Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I interview people who Died and went to HELL. These are their stories | Scary Stories

Episode Date: January 10, 2025

The first time I spoke with someone who had been to hell, I was skeptical... 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 interview people who Died and went to HELL. These are their stories.      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 first time I spoke with someone who had been to hell, I was skeptical. The man, gaunt and twitching, with eyes that didn't seem to blink, claimed he'd been dead for 17 minutes. When he spoke, it wasn't in the desperate, evangelistic way you might expect. His tone was clinical, as though he were reciting directions to a house I'd never visit. He described hell like a real place, not obstrued. not spiritual, real, physical, awful. What haunted me wasn't the context of his story. It was his conviction. Over the years, I became obsessed. I tracked down others who'd had near-death experiences, focusing on those whose accounts hinted at something darker than bright lights and pearly gates.

These weren't the comforting tales of loved ones or tunnels of warmth. They were accounts of torture, fear, and desperation. I'm Dr. Mason Grant. I study deaf, not in a spiritual sense, not in a metaphysical sense, but in a literal one. My work exists at the fringes of academia, dismissed by most as pseudoscience, but I've compiled something they can't ignore. A list? A set of rules gathered from firsthand accounts of those who claimed to have been to hell and returned. I don't know why I started writing them down. Maybe it was the pattern that kept surfacing across the stories. Or maybe I just wanted a way to make sense of the madness.

Over the years, the list grew. Each new addition chipped away at my sketched. By the time I reached the tenth rule, I was no longer a skeptic. I was a believer. The first person who gave me a rule was the gaunt man. His name was Paul, and he'd been clinically dead following a car accident. His voice was low, measured, and grim. Don't eat anything, he told me. Doesn't matter how hungry you get. Doesn't matter if it looks like food. It's not. When I pressed him, he described the food in hell.

It wasn't rotten or grotesque, as I'd imagined. Instead, it was enticing. Feast of fruit, roasted meats, warm bread, and desserts that seemed to glow with some internal light. But the moments you eat, Paul said you change. You lose something of yourself. He said, your mind.

It goes dull. Your will. It's like you stop caring about getting out. I think that's the point. They don't want you to leave. The second rule came from Maria, a nurse who had drowned in her pool one summer afternoon. Her voice was.

was different from Paul's, trembling, as though every word cost her something. Don't follow the voices, she whispered. Even if it sounds like someone you know, it's not there. Maria's hell was full of familiar voices. Her husband's laugh, her daughter's cry, her mother's soothing hum. The sounds came from somewhere unseen, luring her through the endless jet. She never saw their faces, but she knew if she'd followed them. She wouldn't have made it back. The third rule came from a man named Travis. He had no business being alive. His heart had

stopped for 23 minutes following a construction accident. His voice was hollow when he told me, Don't trust the lights. Travis described the lights as or that floated in the air, illuminating the dark expanse of hell. They would flicker and move, guiding him to what seemed like safety, only for the ground to give way beneath him, plunging him into pits of fire, or worse. After that, I started to notice patterns, different people, different deaths, but similar rules.

Don't look at the angels. One man said, They're not what you think. Never ask for help. They'll lie to you. A woman told me, trembling. Time doesn't work there. If you try to count the days,

you'll lose your mind. It wasn't until I interviewed Daniel, that I truly began to understand how terrifying hell could be. Daniel had been clinically dead for nearly an hour following a massive heart attack. His account was the most vivid and the most horrifying. He described how, as a sprawling, fractured wasteland. The sky, if it could be called that,

was dark and oppressive, filled with swirling clouds that seemed to pulse like veins. The ground was jagged and uneven, with rivers of molten rock, that burned without heat. The air was thick and choking, carrying the faint stench of decay. And the creatures. They're not demons, Daniel said.

Not like in the movies. They're fallen angels. He described them as towering, twisted figures. Their wings tattered and blackened. Their faces a grotesque mockery of beauty. They moved with a predatory grace, their eyes cold and pitiless. They don't just hurt you, Daniel said. They break you.

They know every fear, every regret, every weakness. And they use it against you. The most chilling part of Daniel's account was his description of Lucifer. He's not a red devil with horns, Daniel said. He's beautiful, terrifyingly beautiful. His face is perfect, but there's something in his eyes, something that makes you feel small, weak. He doesn't speak, but when he looks at you,

you understand. You understand that you don't. matter. That you nothing. Daniel's account added several rules to my list. Don't run. It draws their attention. Don't speak. They'll hear you. And don't stop moving, but don't go too fast either. Stay in the middle. By the time I compiled the 13th rule, I had a complete picture of hell, a place of endless torment where the very fabric of the environment seemed designed to break the human spirit. The rules weren't just survival tips. They were lifelines. But something kept nagging at me. The people I interviewed had all returned. They'd all found a way back.

That meant there was a way out. I asked Daniel how he escaped. He didn't answer at first. He just stared at me with hollow eyes. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. I didn't escape. They let me go. I pressed him for details, but he refused to elaborate. The most recent addition to my list came from a woman named Evelyn.

She'd been dead for over two hours, following a catastrophe. catastrophic, allergic reaction. Her account was unlike any I'd heard before. They don't want you to leave, she sent. But if you do, you have to bring something back. Evelyn wouldn't tell me what she meant. She just kept repeating the same phrase, You have to bring something back.

So here's the full list, compiled from years of interviews. number one, don't eat anything. Number two, don't follow the voices. Number three, don't trust the lights. Number four, don't look at the angels. Five, never ask for help. Six, time doesn't work there. Don't try to count the days.

Seven, don't run. Eight, don't speak. Nine, don't stop moving, but don't go too fast. stay in the middle. And number 10, they don't want you to leave, but if you do, you have to bring something back. I don't know why I'm writing this now. Maybe it's because I've spent so long collecting these accounts that I feel like I need to document them, or maybe it's because I'm starting to hear things. Voices. Sometimes they're faint, like a whisper at the edge of hearing. Other times they're clear as day.

Mason, they call. It's my mother's voice, my fathers, my wives, but I know better. I won't follow the voices. Not yet. Evelyn's words stuck with me more than any other account. You have to bring something back. She almost said it as if it were self-evident,

a truth too obvious to warrant explanation. But when I pressed her, she only repeated herself, her eyes distant. She'd been dead for over two hours, longer than anyone I'd spoken to before. Two hours in hell. Evelyn's voice was soft, but there was something cold and detached in her tone. She sat across from May, her pale hands trembling against the table. She didn't speak with the urgency of someone trying to warn others or even the relief of someone who had escaped. No.

Evelyn spoke as though she were still there, still navigating the horrors she described. They won't just let you leave, she said. Not without a trade. Something has to be given in return. What did you bring back? I asked her. Her eyes met mine for the first time since we started. I don't know, she said.

I can't remember. But I didn't believe her. I pressed her again. If you don't remember, how do you know? I just know, she interrupted. Her voice sharp. Her hand shot up the clutched at her throat. throat, as though silencing herself. Her breathing quickened, and for a moment, she looked as if she

might bolt from the room. I leaned back, giving her space. Evelyn didn't relax, but she continued speaking. When you leave, she said, you're not the same. Part of you stays behind. Part of it comes back with you? Maybe that's the trade. She paused, her eyes darting to the corner of the room, as though something unseen was standing there. Or maybe it's something worse, she finished. Evelyn's rule haunted me in a way the others hadn't. Most of the people I'd spoken to were reluctant to share their stories. But their reluctance seemed rooted. in fear or trauma. Evelyn's hesitance

felt different. It wasn't fear. It was dread. Her words, you have to bring something back, played on a loop in my mind. What did she mean? What did she bring back?

And what could be worse than the place she described? I returned to Daniel's account, hoping to find some clarity. Daniel's voice echoed my memory, hollow and broken. They let me go. He hadn't elaborated, but now I wondered if his escape had been part of some larger scheme. Had they let him go because he brought something back? And if so, what? Daniel had described the fallen angels in vivid detail. He told me about their

beauty, terrible and predatory. Their faces uncomfortably. perfect. They don't need to hurt you physically, Daniel and said. They can break you just by looking at you. He told me about the time he'd stumbled into one of them, how he'd frozen, unable to move or even breathe under its gaze. It didn't speak, he'd said. It just stared at me, and I felt everything at once, every mistake, every regret, every sin I've ever committed. It showed me things I'd buried so deep I didn't even remember him. Daniel had fallen to his knees, unable to look why. I begged, he said.

I begged for it to stop, but it didn't. It just smiled. He never explained how he escaped that encounter. When I asked, he only said, I didn't escape it. It let me go. The idea that hell might have an agenda terrified me. What if these people weren't escaping at all?

What if they were being released? I revisited Maria's rule next. Don't follow the voices. Maria's story had always unsettled me, but Evelyn's account had cast it in a new light. What if the voices weren't just a trap? What if they were part of the trade? Maria had described how the voices would echo through the jagged terrain of hell, always just out of reach. Sometimes they sounded like her daughter calling for help, other times like her husband, laughing as if he'd found a way out.

They sounded so real, Maria had said. I knew they weren't, but I couldn't stop myself. I kept following them. It felt like, like they were pulling me. She'd walked for what felt like days, though she couldn't be sure. Time didn't work the same there. The ground beneath her feet had shifted constantly, one moment a coarse black rock,

the next a slick, fleshy surface that squelched with each step. The voices grew louder the longer she walked, until she reached the edge of a chasm. I couldn't see the bottom, she said. It was just endless. The voices had come from below, urging her to jump. I almost did, she admitted. It was like, it wasn't just their voices.

It was something inside me, something telling me to trust them. Maria had turned away at the last second, but she'd paid a price. A figure, she refused to describe it, had appeared behind her blocking her path. It didn't say anything, she said. It didn't have to. I could feel what it wanted. Maria wouldn't tell me how she escaped. Like Evelyn, she claimed she couldn't remember.

I began to see a pattern in these accounts, a constant pull. The voices, the lights, the angels. They all seemed to lure people deeper into the abyss. But why? I thought back to Travis's rule. don't trust the lights. Travis had described the lights as beautiful and hypnotic, like floating lanterns. They would flicker and drift leading him through the darkness. At first, he thought they were guiding him to safety, but he quickly realized they were leading him in circles. It's like they were playing with me,

he told me, that every time he followed them, he ended up in the same place. But the more he followed, the harder it got to stop. The lights, he said, seemed to get brighter the longer he stared at them. They filled his mind with warmth and comfort, drowning out the fear and despair. It wasn't real, he had said. None if it was real. But for a while, he'd wanted to believe it was. The more I analyzed these stories, the more I began to understand,

The rules weren't just about survival. They were about resistance. Hell wasn't just a place of punishment. It was a place of manipulation. It didn't just hurt you. It seduced you. Evelyn's rule, however, was different. It wasn't about resisting.

It was about escaping in the cost of doing so. I decided to contact Evelyn again, hoping she might give me more anything. answers. When I called her, the line rang endlessly. Eventually it disconnected. I drove to her home. The blinds were drawn and the house was dark. When I knocked, there was no response. I asked her neighbors if they'd seen her, and one of them, an elderly man with a weary expression, said he'd heard her talking to someone late at night. Oh, she doesn't have visitors, he said. But I heard her. She was arguing with someone.

Screaming, really. When I asked what she'd been screaming, he hesitated. Well, she kept saying, I won't go back. Over, over. The next day, Evelyn's house was empty. Her car was still in the driveway. But she was gone. Her disappearance only deepened my obsession.

What had she brought back? And where had she gone? The answers were always just out of reach, like the voices Maria had described. And the more I searched, the more I felt the pull. At night, I began to hear faint whispers. They sounded like Evelyn, like Daniel, like Maria. but sometimes they sounded like people I knew, they called.

It was my wife's voice. She'd been gone for years, but it was unmistakable. I didn't follow the voices, but I wasn't sure how much longer I could resist. The more accounts I collected, the harder it became to ignore the thread that tied them all together. It wasn't just fear or suffering. the deliberate cruelty of hell's design. Each account painted a more horrifying picture, and I began to wonder if my fascination with these stories was itself part of some sinister trap. The first new account came from an old man named Robert, who'd been pronounced dead for

fifteen minutes after a massive stroke. There's no quiet there, he began. Even when it seems silent, it's not. The air itself makes noise like screaming. It's constant. Everywhere. First, I thought it was far away. But after a while, I realized it wasn't coming from anywhere. It was inside my head.

Robert described the landscape as a forest of fire. The trees were black and skeletal, their branches twisting into impossible shapes. Flames erupted intermittently, spreading from tree to tree like living things, but there was no heat. The fire burned cold, searing his flesh without leaving a mark. There was a path, he said. It wasn't marked, but I knew I was supposed to follow it. It felt like, like if I didn't, something worse would happen. He paused.

But the path wasn't safe either. He described walking for what felt like hours, the cold fire licking at his skin. The screaming grew louder the further he went, and shapes began to emerge in the flames. They were human, or at least they had been. Their faces contorted in agony, their bodies writhing as though they were trying to escape the flames, but they couldn't. They reached out to him, their mouths opening and closing in silent pleas.

I didn't touch him, Robert said. I wanted to. God helped me. I wanted to pull him out. But I knew. I knew if I touched him that I'd end up. up like them. He'd continued down the path,

the cries of the burning figures fading into the background as he encountered something worse. The ground ahead had split open into a massive chasm and from it rose a creature so large, it blocked out what little light the fire provided.

Its body was a grotesque blend of features. Dozens of eyes blinked in unison. covering its face, while its limbs ended in claws that clicked against the rocks as it moved. It didn't speak, Robert said. But it didn't need to. I could feel it in my head, prying into my thoughts. Showed me things. Things I'd done.

Things I'd thought about doing but never have the guts to. showed me how weak I was. When I asked how he escaped, Robert shook his head. I didn't escape. I don't think I was supposed to. I just woke up. Another account came from a woman named Nadine, who'd been dead for almost 40 minutes after an overdose.

She was younger than most of the people I interviewed, but her voice carried the weight of someone much older. There's no direction there, she said. It's all chaos. You think you're going one way, but it loops back on itself. The terrain changes constantly. One minute it's fire, the next it's ice. She described how the temperature extremes weren't just physical.

They were psychological. The ice didn't just freeze her skin, It froze her thoughts. The fire didn't just burn. It filled her with uncontrollable rage. There was this pit, she said. I don't even know how to describe it. It wasn't just fire.

It was alive. It had faces all twisted together, screaming and laughing at the same time. Nadine said, she was forced to walk along the edge of the pit, the ground crumbling beneath her feet with every step. She could see figures climbing out of the fire, their bodies charred and broken, but they didn't seem human. Their mouths stretched too wide, filled with teeth that seemed to shift and multiply. They tried to grab me, she said. They didn't want to pull me in. They were.

wanted to tear me apart. Her voice faltered, and for a moment she looked like she might be sick. I don't know how I got away. I just ran, and then I was back. James was next. He'd been clinically dead for ten minutes following a gunshot wound. His account was the most vivid and disturbing I'd ever heard. They want you to suffer, he said, his eyes staring past me as he spoke. Not just physically, you know.

They want to rip you apart from the inside. James described waking up in a barren wasteland. The ground cracked and bleeding. Yes, bleeding. The earth itself oozed a thick, dark liquid that smelled the smell like rot and sulfur. The sky was a swirling mass of black and red with occasional flashes of light that revealed monstrous silhouettes. I wasn't alone, he said. There were others, you know,

people like me. At least I think there are people. They didn't look human anymore. The figures were hunched and broken. Their limbs twisted. Their faces were blank, no eyes or mouths, but they moved as though they could see. They didn't attack me, James said. They just followed me. Everywhere I went, they were there watching, waiting. He described how the terrain changed constantly.

One moment he was walking through a field of jagged rocks, that cut his feet with every step. The next he was wading through a river of molten metal that burned without killing him. There was no way out, he said. No matter where I went, I ended up back where I started. At one point, James said he saw a figure in the distance, tall, skeletal, with wings that stretched across the horizon.

The figure didn't move, but its presence filled him with a fear so overwhelming. He could barely breathe. It wasn't like the others, he said. It didn't need to chase me or hurt me, just knowing it was there. That was enough. When I asked if he thought the figure was Lucifer, James hesitated. I don't know. He said,

Maybe. But if it was, then he doesn't need to do anything. Just being near him is horrible. Each new account added to the growing tapestry of horror I'd been piecing together. The fire, the ice, the creatures. They weren't just random elements. They were calculated.

Deliberate? Hell wasn't just a place of torture. It was a machine designed to break the soul. I began to wonder if the people I interviewed were telling me the whole truth. Evelyn's cryptic warning echoed in my mind, you have to bring something back. Had they all brought something back with them? And if so, I still didn't know what it was.

The rules felt less like a guide. and more like a map. One that led to answers. I wasn't sure I wanted to find. But I couldn't stop yet. The accounts I collected stayed with me, pressing against the corners of my mind like a swelling tide. Each story added a new dimension to the horrors of hell,

and each made the world around me feel more fragile. Over time, I noticed something I hadn't anticipated. something I hadn't prepared for. You see, the more I listened to these stories, the harder it became to find peace. I started to hear things, faint whispers in the dead of night. They grew louder, more insistent, they called. And again, it sounded like my wife, my father, people I'd lost.

But their presence didn't comfort me. it filled me with dread i'd lie in bed unable to sleep the hum of my refrigerator and the faint ticking of the clock growing louder in the stillness every creek in the house felt like a threat every sound became part of the chorus of noise that seemed intent on drowning me c s lewis once wrote about the very essence of hell being noise. I hadn't thought much about it before, but those words haunted me. The stories I'd collected, the people I'd spoken to, all of them described hell as a place of relentless chaos, screams, flames, wailing, and voices, it was never quiet. There was no space to think, no room to reflect. It wasn't until I sat alone in my office late one night,

staring at the stack of transcriptions, that I realized the connection. My own world had become louder, the deeper I delved into these stories. The distractions I once relied on, music, television, my smartphone, had become part of the noise. I reached for my phone instinctively, scrolling through news articles and emails, as though searching for something that would quiet the unease. But the screen only added to the hum in my head. Notifications chimed.

Headlines screamed for attention and somewhere beneath at all. The whispers persisted. It was my wife's voice again. I dropped the phone and put up the phone, and turned off the TV. The silence that followed wasn't comforting. It was oppressive. My ears strained against it,

searching for sounds that weren't there. But as the minutes stretched into hours, the whispers faded. And I began to test it. I turned off my phone more often, spending long stretches of time without the comforting hum of podcast or music. I stopped watching TV before bed.

Instead, I sat in silence, listening to the faint rustle of leaves outside my window, or the distant chirp of crickets. At first it felt unbearable. My mind raced with intrusive thoughts, dredging up fears and regrets I'd tried to bury. But slowly, something changed. The whispers stopped entirely.

The weight on my chest lifted, and for the first time in months, I slept without having nightmares. It became a ritual. Every morning I'd sit on the porch with my coffee, listening to the wind rustle through the trees. I could hear the birds calling to one another. I didn't bring my phone with me.

I didn't read the news or check my email. I just sat, letting the quiet film. At first, it felt like a small act of rebellion against the chaos of modern life. But as the days passed, I realized it was more than that. It was protection. The people I'd interviewed had faced the worst horrors imaginable, and every one of them had described hell as a place of relentless noise.

That wasn't a coincidence. Noise wasn't just a symptom of hell. It was its essence. It overwhelmed. It distracted. It drowned out everything that made a person human. In the silence, I found clarity. I began to understand that the noise in my life

both external and internal, wasn't just a byproduct of the modern world. It was something darker, something insidious. The more I embraced silence, the more I saw the world for what it was, the constant bombardment of notifications, advertisements, social media post, all the nonsense in media wasn't harmless, It was a kind of noise designed to keep us distracted, to keep us from thinking too deeply. I thought back to Evelyn's rule. You have to bring something back.

I wondered if the noise was what she'd brought back, if it was what any of them had brought back. Maybe hell wasn't just a place you went to when you died. Maybe it was a state of being, too. A relentless cacophony that crept into the world through those who had seen it. One evening, as the sun set and the sky faded into twilight, I sat on my porch and listened to the wind. It carried with it the faint scent of rain and the soft rustle of leaves. For a moment, I thought I heard a whisper,

But it wasn't a voice. It was the sound of the world settling into itself, a natural rhythm that had existed long before the distractions of modern life. I thought about the people I'd interviewed, about the horrors they described. I thought about the rules, don't eat, don't run, don't trust the light. But the most important rule wasn't the one made given me. It was one I'd given me. It was one I'd discovered on my own. The silence wasn't just a reprieve, it was a shield. In the absence of noise, I could hear myself think. I could feel the presence of the world around me, and I could feel the presence of something else, too, something good. The more I embraced silence, the less afraid I became. Hell was noise, constant, unrelenting noise, and the only way to protect myself from it was to embrace the stillness. I stopped looking for new accounts. The stack of transcriptions

sat untouched on my desk. It just gathered dust. I didn't need them anymore. I'd found what I was searching for, though it wasn't the answer I'd expected. Now, every morning I sit on the porch with my coffee, and I just listen. The birds sing their songs, and the world hums with a quiet, peaceful rhythm. I don't think about hell anymore. I just sit in silence, and in the quiet, I find everything my need.