Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I work at a HAUNTED Hotel. We have Three STRANGE Rules | Scary Stories

Episode Date: February 25, 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 at a HAUNTED Hotel. We have Three STRANGE Rules.      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!

My name is Jesse, and I manage a small resort off the coast of nowhere. That's not just a saying. There's no major city for miles, and you won't find this place on a tourist map. It's tucked away, surrounded by cliffs and forest, with the ocean stretching endlessly beyond. You'd think running a place like this would be lonely, but I've never felt that way. This resort has been my life for as long as I can remember. I grew up here. My granddad, Elias, owned the resort before me. He came from the old country, somewhere with thick woods and even thicker accents, where superstition wasn't just a belief. It was part of life. I never knew my parents. Granddad said they left when I was a baby.

Then there was that. He raised me in this creaky old building with its drafty hallways and the constant sound of waves crashing against the rocks below. Elias wasn't what you'd call warm. He was stern, a man in few words, but everything he said had weight. He ran the resort with an iron will, and the guests loved him for it. He had this way of making people feel safe,

like nothing could touch them here, as long as they followed his rules. I think that's why people kept coming back. Well, that in the stories. There are always stories about places like this. Rumors, legends, things that make your hair stand on end. People talk about guests leaving here and having their lives change overnight. Some get lucky.

Promotions at work, a sudden windfall, meeting their soulmates. Others, not so much. They vanish for days, turn up dazed and cased. infused, or leave and have something awful happened to him. It's all part of the mystique. When I was a kid, I believed every ward of it. How could I nod? Granddad would sit me down by the fireplace and tell me about guests who broke the rules

and paid the price. His voice was low and steady, like he was sharing a secret. The world wasn't supposed to know. He always ended with the same line, This land is our, Jesse. We just borrow it. At first, I didn't understand what he meant. But as I got older, I saw things, strange things,

and I learned to respect this place the way he did. After Elias passed, the resort became mine. It was overwhelming at first, balancing the books, managing the staff, making sure the guests were, happy. But the hardest part wasn't the work. It was stepping into Elias's shoes. He had this presence, this authority that made people listen. I didn't have that. I'm quieter, more reserved. But over time, I found my own way of running things. I figured out how to keep the resorts, unique character alive, while making sure people stayed safe. The stories about the resort still bring

people in. Some are skeptics, here for a laugh or a thrill. Others come because they're desperate for a change, hoping the legends are true. I don't promise them anything. I just run the place, hand out the brochures, and make sure they all get the rules. The rules are simple. Respect the land, don't take anything that isn't yours, and stay out of places marked as off limits. Most people laugh when they read him. But I've got stories to back every single one. That brings me to last spring. Group of college kids came in, loud and rowdy, fresh off a long drive and ready to let loose. There were five of them, three guys and two girls, and they didn't even try to hide the fact that they thought this place was a joke. One of the guys, the ringleader, strutted up to the counter

with a grin that screamed trouble. Hey, is this the famous haunted resort? He asked, leaning on my desk. It's not haunted, I replied. But it is old. Hey, hey, look, man, we're here for the full experience. Ghost, curses, whatever. Bring it on. I handed him the brochure. Well, the rules are on the last page. Make sure you read all of them. He glanced at it and smirked. Rules, huh? What happens if we break him? Ghost's going to get us?

I didn't smile back. You'll regret it. That got his attention, if only for a moment. He gave me a look like he wasn't sure if I was joking, then shoved the brochure in his pocket and turned back to his friends. They were already heading out the door, laughing and shouting like they own the place. I watched him leave,

feeling that familiar knot of uneaseless. in my stomach. But I'd done my part. Now it was up to them. The rules aren't hard to follow by any means. They're simple, clear, and laid out in black and white on the last page of the brochure. But people like them never take them seriously. I can't force anyone to listen, and I've learned not to waste my breath trying to convince them. Instead, I keep my warning short, and I let the land to handle the rest. The first rule is the most important. Don't damage the trees with red tape on them. Don't cut them down. Do not break any branches. And don't even step on the shrubs growing around them. The red tape is there for a reason, and it's not just there for show. Those trees are older than the

resort itself. Maybe older than anything on this land. My granddad always said they were were sacred, though that word never felt quite right. Sacred things. They're supposed to bring peace, aren't they? These trees, they demand respect. When I was a kid, I believed everything my granddad told me about those trees. He had a way of talking about them, like they were alive. Alive in a way, we never understand. He used to say the biggest trees, the ones with trunk so wide, it would take five men linking arms to encircle them, were homes to giants. Not just any giants, though.

Giants with red hands. The kind of hands you'd see on a man who worked with his bare skin in the sun too long. Granddad said they lived in the trees. High up were branches twisted into the sky like old fingers. He said you could smell their cigars if he stood too close. That smell is one of my earliest memories of the resort. It's not constant. Just every now and then, a whiff of ash and smoke faint enough that you might think it's your imagination.

But when I smelled it as a kid, I'd always glance at the nearest red-taped tree and give it a wide berth. Granddad taught me that, too. You don't mess with the trees, and you don't mess with what lives in the trees. and you don't mess with what lives in them. He had a story for everything. But the giants came up the most. If you wanted to cut one of those trees down, you had to ask permission first.

And you couldn't just ask. You had to say it out loud, clear as day, so they'd hear you. If you wanted to rest under one of their trees, you did the same thing. You asked first. And when you got up to leave, you said thank you. Always. It wasn't about superstition, he told me. It was about acknowledging

that the land isn't yours. You're just borrowing it, passing through. The moment you forget that, you're asking for trouble. Over the years, I have seen what happens to people who forget. Maybe the giants don't exist. Maybe they're just stories. But whatever's tied to those trees has its own way of enforcing the rules. One summer, a couple came to stay at the resort. They were quiet, polite, didn't cause any trouble, at least not at first. The man, Greg, was one of the outdoors he types, spent most of his days hiking the trails around the property

while his wife relaxed by the pool. One afternoon, I saw him come back with a bundle of branches under his arm. He'd broken him off a tree with red tape, said he wanted to use him to carve something. I told him, as calmly as I could, that he'd made a mistake. I explained the rule, even shared a few of Granddad's stories, hoping to scare him into returning the branches and apologizing. He laughed it off, said he didn't believe in fairy tales, and he refused to put them back. The next day, he went for a swim in the ocean. The water wasn't rough, but somehow he got caught in a riptide and nearly drowned.

By the time we pulled him out, he was gasping for air, his face pale as a sheet. He was lucky to survive, but he left the resort that same evening, didn't even check out properly, just packed up and drove off. His wife told me later that he spent the drive home muttering about something he saw. Another time, a group of hikers came through. One of them, a guy named Danny, had a habit of pushing boundaries. He saw the red tape as a challenge, something to test his limits against. On his last day, he decided to climb one of the taped-off trees.

He made it halfway up before a branch snapped under him. The fall broke his arm in three places, and he had to be airlifted out. I don't know what scared him more, the pain, or the look he gave me when I came to check on him. It was like he knew he'd done something wrong, and like he was waiting for something worse to happen. These aren't the kind of stories I share with guests when they check in. Most people wouldn't believe him anyway. But I've seen enough to know better. I don't care if the giants are real or not.

What matters is the pattern. The way things always go wrong for people who break the rules, and it always starts with the trees. Even now, as I walk the property and check on things, I keep an eye out for the red tape. It's frayed in places, faded in others. But it's still there, marking the boundaries of something I don't fully understand. When I catch the faint smell of ash on the breeze, I nod toward the nearest

tree, and I keep moving. Now there's one rule that isn't on the brochure. It's not for the guest. It's just for me. It's something my granddad did every day without fail, and now it's become a habit of mine, too. I don't know if it really matters, but it feels like the right thing to do. Maybe it's just a ritual, or maybe it's something more. Either way, I do it every morning. Out behind my apartment, which is separate from the main resort property, there's a tree. It's not marked with red tape, but it feels just as important as any of the trees on the resort grounds. It's tall and old, with thick branches that stretch out wide like arms.

At the base of the tree is my god. granddad's grave. He's buried there, just a simple marker with his name and the dates of his life. I've never thought about moving it to a proper cemetery. Every morning, I start my day by walking out to that tree. Doesn't matter if it's raining, snowing, or sunny, I always make the trip. I bring two things with me, a red mug filled with coffee and a small bowl of sugar. The mug has to be red. The mug has to be that's part of the rule. I don't know why, but Granddad always used a red mug. I'm not about to change it now.

The sugar goes into a little white bowl, plain and unassuming. I set the mug and the bowl down at the base of the tree, just next to Granddad's marker. Then I sit cross-legged on the ground, and I take a few minutes to think. Sometimes I pray, though I'm not particularly religious. Mostly I just let my mind wander. It's quiet out there, away from the resort, and the only sounds are the birds and the wind rustling through the branches. The coffee and sugar are an offering.

According to my granddad, this land isn't just home to people and trees. There are other things here, too. dwarves, goblins, trolls. He told me stories about them when I was little, sitting by the fire

with a cup of tea in his hands. He said they weren't bad, just mischievous. They like to play tricks, move things around, make you think you are losing your mind. But if he treated them well, if you showed them respect,

they could be your greatest allies. They bring good. Good luck, he'd say. If you're lucky enough to befriend one, you will never want for anything. The coffee and sugar are my way of keeping on their good side. Granddad said they liked sweet things and strong flavors, so he'd leave out the same offering every morning. He swore it worked, that they protected the resort, kept it running smoothly, and even

help bring in gas. I'm not sure if I believe any of that, but I can't deny one strange fact. Every morning without fail, the red mug is empty, and the sugar is gone from the bowl. There's never a trace left behind. No coffee spilled on the ground, no sugar scattered in the dirt, just an empty mug and a clean bowl. The first few times I noticed it, I thought maybe it was animals, raccoons, squirrels, something like that. But I've never seen so much as a paw print near the tree. It's always clean, like someone or something takes care to leave no evidence behind. I refill the mug and bowl every morning without fail.

That's part of my routine now, as natural as brushing my teeth or making breakfast. After placing the offerings at the base of the tree, I take a seat on the ground and pull out my pocket knife, a gift from granddad when I was ten. The wooden handle is worn smooth, familiar in my hand. I use it to carve small shapes from scraps of wood, a bird, you know, a flower, or just simple patterns. The steady movement of the blade calms me. helps me think. Running a resort, it's not easy. And I need those moments of peace to keep me grounded. Whether the ritual brings me luck or not, I can't say. I've never had any huge windfalls or miraculous changes in my life. But I've also never gotten sick. Not once. Not even a common cold.

I have never broken a bone or had to spend a night in the hospital. Maybe I just have a strong immune system. Or maybe. There's something to Granddad's stories after all. One thing I've never done is ask for answers. Granddad said the dwarves and goblins hear everything, every word spoken near their trees. If you have a question, you can ask it along with your offering.

If they like you, they might give you an answer. He said the trick is to keep your question simple and simple. clear, they don't like riddles or games, even if they enjoy playing tricks. I've thought about it sometimes. There are plenty of things I'd like answers to. Why my parents laughed, whether I'm doing a good enough job running the resort. If the stories about the land are really true, but I've never felt the true need to ask. Maybe it's because I'm happy with my lot in life. Or maybe it's because I don't want to break the balance. The offering feels like a thank you, a sign of respect.

Asking for things in return, it feels wrong like I'd be pushing my luck. So, I stick to the routine. Coffee in a red mug, sugar in a bowl, a few quiet minutes under the tree. It's a small thing, but it feels like a connection to Grandad. to the land, to whatever it is that keeps this place running. And if the mug keeps coming back empty and the sugar keeps disappearing, well, who am I to question it? This morning was no different.

I poured the coffee, scooped the sugar, and carried them out to the tree. The air was cool, and the ground was damp from last night's rain. I set the offerings down, sat by the tree. and let my thoughts drift. The resort's busy this week, with the college kids and a few families here for spring brig. I've got a lot to do, paperwork, maintenance checks, making sure the kitchen staff is ready for dinner service.

But for now, I just sit and listen to the world wake up around me. When I'm done, I stand, stretch, and I pick up the empty mug and bowl from the day before. They're always waiting for me, exactly where I left them, clean and ready for the next offering. As I head back to the apartment to get ready for the day, I glance over my shoulder at the tree. Thanks, I say softly, more out of habit than anything else. I don't expect a response. I never do.

The next rule, it's different. It's not one I can fully explain. and, to be honest, it's one I don't think I'll ever completely understand. But it's simple enough. Always say hi to the lady in the red coat. She's a part of this place, as much as the trees or the cliffs or the sound of the ocean at night. Nobody knows her name or where she comes from. She's just there sometimes.

She's in the elevator that leads to the basement car park. The car park itself, it's huge, way bigger than a resort this size needs. It stretches out beneath the property like a labyrinth with flickering lights and far too many corners. It's not a place people like to spend much time and I can't blame them. The lady in the red coat doesn't show up every day. She's not a regular occurrence. She'll be standing in the elevator when you get in, or she'll step. Step in as it's on its way down.

She always wears the same thing. A bright red coat that reaches just below her knees, her bare feet damp, leaving faint wet footprints on the elevator floor. And she always knows your name. That's the part that throws people off the most. Most people freeze up when it happens. But the rule is clear. You're supposed to say hello back.

Be polite. Say good evening or good afternoon or whatever fits the time of day. Then, when the elevator doors open, go find your car and leave. Don't ask her who she is. Don't act like her knowing your name is strange. And whatever you do, don't be rude. Most guests follow the rule. The ones who don't?

Well, that's where things get tricky. If you ignore her, refuse to respond or get upset, the car park becomes different. The exit disappears. The elevator doors vanish too. You're stuck, wandering through endless rows of parked cars, searching for a way out that isn't there. It's always the same story. Someone comes back to the lobby, looking pale and exhausted, claiming they've been, been in the car park for days. Their clothes are often disheveled, and they're holding their shoes

like they've been running. They always start with the same question. Why didn't you tell me about the car park? I tell everyone. It's in the brochure plain as day. The rules are on the last page, and I make sure to mention them when people check in. But the type of person who ignores the lady in the red coat, is the type of person who doesn't take rules seriously. The thing is, there's a way out if you get stuck down there. It's weird, but it works. If you turn your clothes inside out, shirt, pants, jacket, whatever you're wearing, and then walk around the nearest bend in the car park, the exit should reappear. So should the elevator doors. I don't know why it works. It just does. It's not fun seeing guests come out of the elevators after an experience like that.

They're usually panicked, sweating, and asking a hundred questions at once. Some of them swear they were in the car park for days, even though only a few minutes have passed up here. Others won't talk about what they saw down there. They just grab their keys and they drive away as fast as they can, sometimes cutting their stay short. I can't say for sure who or what the lady in the red coat is. She's not a guest, that much is obvious. And no one on staff has ever seen her outside the elevator. She doesn't show up on the security cameras either.

It's like she only exists in that space, traveling up and down between the lobby and the car park. There is a story, though. A legend about a woman in red who drowned in the part of the ocean that this resort was built over. It's an old story, passed down through the locals who lived here before the resort was built. They say she was a fisher woman, working alone on a small boat. One day, a storm came out of nowhere, capsizing her boat and dragging her under. Her body was never found, but her red coat washed ashore, torn and waterlogged,

and some say she's still searching for her boat. I don't know if the two were connected, the lady in the elevator, and the legend of the woman in red. Could be a coincidence. But this is the kind of place where coincidences don't feel accidental. Granddad always said, there's a story behind everything here. Even if we don't know what it is. The last time I saw someone break the rule, it was a businessman in a hurry. Nice enough guy, but he was always Russian, always on the phone, always treating the staff like they were in his way.

When I gave him the brochure, I could tell he barely glanced at it. That evening, as I was finishing up some paperwork in the lobby, he stormed back in through the front doors, his tie was loosened, his shirt untucked, and he looked furious. What the hell kind of place you run in here? He demanded. I asked him what happened. And he told me he'd been stuck in the car park for a week. He claimed the elevator doors disappeared, and every time he found he found,

thought he found the exit. It was just another dead end. He said his phone wouldn't work, and he'd finally resorted to turning his clothes inside out, like the back of the brochure said. Took him long enough. I asked him if he'd seen the lady in the red coat. His face went pale, and he nodded. She, she said my name. I didn't even tell her my name. Did you see? Say hi back? He didn't answer. And that was enough for me. I reminded him to follow the rules.

He didn't respond to that either. And he left the next morning without saying goodbye. Things rarely get violent around here. Unsettling, strange, eerie. Yeah, sure. That's normal for this place. But violence? That's something else entirely.

And yet when it happens, it always comes back to one rule, probably the most important rule of all of them. Never take anything that doesn't belong to you. This land isn't ours. Never has been. We borrow it. And everything on it, the sand, the shells, the rocks, even the branches. It belongs to something older. If you take something, you have to give something back.

That's the way it's always been. And when people forget, bad things happen. I was in the office going over some invoices, when the lobby doors slammed open. The sound made me jump, and I looked up to see the spring breakers from earlier. Only this time, they weren't laughing or joking. They were panicking. Their faces pale, their clothes soaked with seawater and smeared with salient. sand. He's missing a finger, one of them said. I kept my voice steady. All right, what happened?

They all started talking at once, pointing to their friend, to the beach, to the blood on his hand. I raised a hand to silence him, and then I looked at the leader. He was pale, sweating, and holding his hand tight to his chest. The stump of his finger wrapped in a torn piece of his of cloth. What happened? I repeated. He bit me, he stammered. Something in the water. He grabbed me. It bit my finger off. I didn't need to ask what he meant by it. I've heard this story before. I've seen this kind of panic before. Coral Cove is home to what my granddad called mur people, but not the kind of seeing movies. They aren't beautiful, and they don't sit on rocks singing love songs. If

anything, they're the opposite. Their voices, though. Their voices are something else. Sweet and haunting. They can call you in without you even realizing it. But they are violent, territorial, and jealous, with little patience for humans who don't respect their space. Granddad said they've been here longer than anyone can remember. Living in the water and using the caves at low tide is their homes. They don't like trespassers, and they especially don't like thieves. They don't care that you're human. They don't care that you don't know the rules.

To them, taking from their home, it's the ultimate. insult, and they respond in kind. I've seen enough over the years to believe it. People who mess with Coral Cove always pay a price, whether they realize it or not. Sometimes it's small, a lost wallet, or a broken phone. Other times it's worse. Much worse. What did you take?

I asked. He froze. His eyes wide and darted. around the room as if looking for an escape. His friends looked at each other, confused and scared. I, I didn't. He started, but I cut him off. What did you take? One of the girls, his girlfriend maybe spoke up. He, he found a shell. She began. A big shell in one of the caves at Coral Cove. He said he was taking it for me. I nodded slowly, my jaw tightening. Coral Cove, of course. It's a beautiful spot down by the beach, dotted with limestone caves that open up during low tide, like I said.

But it's also one of the most dangerous places to disrespect the rules. All right, where's the shell now? I asked. The girl hesitated, then reached into her bag and pulled it out. It was a beautiful shell, pink and white, with swirling ridges that glinted in the light. It would have made a perfect souvenir if it didn't come with a price. Give it to me, I said. She placed it in my palm, her fingers trembling. I turned to one of the staff members who'd come running at the sound of the commotion. Call 911, I told him. Get these kids some help. The staff member nodded and ushered the group toward the lounge, where they could wait for the ambulance. The leader was still clutching his hand, his face twisted in pain, but his

friend supported him as they walked. I stood there for a moment, the shell heavy in my hand. My granddad's words echoed in my mind. When the creatures get violent, they're upset, Very upset, and they're prone to hurting more people if you don't make it right. I had to restore the balance. I grabbed a sign from the storage closet that red beach closed and headed down to Coral Cove. The air was still, the waves lapping gently at the shore. It was low tide and the limestone caves yawned open like mouths waiting to speak. I walked to the largest cave, the one I knew the spring breakers must have explored.

The sand was cool under my feet as I approached the entrance. Standing at the mouth of the cave, I knelt on the sand. Like I said, I'm not especially religious, but in moments like this, it feels right to direct my face somewhere. I made the sign of the cross just as Granddad used to. and I bowed my head. I'm sorry, I said. My voice low but firm.

This land doesn't belong to us. It's yours. We're just borrowing it. I'm here to return what was taken. I placed the shell on the sand in front of me, its smooth surface gleaming in the dim light of the cave. The air felt heavy, like the space was holding its breath.

Please, I continued. Spare the boy. Humans, they don't know any better these days. They've forgotten the old ways. I'm sorry for what happened. And I'm asking for your forgiveness. The water inside the cave began to ripple, small waves lapping at the edges,

The ripples grew stronger, spreading outward until the water turned a deep, unsettling red. I held my breath, watching as the color deepened and spread, staining the sand at the edge of the cave. Then, just as quickly as it started, the water stilled, the red faded, the ripple smoothed out, and the cave was quiet once more. But I knew better than to think it was over. The ritual wasn't complete. Returning the shell might have calmed things for the moment, but it wasn't enough to truly appease the creatures.

Granddad's teachings were clear. When the Murm people were upset enough to lash out, it took more than a simple apology to restore balance. I left the shell in the cave. and I walked back to the resort. On the way, I grabbed a sign from storage and headed back to the beach to close it off. I hammered the sign into the sand

where the path met the shore. Beach closed, no entry. For the next three days, I kept everyone off the beach. I didn't explain why, and most people didn't ask. The spring breakers were too shaken to press the issue. Another guest respected the sign.

They gave me the time I needed to make things right. Granddad had told me the way to appease the Mur people when they were truly angered. It wasn't just about returning what was taken. That was only the first step. To fully restore the balance, I needed to offer three things. Something sweet, something old, and something personal. Only then would the violence stop. The first day, I brought a bowl of honey to the cave.

I poured it under the sand at the water's edge, watching as the golden liquid glistened in the light. It felt strange, leaving such a simple thing as an offering. But Granddad had always said they loved sweetness. The honey soaked into the sand, and the water remained still. The second day, I went into the storage room of the resort, and I found an old silver bracelet that had belonged to my grandmother. It was tarnished and worn, but it was beautiful in its way, with a delicate floral pattern etched along the band. I didn't want to part with it,

but granddad's instructions were clear. Something old meant something meaningful. I placed it in the same spot as the honey, watching as the waves, lapped at the edges of the cave. The final day was the hardest. Something personal. I thought about what that could mean, what I could give that truly mattered. In the end,

I decided on the pocket knife my granddad had given me when I was ten. Wasn't anything fancy. Just a small blade with a wooden handle that'd been smoothed down by years of use. But it meant everything to me. I'd carried it with me every day since he passed, and it was the only thing I felt truly connected me to him.

I knelt in the sand, holding the knife tightly, before placing it at the water's edge. I bowed my head and spoke softly, apologizing again for the disrespect and asking for forgiveness. Then I stepped back and waited. The water rippled faintly, the waves carrying the knife further into the cave, until it disappeared. The cave was silent once more, and I felt a weight lift from it. I didn't know if the offerings had worked, but the beach felt calm. I turned and walked back to the resort, leaving the cave and its secrets behind. Life at the resort went back to normal soon enough.

The beach reopened after three days. The water as calm and clear as it ever was. No more incidents occurred, and the spring breakers checked out quietly once their leader was patched up. I covered their hospital bills. Wasn't their fault they didn't know better, at least not entirely.

I still wished they'd taken the rules seriously from the start, but wishing to zes. change anything. The resort always has its ups and downs, but after what happened, I started taking my job even more seriously. I'd always been responsible enough. Granddad raised me to be. But now I treated the role with more care. I didn't just enforce the rules. I made sure I understood why they mattered. There's a balance to this place. Something delicate but deeply rooted, and I know it's my job to protect it. The rituals became a bigger part of my life, not just something I did out of habit, but something I valued. Every morning I went to the tree behind my apartment,

set the coffee and sugar down, and carved my little shapes. Some mornings I prayed. Other mornings, I just let the silence settle around me. It wasn't about whether the rituals brought luck or protection, though part of me still believes they do. It was about the connection they gave me to this land, to granddad, and to the responsibilities he passed down to me. There's a strange kind of pride in it. This place is mine now, but I know it's not mine alone. The land has been here long before me and will be here long after I'm gone. I'm just borrowing it, just passing through like everyone else. But while I'm here, I'll take care of it. I'll respect it. Of course, things continue as they always do. The sugar's gone every morning and a coffee cup is always empty. Guests come and go,

and some of them listen to the rules while others brush them off. I do what I can to warn them, to make them understand. But not everyone takes the hint. And when someone ignores the rules, there are always consequences.