to my left hand. and rested my right on the butt of my pistol, like I was expecting to have to use it. The sounds were getting even closer now, even more frenzied in their movements. It sounded like someone scratching away wildly from inside a closet or maybe a coffin. I opened my mouth to call to gym to pull him back away from the edge and outside of that shack

all together. When I heard Bill's voice from the campsite beside me, calling out to us, asking what we were doing, I spared a look over my shoulder to see him walking over towards us, having dropped a pile of firewood next to the ring and dusting his hands off on his jeans. He nodded his head towards the shack and asked what we found, but I was already turning back to grab Jim out of there by the scruff of his neck if I had to. That sense of dread was growing by the second, and I was sure something bad was about to happen. In that instant, as my eyes turned back to it, there was this loud, rushing sound, and I had the impression of something big and dark and wet bursting up out of that black hole.

I can't tell you what it was. even really what it looked like. I think a man's mind is wired to protect itself from really seeing things it wasn't meant to, things that might otherwise snap it in half like a dry twig. All I remember is that great ebony mass erupting from the pit, all gleaming and with a gut-turning stench to it. I seemed to recall legs all around it, like some demon millipede from the bowels of hell itself. I can't tell you if it had a head or a face, because the next time I knew, I was falling backwards hard onto the ground, the wind knocked out of me and my head ringing. I heard Jim cry out in something close to a scream of horror, or maybe pain.

but it only lasted a heartbeat before it was silenced. I'd never heard anything that terrible, not in my whole life. From where I lay, dazed and gasping for breath, I could see Bill standing there a few paces away, eyes as wide as they'd go, and mouth hanging slack as he looked on whatever abomination had risen up from that pit. His hands hung limply at his side, swaying a bit, and he looked like a puppet being held up by some invisible string. By the time I gathered my senses and scrambled back to my feet, jerking my pistol from its holster, it was over. The thing was gone, along with Jim, and the shack was empty once again. except for that damn black hole in the ground.

Everything was definitely still. Even the breeze had died. And the horses had stopped their wickerin. Jonas tossed his cigarette butt into the campfire and drained the last of his drink. Tommy wordlessly reached out and refilled it. This time, he offered the bottle over to me as well, and I accepted it with a nod of Thanks. My God, Jonas.

I breathed. My eyes drawn to the darkness beyond the light of our campfire. At some half-heard sound, there was probably just my imagination. This is a choke, right? You're just screwing with a new guy. Tommy and Jonas shared a look that I couldn't decipher. Some silent conversation between two old, friends. Jonas removed his hat and ran his hand over his hat, smoothing down his short-trimmed

hair. He replaced it and leaned forward in his chair, his eyes keen and sharp and fixing me with a look. I wish to hell it was, son, he said as he continued. Old Bill was frozen in his tracks, checked out. Nothing I said or did would snap him out of it. I had to manhandle him onto his horse, and I had to get us the hell out of air in the dark night. There was no way I was going to spend another damn minute close to that hole, and whatever was down there in the darkness.

We got back to the ranch house the next day around noon. By that time, Bill's hair had turned almost white. Like somebody had bleached it. His eyes had clouded over until you couldn't even see anything, but milky white marbles in those sockets. Twenty-eight-year-old man? And he looked every bit of a hundred at that moment. Still hadn't come out of whatever trance he was in, what the doctors called a catatonic

state. They said he was alive. But it was almost like he wasn't in the. there anymore, if you take my meaning. Like whatever he'd seen had broken him beyond repair, if he was still in there. I figured he was hiding in some small dark corner, just praying he wouldn't be found. They committed him to Rockdale, that asylum that used to be up near Gilmer before it was shut down a while back. From the moment. we lost Jim, Bill O'Neill never said another word, never so much as acknowledged the presence

of anyone around him. The only time he'd make a sound was in the detonite, when he'd sit up straight in his bed at the institution and scream wide-eyed into the darkness until the orderlies came and sedated him. Jonas set his cup down and turned his eyes back to the fire. One day, about three years later, the orderlies came into his room for morning check and found him deader than shit, but still sitting bolt upright in his bed. Eyes wide, and mouth hanging open like it'd been that day at the shack. I still wasn't sure how much I believed him, but I didn't get the impression that he was trying

to mess with me anymore. about this story felt real, like he was pulling it from memories, not just making it up. What the hell was it? I asked. That thing from the hole. Jonas shook his head. No idea. Caddo Indians were some of the earliest tribes to settle this area, but they have stories of an even older race. They was here long before them. An old tribe with old ways, one that the cato won't even mention by name, like they've been shunned. They whisper stories about human sacrifices and commune in with the world below, and calling up elder gods to lay waste to their enemies.

That sort of stuff. Maybe that's what this was. Some old God they'd summoned up. Hell, maybe it's the reason they're not around anymore. Maybe they reached a little too far, grabbed hold of something beyond their control. Maybe not. All I know is that we don't go into the trees of graves stand.