Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I work at a Library with 5 STRANGE RULES. I should've followed them | Scary Stories

Episode Date: January 17, 2025

The rules exist for a reason... 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 at a Library with 5 STRANGE RULES. I should've followed them.        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 is Patrick Matheson. I'm 38 years old, single, and work is the head librarian, in a town so small you'd miss it if you blinked driving past. Pine Hollow, population 1432, give or take. I don't get out much. My days are steady, predictable. I open the library at 9 a.m., shelf books, help the occasional visitor find something obscure, and close up, by 6 p.m. Most nights, I make dinner, read a book, and fall asleep before 10 p.m. I live alone in a little house three blocks from the library. It's nothing fancy, two-bedroom bungalow with a leaky faucet in the kitchen and creaky floor boards that I keep meaning to fix.

My house smells like coffee, an old wood, probably because I drink too much of the former and forget to dust the ladder. The only company I have is really, Rupert, my cat. He's a surly fat tabby, with a knack for knocking over whatever I've left on the edge of the table. He is a handful, but I like the company. Now, people in Pine Hollow are friendly enough, but I wouldn't say I have any close friends. Maybe it's my fault. Not exactly a social butterfly. I prefer the quiet. The library feels like a sanctuary to me. There's something comforting about the smell of books and the muffled silence of the place. It's a space where nothing bad happens,

where time slows down, and the world doesn't feel so loud, though it's a normal place to work. There's something very strange about this library. I can't quite put my finger on it, but every now and then I'll see something move quickly in the back aisles where a book will fall from the top shelf and slam with a thud, nearly given me a heart attack.

Explainable things. Well, maybe. But sometimes I do wonder. Still, some days, I can't help but think like I'm stuck in a loop. Wake up, go to work, go home, repeat. If there's one thing I've learned about small town life, it's that routine is king. People don't like surprises here. And life just is.

Maybe that's why I like old books so much. They hold pieces of lives that were far more interesting than mine. Kings, explorers, murderers, lovers, all wrapped up in dusty pages. When I find something unique in the library's back room or at estate sales, it's like discovering a secret, you know? I'll spend hours thumbing through ancient text, trying to imagine what it must have been like to live in a different time, in a different place.

Now the backroom of the library is where we keep the books that don't make it to the shelves. Outdated in psychopaths, forgotten manuscripts, or donations nobody wants. It's my favorite place in the building. Rows of sagging shelves are crammed with volumes that haven't seen the light of day in decades. The air is thick with the smell of mildew and paper. Sometimes, when the library is empty, I'll sneak back there to dig around. hoping to find a hidden gem. Sometimes I'll find strange books,

dark books, then, that give me a chill. I remember the day Mr. Grayson, my boss, stopped by my desk. He was a wiry man in his 60s, with thick glasses and a voice like a rusty hinge. He wasn't one for small talk, which made it all the stranger when he dropped a folded piece of paper on my desk and cleared his throat.

Rules, he said, tapping the paper with a bony finger. If you're going to keep working here, you'd better follow these to the letter. And folded the paper. My brow furrowing as I read. The first four rules were peculiar, though mostly harmless. Rule number one. Always feed the goldfish before closing. Rule number two, if the lights go out, close your eyes until they come back. on. They always do. Rule number three, never touched the third book on the second shelf in the back room. Rule number four, don't let anyone check out a book without a barcode. But it was the fifth rule

that made my stomach twist, though I couldn't say why. Rule number five, always tell the truth. It might just save your life. I looked up, half expecting him to laugh and say it was a joke. But he just stared at me, his expression as unreadable as ever. Then he turned and walked away, leaving me alone with a note and a creeping sense of unease. It was on a cold December afternoon when I found it. It'd been snowing all morning, and the library was practically deserted. The only visitor I'd had was old Mrs. Hargrove, who returned three romances with dog-eared pages and a lecture about how kids these days don't appreciate good literature.

By noon, I decided to spend some time in the back room. I told myself I was organizing the shelves, but really I was just bored. That's when I saw the book. It was wedged between two crumbling atlases on a shelf I'd never bothered with before. The cover caught my attention right away. It was dark brown, almost black, and looked like leather. but not the kind you'd find on a fancy journal or a new wallet. This leather, it was uneven, rough, like it had been stretched over the cover by hand.

There was no title, just a small clasp keeping it shut. I don't know why, but touching it made my skin crawl. The leather felt warm, almost like it was alive. My first instinct was to put it back on the shelf and pretend I had. hadn't seen it, but curiosity got the better of me. I unclasped the book and opened it. The first thing I noticed was the handwriting. It wasn't printed like most books. Every word was written in a neat slanted script. The ink had faded to a rusty brown, and the pages felt brittle under my fingers. At the top of the first page, in bold letters were the words, the noughts

list. I couldn't help but chuckle. My first thought was that it was some kind of joke, you know, like a twisted, Christmas-themed diary. But as I flipped through the pages, my smile faded. The book was filled with names, hundreds, maybe thousands of them, written in the same elegant handwriting. Each name was crossed out with a sharp, heavy line of ink, except one. At the bottom of the last page, under all the crossed out names, was my name, Patrick Matheson. I stared at my name for a long time. My hands shook as I flipped back through the book, hoping I'd miss something.

An explanation, a note, I don't know anything. But there was nothing. Just pages and pages of crossed out names. Okay, Patrick, it's probably a prank. Someone's messing with you, I told myself. But who? Nobody ever went into the back room except me. And I had never seen the book before.

Besides, how would they know my name? My full name. Rupert let out a low yowl from the doorway, startling me so badly I nearly dropped the book. He stood there, staring at me. me with wide, unblinking eyes. His fur bristled, and he backed away as I tried to shoe him out. Fine, you little coward, I muttered, closing the book with a snap. I'll figure this out myself. I spent the rest of the day trying to shake off the unease. I locked the book in my desk drawer

and tried to focus on my work, but my mind kept wandering back to it. By the time I closed the library for the night, I was exhausted. Still, I couldn't resist taking the book home with me. I needed answers. That night, as I sat at my kitchen table with a cup of tea, I opened the book again. This time, I noticed something I hadn't before. The crossed out names seemed different. At first glance, they looked like random scribbles, but under the light, I could see faint impressions beneath the ink. Words. I fetched a pencil and gently rubbed it over one of the names. The hidden message revealed itself, like a ghost rising from the page. Found by the fire, 1842. Chills ran down my spine and I tried another. Taken from the shadows, 1927. I went through more names, each with

own cryptic phrase. Dragged screaming into the snow. 1899. Last scene under the tree. 1975. Every phrase was worse than the last. They painted a picture of something I couldn't understand, something terrible. And then there was my name.

I rubbed the pencil over the blank space beneath it. praying it wouldn't reveal anything. But the words appeared anyway, faint but unmistakable. Before midnight. I felt the blood drank from my face. Midnight. Tonight? Before I could process what that meant, I heard a sound.

At first, I thought it was the wind, but it grew louder, sharper. A scraping noise like claws on glass. It was coming from the living room window. A few minutes passed, and even after the sound at the window stopped, though I wasn't entirely sure it ever really had, my nerves were shot. Midnight loomed closer, and the phrase before midnight repeated in my head like a countdown.

I sat at my kitchen table with a book open and front of me. The weight of its dark leather cover pressing down on me. There had to be something I could do. I wasn't ready to believe that this was real. I mean, pox don't kill people. List don't kill people. This had to be some kind of sick joke, right? But as much as I wanted to convince myself, the crossed-out name said otherwise, I couldn't stop picturing the words I'd uncovered beneath each one. Each name was someone who'd been found, taken, or dragged by something, something that hadn't finished its work, something that was coming for me.

I flipped back through the book, my fingers trembling. Most of the names were unfamiliar, but halfway through, I noticed something strange. A single name among thousands of crossed out ones. was circled in faded red ink. Gerald H. Bonner. Unlike mine. This name wasn't at the bottom of the list. It was buried in the middle of the book,

surrounded by old names from the 1940s and 50s. My pulse quickened as I stared at it. Gerald H. Bonner. Why hadn't his name been crossed out like the others? grabbing my laptop. I typed the name into a search engine, half expecting nothing to come up. But to my surprise, it did. Now, there were only a few results, but the second one made my stomach twist. A monk shot. Gerald H. Bonner, a 76-year-old man who'd been arrested six months ago for assault. The article said he'd been released on bail and was living in a neighboring town.

Raven Hill, just 40 miles away. The implications hit me hard. He was alive. He was the only name besides mine that hadn't been crossed out. That meant he might know something about this list, about what it all meant. The drive to Raven Hill was tense. Snow lashed against my windshield, and the rocks were slick with eyes. I kept glancing at the clock on the dashboard. Every minute brought me closer to midnight. Every shadow on the roadside made my skin crawl. I kept telling myself that this was stupid, that Gerald H. Bonner wouldn't know anything about some cursed book.

But what choice did I have? My name was in that book, and if Gerald's wasn't crossed out yet, he might have a way to stop it, or at least buy me some time. I pulled up to a run-down apartment complex on the outskirts of Raven Hill. The building was three stories of cracked brick and rusted balconies with a flickering neon sign that read Ravenwood apartments.

It looked like the kind of place you'd avoid after dark, but I didn't have the luxury of waiting until morning. I checked the article again. Gerald lived in Unit 2B. The hallway smelled like Mill Diff. and something sour, paint peeled from the walls, and the carpet squished under my boots. When I reached his door, I hesitated. What was I even going to say?

Hey, hi there, you know, I found your name in a creepy book. You want to chat about it? Before I could lose my nerve. I knocked. The door creaked open almost immediately, and I was hit with a wave of stale beer and cigarette smoke. A man stood in the doorway, tall but hunched, with greasy gray hair and a face like crumpled leather. His eyes were bloodshot, his teeth yellowed. Who the hell are you?

He growled. Mr. Bonner? I asked. Trying to keep my voice steady. Uh, my name is Patrick Matheson. I need to talk to you. you about something important. Important.

You selling something. No, no, no, no. I, listen. This is going to sound crazy. I know, but your name is in this book I found. It's a list. A list of people who should mind their damn business. He snapped, starting to close the door.

Wait, I blurted, sticking my foot in a gap. This book, it's called The Naudy List. Your name's in it. And it's not crossed out. That stopped him. For a moment, his watery eyes flick to mine. And I saw something there. Recognition.

Fear. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by a scowl. You are drunk, crazy or both. He said, but his voice had lost its edge. He opened the door wider. All right, fine. You want to waste my time. Come on in. The apartment was even worse than I'd imagined. Empty beer cans littered every surface, and the air reeked of unwashed clothes and burnt food. Gerald slumped into a threadbare recliner and gestured for me to sit on a couch that looked like it hadn't been clean.

since the 1970s. I perched on the edge, clutching the book like a lifeline. So? Gerald said, lighting a cigarette with hands that shook slightly. What's this about a list? I opened the book and flipped to his name. This list, it's full of names, all crossed out except yours. And mine.

His eyes narrowed as he leaned. forward, studying the page. He didn't speak for a long time, but his lips twitched as if he were chewing on words he didn't want to say. Listen, kid, I don't know what you think you've got there, but you don't want to miss with that. Trust me. You recognize it then? I pressed. You know what it is. He hesitated, then nodded. Yeah, yeah, I've seen it before. A long time ago. What is it? What happens to people on the list? His laugh was bitter, humorless. What happens? They die. That's what happens. One way or another, they all get what's coming to him. You think it's a coincidence? I'm.

I'm the only name left. I've been dodging this thing for decades. It's like a damn curse. My heart pounded. How did you survive? Why hasn't it come for you? He gave me a sharp look. You don't think I tried to figure that out?

I've done everything. Burn the book, buried it. Gave it to some idiot to pass the curse along. But it don't matter. Nothing works. You're on the list? Well, you're screwed. End of story.

So there's no way to stop it? Nope. Best you can do is buy yourself some time. Or pass it on to someone else. Someone you don't care about. He gave me a cruel smile. Well, good luck, kid. Now, get the hell out.

I left Gerald's apartment, feeling worse than when I'd arrived. The man was vile, bitter, and mean in a way that went beyond words. I didn't know if I believed everything he'd told me, but one thing was clear, if he was on that list, he deserved to be. The snow was coming down harder now, blanketing the parking lot in white. I was halfway to my car when I heard it. A faint scratching sound coming from Gerald's apartment. I stopped turning back to look.

The sound grew louder, sharper, until it echoed through the cold air. It was coming from above, from the chimney. It was loud now, scraping, crunching, a deep rumble that didn't belong to anything human. I froze by my car, snowflakes sticking to my hair, my breath clouding the freezing air. My brain told me to leave, to get in the car and drive away, but my legs refused to move. I couldn't look away from Gerald's apartment. A deep thud reverberated through the night, making the window closest to the chimney.

rattle in its frame. Whatever was coming down was not small. The noise stopped suddenly, leaving behind an eerie silence that somehow felt worse. Then I saw it. The chimney exploded outward in a burst of soot and crumbling brick. A hulking figure emerged, crouched low in Gerald's dimly lit living room. My stomach dropped. The thing wasn't human.

It couldn't be. It was massive, at least seven feet tall, with long gnarled limbs covered in coarse black fur. Curved horns jutted from its skull, scraping the low ceiling as it unfolded its body with unnatural ease. I could see jagged teeth, and its glowing red eyes, scan the room like it was hunting.

Slung across its back was a filthy sack, the fabric bulging and writhing, as if something inside was still alive. I pressed myself flat against the hood of my car, my heart pounding so loud like I thought it might give me away. From where I crouched, I had a clear view through the apartment's window, but I prayed the thing wouldn't look out. Inside, Gerald stood frozen in his recliner. His face pale as ash.

His cigarette fell from his lips. The creature moved faster than I expected for something so large. It lunged across the rum, grabbing Gerald by the shirt front, before he could even stand. He screamed, thrashing against the creature's grasp, but it was no use. The thing's claws wrapped around. him like steel, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing. Gerald screams, dissolved into a choking wail as the creature leaned in close, its face inches from his. It opened its mouth, and the sound that emerged made my blood cold. It wasn't a roar or a growl,

but something worse, a guttural, otherworldly laughter that shook the war. walls. I could only watch, paralyzed, as the creature reached into its sack and pulled out a small ornate, wooden box. The box was oddly beautiful, carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift in the light. It set the box on the floor, opened the lid, and then began its work. Gerald flailed and screamed, clawing at the things are. arms as it began to fold him. That was the only way to describe it. The creature bent Gerald's body in ways that weren't natural, compacting him like a doll,

bones cracked, flesh compressed, and his screams turned into garbled, desperate shrieks. The thing didn't stop, didn't even hesitate. It shoved Gerald into the box piece by piece, folding and cramming until the man's entire body disappeared inside. The last thing I saw was his face. He was somehow still alive, twisted in terror, before the creature slammed the lid shut. It was over in seconds. The room fell silent. The creature stood there for a moment. It's hunched back to the window, holding the box in its massive hands. And then it turned, slowly, and its eyes locked onto mine.

I don't know how it saw me through the dark and the snow, but it did. The red glow of its eyes pierced the night. And for a horrifying moment, I felt like I was the only thing. it could see. And then it smiled. The grin spread across its grotesque face, revealing yellowed teeth. It wasn't a smile of kindness or warmth. It was the kind of smile you'd see on a predator that just cornered its prey. One clawed finger extended, pointing directly at me. My heart stopped. No, no, no, no. No. The creature's laughter echoed in my head as I scrambled into my car, fumbling with the keys. My hands were shaking so badly that it took three tries to get them into the ignition.

When the engine roared to life, I slammed the car into reverse, nearly skidding into a snowbank as I peeled out of the parking lot. My headlights sliced through the falling snow, but in my rearview mirror, I could still see the window of Gerald's apartment. The thing was standing there, watching me leave. It's glowing eyes burning like coals. I didn't stop driving until I was halfway back to Pine Hollow. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and my chest felt like it was going to explode. The radio was off, the heater on full blast, but I couldn't stop shivering. Every shadow on the road looked like it was about to come alive, every noise like the crunch of claws on snow.

What the hell had I just seen? Was it real? It had to be. No hallucination could have been that vivid, that visceral. And if it was real, what did that mean for me? I thought about what Gerald had said before. Best you can do is buy yourself some time. He'd known exactly what was coming for him.

He'd seen it before. And now so had I. The book. It all came back to the book. Gerald said he tried burning it, burying it, even passing it along to someone else. None of it had worked. But he'd survived decades without being taken.

How? He must have done something to keep it at bay, some way to stay one step ahead. The only clue I had, hat was the book itself. It was still on the passenger seat. I reached over, flipping it open with one hand as I sped down the snowy road. My name stared back at me from the bottom of the last page, stark and uncrossed, and underneath it, the words before midnight. I flipped back to the pages with the other names, scanning the phrases I'd uncovered before.

found by the fire, 1842, taken from the shadows, 1927, dragged screaming into the snow, 1899. None of it made sense. What connected these people? What had they done to deserve this? And then it hit me. It was so obvious. Gerald, he was a terrible person, a violent, cruel man, who didn't think twice about hurting others. Could that be it? Was the list some kind of twisted punishment for the wicked? If so, why was my name on it? I wasn't perfect, but I wasn't evil.

Was I? My thoughts spiraled as the miles ticked by. The snow was falling heavier now, obscuring the road ahead. I squinted through the windshield, my mind racing. Maybe the book wasn't just a list. Maybe it was a test. A loud thump jolted me from my thoughts.

I slammed on the brakes, the car skidding to a stop in the middle of the empty road. My breath caught in my throat as I looked around, but there was nothing. Just snow and darkness. And then from somewhere behind me, I heard it. Laughter, deep, guttural, and very close.

I sat in my car, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. The laughter was gone, swallowed by the night, but it still echoed in my head. I could feel the weight of the book on the seat next to me, as if it were alive, watching and waiting. Midnight was coming and with it, something I couldn't outrun. I knew what I had to do. The thought came suddenly. It wasn't an idea.

It was a memory. A dark, jagged fragment. I'd buried so deep that I almost didn't recognize it. Years ago, when I was in my early twenties, things weren't great. I was broke, struggling to make it. End's meat, barely getting by without jobs. It was a low point in my life, one I'd worked hard to forget. But now, the memory surfaced. It refused to stay hidden. It happened one winter night, much like this one, cold and silent. I was desperate, hungry and angry at the world.

And that's when I saw the house. Big, two stories. Warm light spilling out through the windows, it looked like the kind of place that wouldn't miss a few valuables. I don't even remember making the decision. One moment I was walking past, and the next I was inside, the door hadn't been locked. I told myself that was fate, that I wasn't really breaking in if the door was unlocked. But deep down, I knew it was wrong. I didn't take much. A watch from the mantelpiece, a few stars.

small trinkets that looked expensive. I wasn't greedy. I just needed enough to get through the week. But as I was leaving, an alarm went off. I panicked. I bolted, running out the back door and into the night. I didn't get far before I saw the flashing lights. Police cars pulled up to the house just as I ducked into an alleyway, my heart pounding like a drum. And that's when I saw him a guy maybe 18 or 19 walking down the street with headphones on. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. The police stopped him, asked him questions. He looked confused and scared.

I watched from the shadows as they handcuffed him and put him in the back of their car. I didn't do anything. I didn't say anything. Even now, I can't remember his name. The newspaper said he was a college student, studying engineering. He swore he didn't do it, but the evidence was against him. His fingerprints were on the front door.

He said it was from delivering a package a few days earlier. But it didn't matter. The cops needed someone to blame, and he was convenient. I told myself it wasn't my fault. I hadn't forced the cops to arrest him. I hadn't planted his fingerprints on the door. Maybe he'd committed some other crime, you know? But deep down, I knew the truth.

What I'd done was terrible. And now my name was in that book. I didn't even realize that started driving until I saw the city lights come into view. The streets were quiet, the snow muffling everything. I parked in front of the sheriff's station, my stomach churning. My breath fogged up the windshield as I sat there, staring at the building. The clock on my dashboard read 11.45 p.m., 15 minutes until midnight.

Maybe I could just outrun this thing, you know? Maybe I could pass the curse along to someone else. No. I grabbed the book, shoved it into my coat, and got out of the car. The cold hit me like a snap, but I barely felt it. My legs felt like lead as I climbed the steps to the station. The front door creaked as I pushed it open, the sound echoing through the empty lobby. Behind the counter sat Sheriff Carter, a middle-aged man with a thick mustache and a tired face. He looked up from his coffee and newspaper, his brow furrowing.

Hey, Patrick? What are you doing here this light? I took a deep breath. I need to talk to someone about something I did. His eyes narrowed. Well, what kind of something? It's complicated, I hesitated. Then blurted.

There was a break in years ago. a house on Willow Street. Someone was arrested for it, but it wasn't them. It was me. The room felt colder. Sheriff Carter leaned back in his chair. His expression unreadable. That's a hell of a confession to walk in with Patrick.

You realize you're accusing yourself of a felony, right? And I know. I don't care. I just need to say. said it right. The sheriff stared at me for a long moment, then sighed and picked up the phone. All right, well, stay right there. It didn't take long for them to bring him in. His name was Jason Daniels. I recognized him immediately, even after all these years. He was older now, His face hardened by time and bitterness.

He walked into the station with a wary expression. His shoulders hunched like he was bracing for a fight. When his eyes landed on mine, they narrowed. My throat dry. I spoke. I'm the one who broke into that house, the one on Willow Street. You... You were innocent.

The room went silent. Sheriff Carter leaned against the wall, watching with a frown. Jason's expression didn't change for a moment. And then he laughed. You kidding, right? After all these years, you just, you waltz in here and confess. Am I supposed to thank you? You ruined my life. I know, I said quietly. I'm sorry. Sorry. Do you have any idea what I went through?

What my family went through. The trial, the fines, the whispers every time I walk down the street. They kicked me out of school. Did you know that? I couldn't even get a job for years because of you. I know. I should have come forward back then, but I was scared and I was selfish. Jason stared at me. His hands balled into fist. For a moment, I thought he was going to hit me,

and I wouldn't have blamed him if he did. But instead, he turned away, shaking his head. Sheriff Carter cleared his throat. Well, Patrick, if you're serious about this, going to have to make a full statement. And Jason here has every ride to press charges. Jason didn't respond. He just stood there staring at the floor. His face darkened. Why are you telling me this now, huh?

You think this makes it better. You think saying sorry fixes what you did to me. I don't, I replied. I don't expect you to forgive me. Jason stared at me for a long moment, his eyes narrowing. What do you think that's going to do for me? What's done is done. He wasn't wrong.

And the truth of his words cut deep. Sheriff Carter cleared his throat, cutting through the tense silence. All right, Jason, why don't we step back for a second? Patrick's making a confession, and we're going to take this seriously. He got every right to be upset, but let me deal with the legal side of things, okay? Fair? Sheriff Carter grabbed the notebook in a pen, gesturing for me to follow him. Jason didn't say anything.

He just sat there, staring at me like he couldn't decide whether to yell at me through walk out. Finally, he pushed himself out of his chair and walked out the door. The station was quiet after Jason left. Sheriff Carter sat me down in one of the small interview rooms, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. He asked me to recount everything, the break-in, the stolen items, the false arrest. I told him everything I could remember.

It wasn't until the sheriff left the room to make some calls that I noticed it. Two glowing red orbs hovered just outside the frosted glass window. At first, I thought they might be distant cars, lights reflecting in the snow. But they didn't move. They just stayed there, unmoving, burning through the glass with a steady intensity. And then I realized what I was looking at. Cranpus. He was watching me. And then the red glow shifted, blinked, and he disappeared. It's been three months since that night.

The trial set to start next week. My lawyer, a wiry man named Tom Grayson, has already told me not to get my hopes up. The evidence is damning. My confession, the timeline, and the stolen items I turned over after finding them buried in the back of my closet. Yeah, I'll be honest with you, Patrick.

Tom said the other day. The jury's not going to like you. You let an innocent kid take the fall while you just went about your life. We can argue for leniency, but I'm not sure it's going to make all that big of a difference. He was right. Jason Daniels had already gone on record about the impact my crime had on his life. I'd read the statement, the humiliation, the anger, the opportunities lost.

I'd wrecked his future before he even had a chance to begin. And now all these years later, I couldn't know. undo that damage. Truth is, my chances don't look great. The prosecutor's gunning for a maximum sentence, and I can't say I don't deserve it. But even knowing all that, there's a strange sense of calm in me. For the first time in my life, I'm not running from what I did. But, yeah, life is a mess now, to be honest.

Librarian jobs gone. The town's gossip network lit up like firewerews. works the moment my arrest hit the papers. My neighbors avoid me. Even the barista at the local coffee shop struggles to meet my eye. Rupert, my cat, still knocks things off the counter, oblivious to the chaos around him. He's the only one who hasn't changed. Most days, I think about crampus, about why he spared me. I don't know what made him cross my name off that list. Maybe it was a confession. Maybe it was punishment I'd set in motion for myself, or maybe he just enjoys watching people squirm under the weight of their own guilt.

Either way, I saw him do it. Just before he disappeared into the shadows outside the sheriff's station that night, he pulled out the book. I'll never forget the way his claws moved over the page. swift and deliberate, as he crossed my name off the list. It wasn't mercy, not really. It was a warning. I think about that night every time I see the book. Yeah, I still have it. Somehow it ended up in my house again, resting neatly on my kitchen table,

like a bad dream that refuses to fade. I've tried to get rid of it, burning it. burying it, even throwing it in the river. But no matter what I do, it always finds its way back to me. And then there was the letter. It arrived a week after the confession. No return address, no stamp. Just an envelope slipped under my door.

Inside was a single sheet of paper with six words scrawled in blood-red ink. It was a poem called The Eternal List. It read. The naughty list is carved in fate. Its ink of shadows. Cold as haid. A single stay far away. At the very bottom of the letter, it said.

It wasn't signed, but it didn't need to be. I knew exactly who it was from. There's a lot I don't know about what happened that night. I don't know if Cranpus is some kind of demon, a twisted enforcer of justice, or something beyond human understanding. I don't know why he chooses the people he does, or how he decides who lives and who dies.

I don't even know if I'll ever truly be free of him. But here's the truth. the part I've wrestled with every night since that awful winter. I'm thankful for Krapas. I don't know if that makes me a bad person, but without him, I don't think I'd ever have faced what I did. I'd have kept lying to myself, hiding from my guilt, pretending I was better than I was.

My life's a lot different now, a lot of it worse, but at least for once I did the right thing. Crampus gave me a second chance. A terrible, terrifying chance, but a chance nonetheless. As I sit here writing this, the book is on the table next to me. The leather feels colder than it used to be. The pages heavier. The list is shorter now, but not gone.

It never will be. somewhere someone else is reading their name for the first time feeling the same dread i felt when i saw mine i don't know if crampus will ever come back for me maybe he will maybe i'll slip up lose my way again and find myself back on the naughty list but until then i'm going to try to do good that's all i can do Thank you.