Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Work as a Priest. These are my TERRIFYING Stories of the Supernatural | Scary Stories

Episode Date: January 7, 2025

I have some scary stories to tell... 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 Work as a Priest. These are my TERRIFYING Stories of the Supernatural.     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!

I'd never been one for theatrics, even when I took the vows. Faith, I reasoned, didn't require spectacle, just quiet conviction and discipline. Yet, the church seemed to attract the opposite, whether in the shrill wails of penitence in the confessional or in the odd behaviors I encountered during my rounds. Over the years, I learned to brace myself for the unusual. What I didn't expect was how many of those moments would say. stay with me, clinging like oil to the soul, refusing to wash away. It began subtly, as most things do.

Early in my career, I was assigned to a rural parish, in a town so small it barely qualified as one. People here lived in silence. Their faith the kind whispered in dim kitchens or unsunbeaten porches. My arrival was met with polite indifference. Hushed conversations. would die as I approached, glances would dart to me. Their way. They wanted me there, needed me there. But they feared something they never spoke of directly.

The first time I heard of the rules was during an otherwise unremarkable confessional. A woman, her voice quivering, whispered through the grate. Father, it comes every few years. We leave no. Before I could ask what it was. She hurried on with the rote recitation of her sins. Minor grievances about a neighbor. Lapses in patience with her children. I pressed her for details, but she shook her head. Her words tumbling over themselves as she fled the booth. I didn't chase her. I thought she was deluded. It wasn't until later that I began to piece things together. One night, as I prepared for bed, a pounding erupted at the rectory door. A young boy, no older than ten, stood on the threshold. His eyes were wide and glassy, his breathing shallow.

Father, he said, it's here. Before I could question him, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me towards the edge of the woods. The boy's father, a wiring man with a deep-set, Scowl met us there, his hands clutching a shotgun. He didn't speak. He only nodded and motioned for us to follow. Deep in the forest, we came upon the carcass of a deer, or at least that's what it had been. Its body had been eviscerated, ribs splintered outward, as though something had erupted from within. The flesh was streaked with a thick black slime, and the stench. It was unlike anything I'd encountered, metallic and rancid, as though the meat itself was rotting and fast-forward.

Tracks, the man muttered, pointing to the ground. They were enormous, clawed, and oddly misshapen, like a biped that had never quite mastered walking upright. Before I could fully process what I was seeing, a low growl vibrated through the trees. The boy screamed, and his father raised the shotgun. But the sound was cut short by something moving too fast to follow through the branches above us. I caught only glimpses, a leathery, elongated body, a face that wasn't so much a face as it was a collection of moving parts. back to the church, the father said. I didn't argue. We ran, but whatever it was, didn't follow. I never saw the man or his son again. The following day, their house was empty. Their belongings

abandoned. I never asked the town about them. I didn't want to hear their answers. The next year, a new confessional booth was delivered. The old one with its warped wood and threadbare curtain had been in service longer than anyone could remember. I should have thrown it out. Instead, I kept it in the storage room out of some misplaced sense of sentimentality. I began to regret that decision almost immediately. One evening after locking up the church, I heard a faint rustling coming from the storage room. I chalked it up to mice and resolved to deal with it in the morning. But the sound persisted, louder now, like fabric tearing,

accompanied by a low whispering that I couldn't quite make out. Against my better judgment, I unlock the door. The old confessional stood there, but its curtain was moving, as though caught in a breeze. I knew it was impossible. The room was sealed, and there was no draft. I stepped closer, heart pounding, and I pulled the curtain aside. There was nothing inside.

No mice, no source of the noise, just the empty booth. I let the curtain fall and turned to leave, but the whispering began again. Louder and clearer, a woman's voice. I turned around. The curtain was open now, and seated inside was a little. a figure. A woman, her face pale and blurred, as though seen through frosted glass. Her lips moved, but the words came too fast, overlapping and incoherent. I reached out instinctively, and as my fingers brushed the wood, the image disappeared. The next morning, I burned the

move. The whispers didn't stop for three days. It was during my fifth year that I met him. Or it? I'm still not sure. The man was unremarkable at first glance, middle-aged, neatly dressed, with a polite smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He attended mass often, sitting in the back pew, always leaving before communion. I didn't think much of it, until we were. one evening when he lingered after the service. Father, he said, his voice low and deliberate. May I speak with you privately?

We went to my office, and he sat across from my hands folded neatly in his lap. His gaze was unsettling, not because of its intensity, but because of its emptiness. I've seen you in my... in dreams. He said, You've seen me too, haven't you? I started to respond, but he cut me off. No, don't answer.

I already know. As he spoke, I noticed his eyes. They were black, not dark brown, not hazel, but pure liquid black, reflecting nothing. He smiled again wider this time, revealing teeth there were too many. I've been here for a long time. Longer than you. Longer than this town. I just wanted to thank you, father, for keeping the door open. What door? His grin widened as I asked the door.

and for a moment I thought I saw something flicker across his face, a second set of features, grotesque and angular. You'll see. Soon, he said, standing abruptly. He walked to the door, paused, and looked back at me one last time. He didn't attend Mass again, and a week later, The rectory basement flooded for no discernible reason. The water was ice cold and pitch black.

Now the church had an attic, though I rarely went there. It was a cramped dusty space filled with forgotten relics and boxes of records no one cared to sort. One night, as I prepared a sermon, I heard singing drifting down from above, faint and off-key, like a choir warming up. I climbed the narrow stairs, flashlight in hand. The sound grew louder as I ascended, resolving into a hymn I didn't recognize. The words were foreign, guttural, yet strangely melodic. At the top of the stairs I stopped, the attic was dark, but I could make out the shapes of figures.

Dozens of them, standing in neat rows, their faces turned toward me. Their features were indistinct, as though carved from wax and left too close to the fire. They swayed as they sang, their movements unnatural. Stop, I commanded. And the singing ceased instantly. One by one, the figures turned and walked to. toward the far wall. As they moved, they dissolved into the darkness.

When the last one was gone, the attic light flickered on. I never went up there again. Years later, I saw him again, the black-eyed man. He stood at the edge of the graveyard as I conducted a burial. When the ceremony ended, he approached. His smile as unsettling as I remembered. It's open now. You've done well.

He said. I didn't respond. I couldn't. I thought that man would haunt my dreams for years, but his parting words faded into the chaos of perished life. The church had a way of demanding your attention, dragging you back to the tangible. The soup,

The kitchens, the leaking roofs, the dwindling collection plants. I wanted to believe he'd been a figment of my imagination, a product of sleepless nights and overwork. But something lingered. That feeling grew claws one winter afternoon when the little girl came to the confessional. It was a dreary day. The kind that took the warmth from your bones,

I decided to open the church early, lighting candles to stave off the gloom. The usual trickle of parishioners came and went, but she arrived alone. Her tiny frame silhouetted against the massive oak doors. She couldn't have been more than seven or eight, wearing a pale blue dress that seemed oddly thin for the weather. She walked down the aisle slowly,

her footsteps almost soundless, before slipping into the confessional. I followed. unsure whether she'd wandered in by accident. Bless me, father, for I have sinned, she began. She recited the opening lines with a precision that seemed rehearsed, her tone sweet and hesitant. What sins would you like to confess, my child?

There was a long silence. Then her voice returned. But it wasn't hers. You can't save the same. sinner's father. The words were gutteral, rasping like stones grinding together. They belong to me now.

Before I could respond, she began to speak again. This time she sounded like a child again. There was a sing-song cadence, a poem, or maybe a chant. Her voice echoed through the confessional. They come with their guilt. Their whispers, their lies, but their souls are mine when the body dies.

Their prayers fall flat, their tears turn cold, for faith won't save what I already hold. You stand at the altar, you preach and you pray, but every sinner you bless will wither away. My chains are forged. Their links are tight. and I'll drag them all screaming into the night. My hands grip the wooden sides of the seat, as if anchoring myself to reality. Who are you? I managed to choke out.

The girl laughed, a shrill, piercing sound that didn't belong to a child. It seemed to come from everywhere. Oh, you already know, father. she said. And then just like that, she was gone. I stumbled out of the confessional, my leg shaking. The girl was nowhere, and the church was empty. The only evidence she'd been there at all was the faint scent of sulfur.

A few weeks later, I was called to perform a blessing in a nearby home. The family had recently moved. moved in, and strange occurrences had begun almost immediately. Doors opening and closing on their own. A cold draft that never seemed to go away. And most disturbingly. The sound of a woman crying late at night. When I arrived, the house felt wrong.

The family, a young couple with an infant, looked haggard and sleep deprived. She comes every night. The wife explained, clutching the baby close. Always the same time. Midnight. We hear crying, but when we go look, there's nobody there. I performed the usual rites, sprinkling holy water in every corner of the room,

and reciting the prayers of exorcism. The sobbing began, just as I finished. It was faint at first, barely audible, but it grew louder with each passing second. It wasn't just crying, it was wailing, raw and guttural, the sound of someone in unimaginable pain. It came from upstairs. Against my better judgment, I followed the sound.

The master bedroom was empty, but the sobbing was deafening now. I turned to leave, and that's when I saw her. She stood in the corner of the room, facing the wall. Her figure was clad in a wedding gown, yellowed with age, its hem tattered and stained. Her veil obscured her face, but I could see strands of hair sticking out at odd angles, damp and clinging to the fabric. Leave, I commanded. holding up the crucifix. My voice was steady, but my hands were shaking. She turned slowly, her movements unnatural, as though she were being pulled by invisible strings. Her veil lifted

slightly, revealing a face that wasn't entirely human. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Instead, the walls of the room began to shake violence. like furniture toppled, and the air filled with the scent of rot and decay. I recited every prayer I knew, my voice growing louder as she came closer. Finally she stopped, her form flickering like a dying flame before vanishing entirely. The house was quiet after that, but the family moved out a week later, and I didn't blame them. Now the church bell hadn't rung in years. It was cracked.

Its mechanisms rusted beyond repair. Yet one night, long after I'd retired to bed, it began to toll. I sat up immediately, the sound jarring in the stillness. It wasn't the melodic chime I remembered from years ago. It was a harsh, uneven clanging, as though someone were striking it with brute force. Grabbing my coat, I hurried to the bell tower. The climb was grueling, the ancient staircase groaning under my weight. When I reached the top, the bell was swinging wild-like,

though there was no wind and no sign of anyone who could have set it in motion. And then I saw it. A figure hunched in the corner. Its head was bowed, and its hands gnarled and skeletal. clutched a length of frayed rope. The figure raised its head slowly, tilting it as though studying me, and then stood to its full height.

I stumbled backward, nearly losing my footing on the narrow platform. With a guttural inhuman sound, it reached for me. But before it could touch me, the bell let out one final ear-splitting toll. The figure dissolved into smoke, leaving behind only the frayed rope, which fell to the floor. As the years went on, the occurrences grew stranger and more frequent.

Each one felt like a test, a trial meant to wear me down. But nothing could have prepared me for what happened last summer. It was late in the evening, and I was locking up to church when I noticed a man standing. by the altar. He was facing away from me, his posture rigid. I'm sorry, we're closed. I called out. But he didn't move. I approached cautiously, and as I drew closer, I realized he wasn't standing. He was floating. His feet inches off the ground. His head snapped around to face me. It was the black-eyed man. You should have listened, he said.

His voice layered, as though a chorus of voices spoke through him. Listen to what? I demanded. To the girl, to the bride. To all of them. You think you can save them, but you can't. They belong to me. He said. I raised the crucifix.

But he laughed, a hollow, bone-chilling sound that made the walls tremble. It's too late, father. The door is open. And with that he vanished, leaving me alone in the silent church. But they always come back. I've never been one to seek out confrontation. My role, as I've understood it, was to guide and to protect. through faith, not through force. But after that man's warning, after hearing those words again, the door is open. I knew I couldn't sit idle anymore. Whatever was happening wasn't just

supernatural mischief or a test of faith. Something bigger was coming, and it wasn't going to stop until it consumed everything. I began preparing that very night. The rituals of exercise, had always been a last resort for me, but I couldn't avoid them anymore. I dug out the old text, the ones I'd studied in seminary but hoped I'd never need. I called the diocese for permission, and though they were hesitant, more concerned with scandal than salvation, they ultimately approved. What the black-eyed man had said about the door haunted me. I didn't know what door he meant or how it had been opened, but I was determined to close it. I poured over every scrap of lore I could find, seeking anything that might give me an edge. Weeks passed, each night filled

with restless study and uneasy silence. The church felt darker now, its walls pressing in on me. And then just as I feared, the final confrontation came to me. It was a stormy evening, lightning carving jagged scars across the sky. I was alone in the rectory when I heard the front doors of the church slam open. The sound echoed through the halls, followed by a low, guttural laugh. Grabbing my crucifix and the exorcism kit, I stepped into the nave. There at the center of the aisle stood the man. His form flickered, as though he were caught between this world and another.

But his grin was wider than ever. I told you, father, he said, spreading his arms wide. The door is open. I held my ground, clutching the crucifix tightly. I don't care what door you've opened. You're not staying. He laughed again. A sound that seemed to reverberate inside my skull.

Oh, I'm not staying. But he is. The air around him shimmered, distorting like heat waves. Then the shimmer expanded, splitting open, to reveal a gaping rift, a doorway. There was a foul wind, carrying with it the stench of decay, and a chorus of agonized screams. Something was coming through.

It emerged slowly, as though savoring its arrival. First came the claws. Then the head, grotesque and malformed, with a wide, lipless mouth that revealed jagged teeth. Its eyes were empty sockets, glowing faintly with a sickly green light. Its body followed, a hulking mass of sinew and bone. The demon let out a guttural roar that shook the very foundations of the church. The black-eyed man stepped aside, bowing mockingly.

All yours, father, he said, before vanishing into thin air. The demon turned its eyeless gaze toward May, and it spoke in a voice like grinding metal. Priest, you cannot stop what has begun. I took a step forward, raising the crucifix. This is the house of God. You will not defile it. It roared again. The sound deafening.

And it lunged. I barely had time to move, diving behind one of the pews as its claws tore the air where I'd been. The wood splintered under the strike, sending shards everywhere. I began the rite of exorcism, my voice trembling but determined. In the name of chival. Jesus Christ, I command you, depart from this place. The demon laughed, a hideous, choking sound. Your words are weak, priest.

Your faith is weak. It lashed out again, this time swiping at the altar. The sacred space erupted into flames, the fire consuming the cloth and candles in seconds. I felt panic rise in my chest, but I pushed it down. I couldn't let fear take hold. I continued the right, moving carefully to keep distance between myself and it. It was fast, unnaturally so, but clumsy in its movements, as though its form was too large for this world. I used that to my advantage, ducking behind pillars and weaving through the pews.

as it pursued me. At one point it cornered me, its massive form blocking my escape. It raised a clawed hand to strike, but I thrust the crucifix forward, pressing it against its flesh. The reaction was immediate. Smoke rose where the cross made contact, and the demon let out a pained, guttural howl. It recoiled, giving me enough time to scramble away. In the name of the name of of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, I shouted, my voice growing stronger with every word. I command you, leave this place. The demon's form began to flicker, its edges dissolving like ash caught in a breeze. But it wasn't done yet.

With a final desperate roar, it charged, its claws outstretched. But I'd prepared for this. In my studies, I'd learned of a binding ritual, a way to trap a demon within a consecrated space until it could be banished entirely. It was risky, requiring the demon to willingly enter the circle. But I had no other choice. I let it toward the altar, where I'd drawn the circle earlier that evening hidden beneath a rug.

As it closed in, I stepped into it. of the center, raising the crucifix high. Come then, I taunted. Come and face the light. The demon hesitated. Its eyeless sockets narrowing, as though sensing the trap. But its rage overpowered its caution,

and it lunged at me. The moment its claws crossed the boundary of the circle, the symbols flared to live, glowing with an intense golden light. The demon let out an ear-splitting scream, thrashing wildly as the circle's power held it in place. I began the final incantation, my voice rising above the demon's howls. By the power of Christ I bind you. By his blood, I condemn you.

Return to the pit from which you can. The light grew brighter then, surrounding the demon completely. Its form writhed, shrinking and collapsing in on itself, as if it was pulled back through the rift. With one final deafening roar, it vanished, and the rift closed with a thunderous crack. The silence that followed was deafening. The flames at that altar had extinguished themselves, leaving only scorched wood, and the faint smell of smoke. The church was in shambles, pews overturned, statue shattered.

But it was over. The demon was gone. I collapsed to my knees, clutching the crucifix tightly. For the first time in what felt like in eternity, I allowed myself to pray. Not out of desperation, but out of gratitude. In the weeks that followed, I repaired the church piece by piece with help from the congregation. Many of them had heard the commotion that night, but hadn't dared to enter. When they saw the damage, they asked questions, but I gave them only vague answers. The truth would have been too much.

The black-eyed man never returned after that. The rift didn't reopen. Whatever door had been unlocked was now firmly shut, sealed by faith and fire. For the first time in years, I felt the sense of peace. I knew it might not last, that evil has a way of finding cracks in even the strongest walls. But for now, the church still stood as a sanctuary, a place of light in the darkness.