Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I think this HOMICIDE CASE isn't normal | Scary Stories

Episode Date: August 21, 2024

There's something wrong with the blood... Scary Story exclusively written for the channel by Annie R.                     Original YouTube link: I think this HOMICIDE CASE isn't normal   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!

My name's Stanley, and I clean up the worst days of people's lives. Some folks paint, others write. I scrub blood off walls. It's an art form in its own right if you squint hard enough. Today's masterpiece, a 7-Eleven downtown, site of a robbery-turned shootout. I'd seen it all before, but that didn't make it any easier. There's something about the silence of an empty crime scene that speaks loud. louder than any scream.

I still remember my first cleanup job. It was a small house on the outskirts of town. Picture perfect on the outside, but the inside was a nightmare. A family dinner gone horribly wrong. Dad had a psychotic break and put some rat poison in the casserole. I spent three days getting to know them as I cleaned. By the time I was done, the house was done. The house was spotless, a blank slate, if only wiping away their pain was as easy.

You see, this job, it gets to you. Not just the sights, but the stories left untold. But someone's got to do it, right? Might as well be me. Mopping up the floors. I couldn't help but feel for the victims. They were just people. caught in the crossfire of someone else's greed.

I worked carefully, trying not to think too much about the why. Instead, I thought about how to make it look like nothing bad ever happened here. As I was packing up my gear, I heard my phone buzz. I glanced at the screen. It was Officer Simmons, my contact at the police department. The voice on the other end was grave. Stanley, we need you at another scene. The way he said another scene made my stomach drop.

This wasn't going to be just another day at the office. I sighed, mentally preparing myself for what was to come. Adra, Simmons. As I jotted down the details, I couldn't shake the feeling that this job was going to be different. Simmons said it looked like a homicide. An old man had been renting the place all by himself. He was found sprawled on the living room floor by the girl who delivered his weekly groceries. When I rolled up to the address, the place already felt off.

It was one of those old houses that looked like it could use a friend, all worn out and lonely. Paint had shipped off the front in large patches. The door hung open, forced open by first reception. responders. Bright yellow police tape lay on the porch and tatters. I wiped down my boots before stepping inside. My cleaning kit suddenly felt heavy in my hand. The front door opened up to a huge living room. It seemed to stretch all the way to the back of the house, and the place was in total chaos. Chairs with broken legs had been knocked all over. The couch was. was sticking out of a hole in the wall, its stuffing torn out.

Glass shards covered the wooden floor. In the middle of it all was a single chalk outline where the body was found. But it wasn't just the mess that bothered me. It was the blood. Most of it was in places it had no business being on, smeared on the ceiling, like someone painted it on there. Spatters, you know, were normal. But this looked deliberate.

And then there was the smell. It wasn't just the iron tang of blood. There was something else mixed in with it. Something that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It smelled like lavender with a hint of vanilla. Exactly like my mom's old perfume. Pulling on my gloves, I tried to focus on my the job ahead. The messed-up furniture and the stains were all part of a gig. But that perfume,

it had no business smelling as strong as it did. Mom disappeared just before my 18th birthday, not left or died, just vanished like a puff of smoke. She cleaned houses too, but she was more like your usual maid service. She went around in a beat-up Toyota, her trunk full of cleaning supplies. Her regulars were mostly lonely old folks around town. She had a gift of making anyone feel like family. The job didn't pay much, but it was enough for the two of us. Then one day, she just never came home. Her planner said that she was hired by a new client that day. But when police checked out the address, all they found was an empty lot. Her minivan was found in a nearby ditch.

The only trace of her left were tiny specks of blood on the seat. Like she'd just cut her finger. Nothing was stolen, not even the cash box. The cops never found out what exactly happened to her. But that's why I only take referrals. I started to sweep up the glass. As I moved through the room, the sweet floral smell seemed to get stronger. It was crazy.

I know. How could it be stronger than all the blood smeared around? But every whiff of it, it was like a punch to the gut. It dragged up memories I thought I'd buried deep. Mom was the one who taught me to clean, to find order in the chaos. She'd say, Stanley, life's a mess, but at least we can clean up our corners of it. Funny, I used to roll my eyes at that. Now here I was, trying to make sense of a crazy messed up world.

I rubbed my temples, trying to concentrate on the job. It took me an hour just to clean up the broken shards. In the end, I filled up four industrial-grade guards. garbage bags of the stuff. Couldn't even tell you what they were originally supposed to be. Next came the blood on the ceiling. Now, ceiling, it's not exactly my favorite. Gravity's not on your side, and neck aches there a guarantee. As I set up the ladder, I couldn't help with squint at the smears above. I climbed up, sponge in hand, and took a closer look. Now I've seen my fair share of blood splatters, but these were weird. Some were blobs that ended in straight edges,

like something cut through them. And that's when it hit me. These weren't random. They formed a pattern, deliberate and precise. It almost looked like some sort of symbol, but not one I recognized. It was too organized, too intentional. I paused. Spunge. hovering in mid-air as I tried to make sense of it. This wasn't the kind of thing you'd expect to find at a crime scene, not even in the weirdest of cases I've cleaned up. I've seen my share of messes, but symbols drawn in blood on a ceiling? That was new.

I shook my head, trying to clear it. You're seeing things, Stan. I told myself, it's just a messy crime scene, nothing more. But even as I said it, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to this pattern, something important. It was as if whoever left it there wanted it to be seen. That it's something to be understood. With a sigh, I started scrubbing, but my eyes would drift over everything. I kept finding patterns in the swirls and blobs.

And as I began wiping, each swipe of the sponge revealed another layer beneath. The symbols changed right before my eyes, taking shape with every bit of blood I tried to remove. It was like peeling an onion, each layer uncovering something new. The more I cleaned, the more it seemed to grow in detail, the stains spread. routed new lines and curves. They twisted and turned in ways that made my head spin. I stepped down from the ladder for a second. I needed a breather to wrap my head around what I was seeing.

This doesn't make any sense. I mumbled to myself. Climbing back up, I gave it another go. But with each wipe, the symbol seemed to dig its heels in, refusing to be erased. If anything, it looked clearer. The lines looked smoother. The curving loops, they were more pronounced.

Its design was now etched firmly into the ceiling, as if it was meant to be there all along. I worked at it until my arms ached, and my sponge was fallen apart. But the stains were stubborn. They clung to the ceiling Like they were part of the house itself Fine, have it your way

I grumbled I decided I'd bring the big guns tomorrow Some heavy-duty cleaners that could wipe clean any sins of the past With a day turning into night I packed up my stuff I gave the blood one last look It almost seemed to stare back.

I'll be back for you, I muttered, more to myself than anything else. Once home, curiosity got the best of me. That pattern, the house, my mother's perfume. I couldn't let any of it go. I usually don't ask for any details about the scenes I clean up, not like the cops would tell me anything anyway. By the time I get called, the cases are still unlawed. The cases are still under investigation.

So I fired up my old laptop, and I started digging into the house itself. It turns out that the place had a knack for catching fire. It burned down three times in the past 35 years alone. Each time it did, it brought down at least one person with it. The family servants the first time. a young couple the next time. The last fire, it took some old lady and her grandkids. But I couldn't find anything about who keeps rebuilding the damn place,

or anything about the old man whose blood I was now cleaning up. That blood, I couldn't shake off the symbols it formed on the ceiling. I needed to at least try to find out what they were. At first, it was like looking for a needle in a haystack, symbols, cult signs, ancient scripts. I fell down a rabbit hole of conspiracies in urban legends. But then, I saw something that made my heart skip a beat. I found an old HTML forum talking about summoning rituals. One of the commenters posted a grainy image from,

some book. The passage under it linked to doorways. Doorways to what? The article didn't say. But it was enough to get my mind racing. I looked into whoever posted that image, and I came up with an error page. I searched up legends about doorways, and at some point what lavender had to do with it. I was always on the lookout for those symbols.

And the more I looked into this, the more I felt like I was going nuts, it was like the air around me had changed. My coffee would go from steaming hot to ice cold in a matter of seconds. The shadows in my apartment seemed to move just at the edge of my vision. I'd look up and for a moment it felt like the walls were breathing. It sounds crazy. I know. I thought maybe I was just overworked,

or that I need to get my carbon monoxide alarm checked. But as I looked around my apartment, I found more things out of place. Books, I swore I left on the table, were now on the floor. The pictures on the walls hung at odd angles. I thought I saw maggots crawling from the vents. And every now and then,

I'd catch a whiff of lavender and vanilla. It started filling the room like she was right there with me. The smell seemed to swirl around me, especially when I found something new about the symbol. It was like each piece of information I uncovered brought with it a gust of that familiar scent. Doorways, mom's perfume, her disappearance, this jewells, this job. Was it all connected? I was gagging on the scent by now. So I shut my laptop, opened

up a window and lit a cigarette. It was amazing how much that helped. I breathed in deep, reveling in the familiar tobacco scent. Now this is something that made more sense. This was the real world. By the time I finished my smoke, I was just about to collapse on my feet. It's been a long day and I've still got a job to finish. When I woke up, the first rays of morning light were peeking through the blinds. The floral scent was gone. I poured myself a strong black coffee, determined to finish what I started. I had to go back to that house, to the crime scene.

I had to clean up those blood stains, not just for the sake of my job, but to prove that to myself that I wasn't losing my grip on reality. Armed with my biggest bottle of bleach and my best P.E., I drove back to the Blood House. The morning air was crisp. It was a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere of the night before. As I parked my van outside the house, I took a deep breath. I knew something was wrong with that house. And whatever it is, it's already followed me home. So I need to do what I do best,

clean up other people's messes. As I stepped back into the house, the stillness was suffocating. I left the door open, stuffing a rag under it to get some air in. That barely helped. I brought in everything I'd need and set up my ladder under the biggest splotch,

climbing up, I braced for the work ahead. The stains looked even less natural than yesterday. Tendrils curled around each other. Rigid slashes cut across loops. Pinpricks of blood formed strange patterns. But then as I started to work, that scent filled the air again. Vanilla and lavender. So distinct.

so full of memories. At first, it was just a hint. A whisper that made me pause mid-scrub. But it didn't stop there. It grew stronger, richer. It drowned out the harsh chemical smell of the cleaners and the metallic scent of the blood. I tried to shake it off,

but it was disorienting. The familiar comfort of the scent clashed with the cold reality of where I was and what I was doing. And the more I tried to clean, the more the blood resisted. Now, I could almost swear that the blood moved away from my sponge. Just moving away every time I swiped over it. As if the house, the symbol, and even the perfume, were telling us, telling me that some stains weren't meant to be scrubbed away.

My heart was racing. I needed to catch my breath. I stepped down from the ladder. I need to make sense of what was happening, I thought. But as my feet hit the floor, I realized that the room itself had changed. I was sure that I'd swept up all the glass yesterday, and the floor was spotless. when I came in this morning. Yet there they were.

Shards covering the floor, glinting much brighter than they should. I don't know how, but I just knew these were the exact same pieces of glass I'd thrown away yesterday. And through all this, the floral scent grew stronger. It filled the rum. It took over the stale. stale air, and it made it hard to think about anything else. The sunlight that streamed into the room seemed weaker now, too.

It wasn't until I looked around that I realized why. When I entered, there were three windows, two on the back wall, one by the front door. Now there was only one. Thick metal bars ran across it, blocking out even more sunlight. I could feel nausea, said again. The room itself, it felt like it was shrinking. The walls seemed to inch closer whenever I looked away. Yet the door outside, it seemed to recede further and further away.

And there was that scent, that sweet vanilla and lavender. her, it was so intense, it was almost as if she was standing right behind me. Everything felt wrong, deeply wrong. The room. It wasn't just a room anymore. It was a trap, closing in on me with every breath I took. I can understand now why someone would burn this place down over and over again. This is a place that shouldn't be a place that shouldn't

I didn't exist. I tried to make my way to the door, keeping my eyes down. I had to block everything out except putting one foot in front of the other. Right foot, left foot, one at a time. Nice and easy, Stanley. But that's when I saw it. The chalk outline where the body had been found. clear as day, except it wasn't where it was supposed to be.

I swear it was further back into the room. But now I could see the edge of its hand, almost touching my boot. I blinked hard, sure my eyes were playing tricks on me. But now there it was, a good few feet away from its original spot. My stomach knotted up at the sight. Chalk outlines don't move. Everybody knows that. They're drawn around where things, where people end up.

I squeeze shut now. I willed my racing heart to slow down. But the moment I opened my eyes, a jolt of fear went through me. The chalk outlines our eyes. arms had moved again. Both of its arms, they looked like they were reaching for me now. And they were much longer than what a human should be. I jumped back, and that's when I saw another one. Another chalk outline had appeared. It was standing upright on the wall next to me. I tried to run, but the scent of my mother's perfume, I don't know, it overwhelmed everything.

It was so strong now. It was like she was right there in the room with me. It was too much. My legs gave out. I found myself on the floor, my hands bracing against the wood beneath me. The floorboards moved under my touch. They were warm like flesh, and they rippled from around me like water in a pond. The rooms started to pulse with a silent unseen heartbeat. Lying there on the floor, I felt the room's pulse quicken. The boards grew softer and hotter.

The walls closed in. on me contracting like a throat. And then I heard something. It was a whisper, soft and gentle, as it floated through the heavy air. My heart skipped a beat when I realized it was her voice. Mom's voice, as clear and comforting as if she were sitting right beside me. Stay here with me, Stanlight. She whispered.

Stay in this room forever. God, I missed her. It was just the two of us when I was growing up, you know? Always had been. A part of me wanted nothing more than to just listen. To finally rest in her lap again, like when I was a little kid. But another part of me, The rational part.

It screamed that this was wrong. You don't have to leave, Stanley. We can be together, forever, just like you always wanted. The voice continued. But you disappeared. They never found you, I managed to say. My voice broke with a mix of heart air. in disbelieve. I know, sweetheart, and I'm so sorry. I didn't want to leave you. But we have our chance now,

a chance to be together. Isn't that what you've always wanted? Images of my childhood flashed in my mind, almost against my will. It made it hard to think, to resist. I remembered the weekends in the kitchen, and baking cookies with her. She'd laugh as I made a mess with the flour. She never got mad at other people's messes. It was a part of life, she said. It's not a real cookie unless you wear some of the ingredients. And then there were the nights she'd tuck me in after a late-night call.

I'd be asleep on the couch, waiting for her to come home. I'd wake up to her scent as she carried me to my room. That always made me feel so safe, so loved. Tears blurred my vision. As those memories filled me with a warmth that I hadn't felt in years, I miss you so much, I said. And you don't have to miss me anymore. Stay, Stanley.

Stay with me." She urged, but there was a hint of desperation in her voice. But Mom, this isn't right. Now my mom, she was a cleaner just like me, worked her fingers to the bone in houses much like this one, always dreaming of a better future for us. She saved every penny she could. hoping I'd find my own path. Remembering her sacrifices and hopes for me,

I realized the real her, my real mom, would never want me stuck here, trapped in a room full of ghosts. She wanted me to live, I said out loud, the words slicing through the things slicing through the things, thick air. Holding onto that thought, it gave me the strength to get back to my feet. My mom gave me a life to live, and I wasn't about to waste it. As I moved towards the door, the voice grew

louder. My mother's perfume grew sharper now. The lavender turning into something sharp and acidic. The vanilla took on a rotting smell. I gagged. It didn't make me feel warm anymore. Of everything that happened, that's what really pissed me off. The way this house poisoned those memories, it was like it turned them inside out. It was as if the room was throwing everything it had at me, desperate to make me stay. And with it came a flood of memories. They were so vivid and detailed. Glimpses into a life that could have been. I saw my mom standing next to me, her eyes gleaming as we admired my own cleaning van. It was shiny and new with my business name painted on the side. You did it, Stanley, she said in my vision. Her voice was filled with so much pride,

it made my heart swell. You made something amazing. Then I saw a wedding. My wedding? I never married, never had a wife. But I saw my mom sitting in the front row. Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears. Shears streaming down her cheeks as she watched me say, I do. Her happiness, it was palpable. It radiated through the room, making everyone else cry too. She came up to me afterward, hugging me tight. And then the most heart-wrenching vision of all was her in the kitchen. She surrounded by laughter and the sweet smell of cookies baking.

My kids, her grandkids, were there with her, covered in flour. Their faces lit up with joy. She was teaching them how to bake, just like she taught me, telling them that it's never a mistake to make a mess. These visions, these could have beens, they hit me hard. But out of the corner of my eye, the room continued to heave. More chalk figures had appeared around the room. Some looked like they were crawling on the floor.

Others stretched across the walls, reaching for me. They all moved closer. I was afraid then. Desperation clawed my insides. I needed to do something, anything to break this spell, to bring myself back to the here and now. In a move that felt more instinct than thought, I grabbed the bottle of bleach nearby. Without hesitating, I unscrewed the cap, and I poured it over my clothes. The liquid was cold and shocking against my skin.

The bleach's harsh stench cut through the sweet perfume. It burned my nose, and it made my eyes water. But it was enough to clear my head. I splashed bleach on the ceiling. Its chemical smell filled the room. The blood began to sizzle and fade. The cymbal shivered and gave off a faint glow before they disappeared. It stung my skin where it soaked through my clothes.

But I didn't care. It was a reminder that I was alive, that I was still real. The undeniable pain, it was exactly what I needed. I used the last of the bleach against the walls, and with each splash, the figures on the walls recoiled and melted away. With a final exhale, I made a break for it. I bolted towards the door, my legs pumping as fast as they could. I didn't stop until I was past the threshold.

The moment I was outside, fresh air hit me like a wave. I ran towards my van, dropping safety gear along the way. But my relief was short-lived. My body had been pushed to its limits. I collapsed to the ground. cool earth, it felt good on my skin. As my consciousness slipped away, my vision blurred. And that's when I saw her. My real mother, she stood over me, a soft, proud smile on her face. As if to say she knew I'd make it, that I'd beat whatever got her.

The last thing I saw was her leaning down to kiss my forehead. Waking up, felt like crawling out of a deep, dark hole. My eyes blinked open to the sterile white of a hospital room. The beeping machines next to me cut through the silence. My head was pounding, and my throat felt raw. My arms were covered in bandages. Some of my friends came by the afternoon I woke up. They said I'd been unconscious for two days.

Some jogger found me passed out by my van. Nothing was stolen, but I was covered in some very bad chemical burns. Simmons asked me if I was okay. Asked me if I wanted to go fishing as soon as I was discharged. I guess they all thought I had some sort of breakdown. I guess I kind of did. I waved it off. What the hell happened at that blood house, Simmons?

Who was the old man who died there? I demanded. What do you mean, Stan? What house? He replied. The one you sent me to. I only ended up at that damn place because you called me in for a job. Simmons shook his head at that.

Stan, I haven't called you for any job since the 7-Eleven, and we found you in an empty lot. There's no houses anywhere near there. Never has been.