Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I work as a Park Ranger. This is my Field Guide to SURVIVE | Scary Stories

Episode Date: February 14, 2025

Story written by Stephen & Rachel of Lighthouse Horror. For usage rights or more information, please contact us at [e-mail] Art from NinerioMore of the artist’s works at ninerioarts Original YouTube link: I work as a Park Ranger. This is my Field Guide to SURVIVE.        Merch: lighthousehorror.shopFor more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | PatreonMusic:Lucas King - YouTubeMyuu - YouTube IncompetechDarren 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!

I've been a park ranger at this station for over 30 years. My name's Clancy. And if you're reading this, you're probably the poor soul they've assigned to replace me when I retire. Or maybe you're just curious about what it's like to work in the middle of nowhere. Surrounded by trees that have seen more years than anyone alive. By the way, you've got my attention. First, let me tell you a bit about myself. I wasn't always the grizzled, gray-bearded man you'll find sitting in the old swivel chair at the station.

I was born to immigrant parents, who came to this country with little more than hope in their pockets. My father, a fisherman, and my mother a seamstress, taught me early on to respect hard work, and the stories passed down through generations. We didn't have much, but we had stories. My parents came from a small village tucked between forest and rivers that as they told it, were alive in ways most folk wouldn't understand. My mother would sew by candlelight and whisper tales about the forest spirits who guided travelers or led them astray, depending on their intentions. My father would sit by the fire after a long day

and talk about the creatures of the water, things he swore he saw, but couldn't explain. I grew up believing there was more to the world than what we could see or touch. When I was ten, we moved closer to these woods. My parents said it reminded them of home. I didn't question it much. I was too busy exploring. I'd spend hours wandering through the trees, picking up sticks, and trying to mimic the bird calls. I felt like the forest spoke to me, not in words,

but in the way the wind would shift, or the rustle of leaves seemed to follow me. Maybe that's why I ended up here. I wanted to protect this place. I wanted to understand it. When I turned 18, I applied for a job as a park ranger. To my surprise, I got it. Back then, I thought it'd be simple, keeping campers from starting fires, warning hikers about bears, and rescuing the occasional lost tourist. But these woods aren't like other places. You'll notice it eventually, if you haven't already. It starts subtle, like the feeling of being watched when you're alone, or the way the paths seem to change when you're not paying attention. The animals here don't act the way they're supposed to, and sometimes they're not animals at all.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. This guide isn't just for your safety. It's for your sanity. If you follow my advice, you might just make it to the end of your shift in one piece. And if you don't, well, you probably won't have the chance to regret it. I decided to write this guide.

not just for the next set of Rangers, but also for myself. After so many years in these woods, I wanted to collect my stories in one place. Some of these stories are lessons. Others are just memories I don't want to lose. When you've spent as much time as I have here, you realize that the job, it gets into your bones. It becomes part of who you are. All right. Well, first off, you should know this.

People go missing in these woods. More often than most folks would believe, there are more unreported cases than there are reported ones. That is not an exaggeration. People vanish, even when we do our best to warn them. And when they come back, if they come back, they're different. They're terrified, sobbing, and shaken like leaves.

but the worst part they're blind not permanently but blind all the same for three days exactly they can't see a thing and then like clockwork

their sight comes back and they can never explain what happened to them they don't remember they don't even know how they got back to the trail or the station you'd think after seeing this enough times I'd get you

to it. But I don't. There's something deeply unsettling about watching someone stumble out of the woods, tears streaming down their face, hands reaching out for something they can't see. I know how this sounds, like I'm trying to scare you. Maybe I am a little. You should be scared. These woods aren't right. There's something about them that doesn't fit with the rest of the world, something strange and old and unexplainable. But it's not all bad. The station itself is a cozy place. Coffee pots always full, free too, which is a perk of the job.

The break room has a dartboard, and while I'm no pro, I've won more games than I've lost. On slow days, when the woods are quiet, we'll play a few rounds, laughing and taking jabs at each other. It's a kind of banter that makes the job bearable. Then there's the leg. On my off days, I grab my fishing pole and head down there. The water's so still, it's like glass, reflecting the trees and sky perfectly. I don't always catch anything, but that's not the point.

Sitting there listening to the gentle lapping of the water, you'd swear the world wasn't such a strange place after all. Sometimes my coworkers join me and will sit for hours swapping stories and cracking jokes it's moments like those that make the job worth it but no matter how much I try to focus on the good

I can't escape the strangeness of these woods it's always there lurking just at the edge of things the way the paths seem to shift even when you know them by heart the way the trees creak and grown, even when there's no wind. I've learned to live with it. Keep one foot in the normal world and one in whatever place this is.

That balance is the key to surviving here. For now, though, I'll leave it at this. The woods are beautiful and dangerous, full of things that will make you fall in love with them and things that will haunt you. If you're stepping into my shoes, take this guide seriously. And maybe, when you've been here long enough, well, you'll add your own stories to it. That's what this job does to you. It gives you stories, stories that stay with you, whether you want them to or not. There's something else about these woods that I need to tell you. something I haven't quite wrapped my head around.

Even after all these years. It's about the coins. They're about the size of a dollar, maybe a little thicker, and they're scattered all over the woods. You'll find them in the oddest places, wedged between rocks, half buried in the dirt, or even resting on tree branches, like someone carefully placed them there.

The coins have the words, Wonder World LTO stamped across them, along with an engraving of what looks like an old amusement park. Now here's the kicker. There is no amusement park called Wonder World anywhere in the state. I've checked. The closest park of any kind is about two hours away, and it ain't called Wonderworld. Nobody knows where these coins come from. Each person just finds one. Never more, never less. And it always feels like the coin is meant for them somehow. When you pick one up, and believe me, most people can't resist,

you get this strange, almost magnetic pull, like the coin wants you to take it somewhere. And that somewhere is the vending machine out back. Now that vending machine has been here longer than I have, and I have been around for a long time. It sits behind the Ranger Station, near the edge of the woods, tucked under an awning like it's trying to stay hidden. The machine has the same Wonder World LTO logo stamped on it,

with designs of a whimsical amusement park decorating the signs. The words, Try Your Luck, are written across the top in faded curling letters. But the vending machine doesn't look like something you'd trust. It's old and worn, the paint chipped, and the metal rusting in spots. The lights inside flicker like they're about to give out, and there are no buttons to press. None. Just a slot for the coin, and a place where whatever it spits out will drop. The packets inside the machine are all blank and unmarked, no labels, no brands, nothing to tell you what you're getting.

You put the coin in, turn the crank, and wait to see what comes out. Over the years, I've seen all kinds of things come out of that machine. One time, it gave a young man a brass key. He tried every lock in the station and in his car, but the key didn't fit anything. Another time, it gave a hiker a guitar pick. He didn't even play guitar, but he kept it anyway. There's been a tea packet, a pair of dice, a toy car, a vintage playing card, and even a ticket stub for a concert that happened decades ago. But it's not the items themselves that make the machine strange.

It's what happens afterward. There are rumors, of course. Stories that make their way through the station and the surrounding towns. Like the girl who got the brass key and used it to unlock the door to. her dream university. Figuratively, I mean. She got in with a full scholarship. Just like that. Or the guy who got a ticket stub and was promoted at work the very next day. Not all the stories are good, though. I remember one guy, a tourist passing through, who found a coin and couldn't resist trying his luck. The machine spat out a toothpick, just a plain old wooden toothpick, a weak. A week.

He got food poisoning so bad he had to be hospitalized. Then, there was the film director who came out here scouting locations for his next project. He found a coin, used it on the machine, and got an empty film canister. A month later, he died in a car accident on the way to a set. The vending machine doesn't just give you something random. It seems to To do something to your life Sometimes it's good

Sometimes it's not I've warned people about it of course Told them to stay away from the coins in the machine But curiosity is a powerful thing And most people don't listen They think it's just an old machine with a few quarks Or they laugh it off like I'm trying to scare him I'm not

I don't mess with the coins. Never have, never will. I've found a few in my time, sure. You can't work here as long as I have and not stumble across one. But I leave them where I find them. They don't belong to me. And I do not want to know what that machine would spit out for someone like me. Still, I can't stop people from trying their luck.

There's always someone who thinks they'll be the exception. and that they'll get the good fortune and not the bad. Maybe they will. Or maybe they'll regret it. The strangest part is that the machine never runs out of items. You'd think after all these years it would have emptied itself out. But no matter how many people use it, there's always something waiting inside, hidden behind those flickering lights, and blank packets.

I don't know where the coins come from. And I don't know who put the machine here. All I know is that it's been here since before my time, and it'll probably still be here long after I'm gone. If you find a coin, my advice is simple. Leave it where it is. Walk away. Don't let curiosity get the better of you.

Because once you put that coin in the machine, there's no telling what you'll get. And then there are the dining tables. Well, dining sets, really. Two chairs and a small square table. Plates, cups, and candles are always neatly arranged on top. Everything looks pristine like it came straight out of a catalog. And just like the red tape and the vending machine,

nobody knows where they come from. No one has ever seen anyone carrying these things in or out of the forest. They just appear. Sometimes the candles are even lit. That part always gives me the creeps. There's never any food on the plates, and the cups are always empty. It's like the setup is waiting for something, or someone, that never shows up. What makes it even stranger is that the dining sets are always spotless. Not a speck of dirt, not a single leaf or twig. out of place, even though they're out in the middle of the woods. They're so clean that they don't look like they belong here.

And sometimes the chairs are knocked over. Like whoever or whatever was there didn't finish what they started. People who find these setups, they're usually amused at first. They think it's a quirky decoration or some kind of prop that rangers put out to make the woods feel unique. I've seen photos people have taken with him, smiling like it's a fun discovery. But it's not fun

and it's not harmless. There's a pattern I've noticed over the years. People who interact with the dining sets, whether they touch them, take photos with them, or even sit down in the chairs. They tend to have bad luck afterward.

One time, a group of hikers found a dining set near the river. They thought it was hilarious. They took turns posing for pictures, sitting at the table like they were at a fancy restaurant. A week later, one of them got into a bad car accident. Another broke their arm while hiking in a completely different park. None of it seemed connected, except for the fact that they'd all been at that table. Another time, a couple found a set-up along the trail. The candles were lit, and they thought it was romantic. The man proposed to his girlfriend right there, and she said

yes. The next day, they got lost in the woods for hours, even though the trail was well marked. They eventually found their way back, but not without a lot of scratches, a sprained ankle, and a couple broken bones. The dining sets aren't always there when someone goes looking for him. Hikers will report seeing one, but by the time a ranger arrives at the location, it's gone. Just like that. It's like the forest knows when someone's trying to investigate and just moves him somewhere else. The first time I heard about the tables was from an older ranger who worked here before May. He told me plain as day,

If you see a dining set in the woods, you don't go near it. just turn around and leave. I didn't ask why at the time. I figured it was just one of those weird stories, people tell you, and mess with a new guy. But then I saw one myself. It was during one of my early patrols. I was walking a trail near the north side of the park when I spotted it.

Two chairs in a table, all perfectly arranged, right in the middle of a clearing. The plates gleamed in the sunlight. and the candles were unlit, but sitting there like they were waiting for someone to come along and light him. I didn't go near it. I didn't even stop walking. I kept moving like I hadn't seen a thing. Since then, I have seen the tables pop up here and there, always in different spots. I don't know who sets them up or why, and honestly, I don't want to know. When hikers mentioned seeing one, I tell them the same thing.

Don't touch it. Don't take pictures, don't put it on your Instagram, and definitely don't sit down. Most of them laugh at off or say, Oh, come on, man, it's just a table. But I've learned that nothing in these woods is ever just anything. The forest has its rules, and the dining sets are a part of that. Maybe there are a warning, like the red tape. Maybe there's something else entirely.

I don't have the answers, but I know better than to mess with them. If you're ever out here and you come across one of those setups, do yourself a favor. Turn around and walk away. Whatever it is, it's not worth finding out. Some mysteries in these woods aren't meant to be solved. And then there's the red tape. The rent tape shows up in the strangest places.

You'll see it tied around trees or dangling from branches, sometimes like ribbons, fluttering in the breeze. Other times, it's wrapped tightly around the trunk of a tree, layer upon layer, like someone went at it with a roll of duct tape. The thing is, it's been here longer than I've been working this job. Maybe longer than this station's even existed. And nobody knows where it comes from. Not me, not the other rangers, not anyone. But I do know one thing. Back in the old country where my parents came from, red ribbons had meaning.

My mother used to tell me about them. They were used to mark spiritual areas, places you weren't supposed to mess with. Sometimes they marked haunted places, sometimes sites of old rituals, and other times They were warnings about dangerous spots. Either way, the message was the same. Keep away. Here in these woods, I think the message still applies. The areas with red tape have the highest number of accidents. Forest fires, near drownings, broken equipment. You name it, it's happened near the red tape.

Worst of all, those of the areas where the most people disappear. You'd think the tape would be enough of a warning. But people are curious. They see it and think it's just some leftover marker from an old project or something the rangers put up. They don't listen when we tell them to avoid those spots. Some of them wander into the taped-off areas anyway, thinking it's no big deal.

And a lot of them don't come back. Over the years, there have been reports of strange things, in those parts of the woods. The one thing that comes up the most is about a man. People say they've seen him standing between the trees, watching them. The thing is, he has no eyes. The locals have taken to calling him eyeless Jack. I don't know who came up with a name, but it's stuck.

Most of the sightings are vague, a figure in the distance, the sense of being watched. Footsteps that don't belong to anyone. But every so often, you get a report that's more specific, more detailed, and those are the ones that keep me up at night. Still, not every story about these woods is terrifying. There's another legend, one that's almost comforting. It's about a dog. A German shepherd, to be exact. Now nobody knows he, his name or where he came from, but the stories are always the same. The dog shows up when people need him most, usually when kids are involved. The rangers don't talk about him much, but we all know the stories. There was the time a little boy got separated from his parents while hiking. The family

was frantic, shouting his name and running up and down the trails. By the time they found him, He was sitting on a rock, petting a big German shepherd that nobody else recognized. Maybe you've heard that story before. You know, it's kind of famous. Then, there was the girl who wandered off from her campsite at night. She was only five. Couldn't have gotten far. But the woods can feel endless in the dark. When her parents finally found her, she was standing in a clearing, holding on to the dog's collar, like he was guiding her.

The parents always thank us afterward, thinking the dog belongs to one of us. They don't know that we've never claimed him. He's not ours. We have a little ritual for him, though. Out behind the station, near the vending machine, actually. There's two bowls, one for water and one for kibble. They're nothing fancy, just old metal dishes we keep clean and filled. It's an unspoken rule among the rangers.

Even if none of us ever see the dog, we make sure the bowls are ready, just in case. Some of us joke that it's like leaving an offering for a guardian spirit. Others take it more seriously. Whatever the case, we keep the bowls there, and every now and then, we notice the food and water are gone. I like the idea of the dog being real, though. Not just a story, but something out there. looking out for people. In a place like this, with all its strangeness and danger,

it's nice to think there's something good, too. One of the worst incidents I've ever seen, involved a hiker named Amanda. She was young, fresh out of college, and full of energy. She came into the station with a group of friends, three others, if I remember right, two guys and another girl. I don't recall their names, But I will never forget Amanda.

She told us she was on a gap year before starting her master's program, said she wanted to travel and hike like her dad used to. At first, she seemed like your average, adventurous spirit. But the more I talked to her, the more I realized, she wasn't taking this place seriously. Amanda laughed at our warnings. Her friends did, too. They acted like the woods were a theme park,

and we were just being dramatic. I had a bad feeling about them the moment they walked down to the station, but I have learned over the years that you can't save everyone. People have to make their own choices. A few days later, I was working an early morning shift. The sun hadn't even risen yet, and the woods were still cloaked in darkness. I was sipping my coffee, going over the day's patrol schedule,

when the door to the station slammed open. It was Amanda and her friends. The girls were crying, and the guys looked like they were trying to keep it together, but their faces were pale, their hands trembling. Then I saw Amanda. She was clutching one of her friends, her eyes wide open, but unseeing.

She was blind. She kept screaming that she couldn't see, and then her voice dropped to a chilling, repetitive chant. In the woods so dark and black, don't look twice for eyeless Jack. She wouldn't stop saying it, over and over, like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

We called for an ambulance, and they rushed her to the hospital. I found out later, just like every other case, Amanda's sight returned exactly three days later. No more, no less. Before they left, her friends mentioned camping near one of the red-taped sections of the woods. I didn't need to hear more to know what probably happened.

Amanda had wandered off. She ignored the warnings and she saw something she wasn't supposed to say. The next day, I decided to investigate. Not because I thought I could fix anything, just to make sure nobody else got hurt. I headed to the area her friends described, careful to stay well outside the red tape. The section they'd camped near was deep in the forest, far from any marked trails. The trees were dense, their gnarled roots twisting through the ground. The air was still, and the usual sounds of the forest, birds, squirrels, the occasional

rustling leaves were noticeably absent. I walked the perimeter of the red tape, scanning the area for anything unusual. And that's when I saw him. A man standing about 50 yards away, just beyond the red tape. He was wearing a red flannel shirt and jeans. His back turned to me. At first glance, he looked like a lost hiker, but there was something about the way he was. stood that made my skin crawl. He was too still. I watched him for a moment, expecting him to shift his weight, scratch his head, or do something, anything that a person would normally do. But he didn't move. There was no rise or fall of his shoulders to indicate breathing. He was like a statue, frozen in place. I called out, "'Hey, you okay? "'You're okay?'

You lost? No response. I took a step closer, still keeping a safe distance from the red tape. If you need help, I can guide you back to the station. The man began to turn, slowly, like he was on a rusted hinge. But before he could face me, a sharp bark sounded from behind me. It was loud and clear, the kind of bark you'd expect from a large dog. I watched in awe as a large German shepherd dove right past me toward the man in the flannel shirt, growling furiously. It happened so fast. I watched as the dog grabbed hold of the man's flannel shirt and jerked him from side to side. And then the man pulled himself away, a piece of his flannel tearing off, and he ran off into the woods.

The dog chased after it, and it was one of the craziest things I have ever seen. I just stood and listened for a few moments to the two disappear into the forest. And then I walked over. And for some reason, I still don't fully understand. I picked up the torn red piece of the man's shirt. All I know is it didn't feel safe to leave it out there. Like if someone found it. something bad would happen.

After that, I headed straight back to the station, told my buddies what I had seen, and they believed me. This job comes with a lot of responsibility, but the part that sticks with me the most, the part that keeps me up at night, is the missing persons board. It hangs in the main hallway of the ranger station,

right where anyone walking in can see it. I try to keep it updated as much as possible. Photos of people who've gone missing in these woods stare back at me every time I pass by. Some of them are black and white, faded with time, while others are bright and new. A few faces stick with me more than others. There are too many photos on that board.

Some of the faces belong to people I've met, people I've warned. People I've tried to help. Others are strangers whose stories I've only heard about through search parties and reports. The ones who come back don't always have answers. They just come back different, blind for three days, scared, and never able to explain what happened to him. I do my best to warn visitors. Every hiker, camper, and tourist who walks through the doors gets the same spiel.

I tell them about the red tape and how it marks places they shouldn't go. I tell them to leave any coins they find alone and to avoid the vending machine if they see it. I tell them not to sit in any mysterious dining sets, no matter how clear or charming they look. And I tell them to stick to the trails, no matter what. Most of them don't listen. They laugh, not politely, or just brush me off entirely. To them, these woods are just another place to explore, another notch on their hiking boots. They don't see the danger, because they don't believe in it.

But belief has nothing to do with it. The woods don't care if you believe in them or not. The coins are still scattered in the dirt. The vending machine still spits out strange items. The dining sets still appear, clean and perfect. in places they shouldn't. The red tape still warned you to stay away, and eyeless Jack is still out there,

watching from the trees. And then there's the dog. These might just sound like stories to you. Maybe they are. But stories have a way of teaching us things. Back in the old days, people use stories to warn their kids about dangers to teach them how to survive.

My parents' stories about the old country taught me to respect the things I couldn't see and to listen to the signs around me. That's what I'm trying to do with this guide. If you're reading this and you're one of the future rangers here, take my advice seriously. These stories aren't just entertainment. They're warnings, lessons, and survival tools. Pay attention to the patterns, watch for the signs, and above all else, respect the woods. I've been at this job for a long time. Too long, maybe. I've told myself I'd retire soon, but I don't know, maybe the truth is I'm not ready to let go.

I feel like as long as I am here, I can keep a little bit of control over the chaos. I can keep the board updated. I can warn the hikers. I can keep the bowls filled for the dog. But I am getting tired. My bones ache in the mornings, and the free coffee doesn't work quite like it used to. Someday soon, I will have to pass this job onto someone,

and I hope whoever takes my place will read this guide and remember what's important. The woods are strange and dangerous, but they're all so beautiful. They deserve respect, and the people who come here deserve to be protected. So to whoever's reading this, I'll keep you with one last piece of advice. Take the job seriously. warn the hikers, even if they laugh at you. Your warnings will help.

I wish we could protect everyone, but we have done. done good here. Our Ranger team has saved more people than I can count. If a hiker goes missing, you call it in immediately and you make absolutely sure you search in pairs of twos, never alone, ever. We've lost too many of us that way. Missing hikers can be saved, but you got to be quick, search in pairs of two, and keep your wits about you. Oh, and watch out for the corn. Oh, and watch out for the points, the tape, the dining sets, and everything else that doesn't belong. When you see anything like that, call it in immediately, and keep the hikers away from it. And don't forget to fill the bowls out back. As for me, I'll stick around as long as I can. And the rest will be up to you.