Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Work at a Restaurant For MONSTERS. We have STRANGE Rules

Episode Date: October 8, 2025

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Name's Charlie. I'm 25. Been on the road since I was 20. Bouncing from town to town with everything I own packed into an old army duffle on the backseat of a 94 corolla. It's the kind of car that makes a weird noise if you push it anywhere near 60. College didn't work out. I gave it a shot. I really did. Lasted a year and a half before the whole thing fell apart. Didn't fail out exactly. Just stop going. I remember sitting in a lecture hall, listening to some guy talk about classic literature or whatever, and thinking, yeah, this ain't for me. Never had a head for books, I can read, sure, but it's slow going, like pushing mud uphill. Half the time I'd get through a chapter and realize I did not remember a single thing. That's the hard truth of it. But I can work. Always could. You give me a grill, a friar, a mop.

Whatever, I'll do it. No compliance. I show up on time. I stay late. I don't mess around. That's worth something. Even if it doesn't come with a fancy title or a name tag with manager on it. I don't need that.

I just need the check. Ain't for me anyway. It's for my little brother, Sam. Kid's 16 now. Smart as hell. The kind of smart that makes you proud. Talks about science stuff, math. theories, plans for college. And I try to keep up, but mostly I just nod and say, that's real good,

Sam. He's polite about it, pretends I'm following along. But he knows. He's always known he got the brains and the family. And that's fine. That's more than fine. My job's just to keep the lights on back home and send him what I can. Moms not around anymore. Dad works nights at the plant, but his body's given out faster than the paycheck. So I pick up the slack where I can. A few hundred bucks here, a couple gas cards there. A new calculator when Sam broke his again from carrying it everywhere. That sort of thing.

He tells me not to worry about him, says I should save some for myself. But I never listen. I don't need much. I have lived out of cars, tents, moldy basements, busted trailers. I can make do with a couch and a clean bathroom. Give me a cup of Joe and a hot meal and I will call it a good night. This current gig. It's some run-down diner at the edge of town.

Names Grady's Chicken Stop. Neon sign barely works. Only flickers the word stop half the time. It's a 24-hour joint, but the only real traffic comes in after 10. And even then, not much. just call it the local KFC. You're the new hire, right? Yeah, I can tell just by the way you're standing there and stuffed in your pockets. Eyes trying not to look too long at the stains on the ceiling. So why'd you take the job? Place looks like it should have been bulldozed 20 years ago,

am I right? I'll guess, I'll guess. Life has kicked you around a bit, hasn't it? Chewed you up, spit you out, and now you're here. Standing behind a cracked formica counter in the middle of nowhere. Well, don't worry too much about it. God has a way of figuring things out for people like us. We just do our best not to go nuts in the meantime. Either way, you're here now. And I guess that makes me your official tour guide in this place.

Welcome to Grady's. Or Grady's KFC. Or whatever name corporates pretending we go by this month. Place is old. Older than it looks. Even with the new paint job and the fancy LED menu up front. Back in the 50s, I think it was a McDonald's? I think.

And then somebody bought it and slapped a KFC sign on the roof. Then it burned down. Now was in a 62, I think. They rebuilt it. Kept the same bones, though. Same weird land. Friars in the wrong place. corner. Cooler door sticks if it's humid and the door to the basement is in the men's bathroom.

In 78, there was some kind of accident. Nobody around here talks about it, but I heard it involved a kid. Tragedy, they called it in the paper. One of those words that means everything and nothing at the same time. Later on in 99, somebody went missing. One of the workers from what I heard. just didn't show up to clock out one night his jacket was stole in the back room and his name badge was sitting on top of the register you'll hear stories locals like to talk once they trust you most of them don't come in after midnight though and that says something doesn't it anyway well now it's back to being a kFC kind of we still got the buckets still wear the colonel on our shirts but i'd be lined if I told you we followed anything close to regulation. Health inspector only shows up when someone complains. Before you start, okay, there's something you need to know. There's a list of strange rules. So listen close. The list is taped inside the mop closet door. Yellow papers, corners curling up, thick black marker that's been fading for years. The first one's the one that

matters most. Rule number one. Start your shift right. That's the title, written across the top in big block letters. Can't miss it. You start with the sign. Turn it from open to closed. Doesn't take long, but it has to be done. You've got a few quiet minutes between the last of the regular folk walking out and the first of the other showing up. That window is very small and you do not want to miss it. This sign isn't for the monsters. It's for the unlucky people who might try to come inside at the wrong time. Turning it tells them to stay away, and it tells the regulars that the place is ready. And by regulars, I mean the monsters. Yeah, you heard me right. Vampires, sirens, werewolves, boogie-mans, and anything else that goes bump to

in the night. Once the sign is turned, move to the counter. Get rid of the garlic sauce. You can throw it out or stash it in the walk in. Doesn't matter how you do it, just make sure it is not sitting anywhere out in the open. Trolls and vampires, they cannot stand the stuff. The smell is bad enough for them. But what really sets them off is the burn. Garlic hits them like battery acid. You leave it out by a mistake, and things start going sideways, fast. There was a new guy last year, forgot a tub on the prep counter. Wasn't even open, just sitting there with a lid on. Well, Troll came in, caught the scent, and lost it.

Knocked over two booths, shattered the soda machine, and tried to throw a trash can through the drive-thru window. All of it over a sealed tub of side. sauce. Once the garlic is handled, grab the ketchup and mustard. Set them out front. And then you deal with the pretzels. Look under the counter, and there's a little woven basket and a seal the bag of salted pretzels inside. Wash your hands if they're messy. Open the bag, pour the pretzels in, and place the basket right in the middle of the counter. Those are for the goblins. They show up early sometimes. Before

or you're even finished with the setup. They don't come through the door like everyone else. One minute the restaurant's empty, the next you'll turn around and there they are. Crouched on the napkin dispenser or perched on top of the soda machine. Five or six of them just blinking at you. They don't order food. They're not here to eat. They're here to work.

They mop. They take out the trash. They scrape the friar. bins and clean the drains and fix whatever gets stuck in the ice machine. Nobody trained them. They don't speak to anyone either, but they get the job done and they do it fast. That is, if you've put the pretzels out. Forget the pretzels and things start going wrong. They'll dump grease down the sink. They'll jam the doors with bits of friar baskets. This one time, they stuck forks in the toaster slots and made the lights flicker until someone reset the breakers by hand.

Worst I have seen was the jukebox. They rigged it to play the same Conway Twitty track on repeat. Six hours non-stop. Unplugging didn't help. The manager had to bring in someone in a white button down who didn't blink once during the whole visit. I didn't ask what department. he was from. The salt is what binds the goblins to the job.

That's the part that matters. They won't work without it, and you don't want them wandering around bored. So you do the routine. Sign, garlic, ketchup, mustard, pretzels. Always in that order. And you've got three minutes to do it all. We call it the quick change. After a while, comes muscle memory.

My hands already know what to do before my head catches up. I have done it in my sleep more than once. Flip the sign, clear the sauce, set the bottles, basket on the counter, done. Some people try to race themselves. They treat it like a challenge. Try to beat their best time. Try shooting for employee of the month, you know, things like that. But we don't stop there.

There's more you should know and this time it's about the stuff we sell. Rule number two. Know what they eat. The second rule, it's about food. You think that part would be easy in a place like this. It's not. Monsters are picky eaters. Not in a cute way either.

They know what they like and they don't handle surprises well. That means you don't cut corners. You give them what they want every single time. Vampires don't just hate garlic. They treat it like poison. You already pulled the garlic sauces off the line, but it shows up in other stuff too. Some of the spicy rubs in the back have garlic powder buried in the ingredients. Even the buffalo glaze we get in the squeeze bottles has a trace of it.

They can smell it. Doesn't matter how cooked it is. Unwif and they stop moving. Sometimes they leave. Sometimes they don't. Werewolves are worse. They've got a problem with a mint syrup we keep near the lemonade machine. It's supposed to be for the citrus cooler on the daytime menu.

Green label, strong smell. Kind of sticky when it dries. On the day shift, it's no big deal. People like it. At night, you keep it locked up. Don't even leave it on the counter. One guy, Chris, served a wolfman, a lemonade with a shot of mint in it. Total accident.

Hit the wrong tap. He didn't even realize what he'd done until the cup hit the floor and the claws came out. Then they're the sirens. Now, sirens aren't violent, exactly. They don't wreck stuff or throw punches. But if you let the frowns. or run dry while they're in the building, they will start to sing. And what's worse?

It doesn't lure you in the same way the stories describe them. It just gets inside your ears and makes everything feel wrong. The walls go loose around the edges. Things stop lining up. You feel like your brain is trying to move sideways. And then you find yourself at the edge of the dock ready to drown yourself. There was a girl here last summer. Steph, worked register mostly.

She ran out of pies during a rush and had to tell a siren to wait. She only heard one note. Just one. Left in the middle of her shift and never said a word to anyone. Two days later, someone found her sitting in the walk-in at the Wendy's five towns over, standing near a deep pool. And Steph didn't know how to swim. Keep the friars full.

Keep the pies stocked. Don't let the syrup run low. If it's got sugar in it, the sirens are going to want it. All of it. There's a red binder under the register. It's been there longer than I have. The spine's half gone and someone tried to glue the back cover on, but it's still holding together, barely.

Inside are pages on everyone who's ever come through here more than once. I mean. One page per regular. Name, no, it's habits. What they order, what they don't like, what they've done in the past. It's basically our version of a field guide, and it's supposed to help keep the place running. Some of the names are crossed out, though. I don't ask why. You'll get to know the regulars. You kind of have to. There's a vampire who always orders two chicken tenders and a side of slaw, no sauce. leaves exact change, never looks at you. There's a siren who dunks her fries in chocolate syrup.

She hums while she eats. You'll hear it. The binder doesn't leave the counter during your shift. You don't take it home. You don't copy it. You read it when it's slow. You keep it close when it's not. Some of the names are underlined.

Those are ones to watch. Not bad necessarily. and just unpredictable. Some are circled. That usually means they're safe. The regulars, the routine types. A few have red marks across the corner. If you see one of those, you don't talk.

You don't smile. You don't take your time. You serve them what they want and move on. No one puts a name in the binder unless they've been here more than once. So if someone walks in and they're not in, there pay attention. New monsters don't always know the rules, and some don't care. Either way, they notice when you mess up their food. Rule number three. Dead children eat for free. Sometimes while you're wiping down the counter or restocking the sauces, you'll look up and notice

the dining room isn't empty anymore. You won't hear the bell above the door and you won't catch them walking in. One moment the place will be quiet. And the next, they'll already be standing there like they've been waiting a long time. They usually show up in small groups. Two at a time, sometimes three or four. Once in a while, a whole line of them, walking close together, like they're afraid to lose each other. The way they move reminds me of school field trips, hands tucked into sleeves, eyes on the floor, no one talking. Most of the time, their clothes don't match the season. I've seen kids come in wearing tank tops in the middle of winter or zipped up coats in the dead of summer.

One girl came in once, wearing slippers and hospital socks. Her hair was soaked through, even though it hadn't rained in days. They don't speak when they reach the counter. they just step up one at a time and point. Sometimes they want fries, sometimes a milkshake or nuggets. They point, you nod, you back it up,

and you hand it over. And you never charge them, not a single cent. Corporate covers that cost just fine, so don't go chasing them down for change, okay? That's the rule. Dead children eat for free. Look, no one knows how they died and we don't ask, okay?

And we don't really want to know why they eat either. People talk about them a lot online, not just the ones that show up here. I mean, the dead ones all around this town. You'll find entire channels full of stories about children who died too early but didn't leave. Some of the videos are clearly fake, with bad voiceover and stock photos, but a few of them feel real in a way you don't want them to. They show up in stories with black eyes or with voices that don't match their mouths. Some are seen standing at the side of the road asking for a ride. Others knock on the door at night and ask to be let in. And even though they look like kids,

the people who open the door always end up missing. Or worse, they stay. But they're not the same after. There's this one story. It stuck with me. A daycare fire, supposedly back in the 70s. No one made it out. But years later, people claimed to see soot-covered children wandering the alley behind the place where the building used to stand. They didn't ask for help.

They just stared at the windows of passing cars until the driver looked away. The theory was. that they didn't understand they died. So they kept showing up, looking for snack time, or someone to pick them up. And yeah, a lot of the myths go like that. The kids always want something small, a sandwich, a place to stay, someone to talk to. Something simple that makes them seem harmless. But the longer the story goes, the more that feeling of harmless,

starts to peel back and the people in the stories realize that they were never safe to begin with. You'll hear people online say it's because children are closer to the veil. They're new. So when something pulls them out of this world too early, it pulls hard and whatever's left behind doesn't know how to let go. So they stay hungry, stay lost. and sometimes they wear the shape of the life they used to have,

like putting on a Halloween costume after the party's already over. It is easy to write them off as urban legends, easier than believing that they might be real. But after a while, working here, those videos start to feel less like fiction and more like field notes. Someone else saw something similar, but they didn't know how to explain it. So they turned it into a story.

That's how most truths survive. And us? Well, our job simple. To respect what we hear and to follow the rules, there's usually always more to them than what the list says. Rule number four. Keep the coffee stocked. The coffee here isn't for the customers, not the regular ones anyway.

Monsters love the stuff. They drink it more than anyone I've ever seen. Doesn't matter what kind of creature walks through that door. Odds are they will ask for coffee. Some pour it down fast. Others sip it slow, like they're reading something in the steam. Doesn't matter how they drink it. You just need to keep it flowing.

That starts with the beans. We don't use the coffee from the usual distributor. The packets they send are too weak, too pale. doesn't hold up in this place. Monsters drink more than people do, and they've got stronger tastes. Burnt and bitter seems to settle them. You can't brew that from freeze-dried powder.

My grandpa used to say coffee kept people stitched together, that even the worst kinds of mornings could be kept from falling apart if you had a pot brewing on the counter. He'd make it in a steel percolator with no cream, no sugar, and he'd drink the whole thing black before breakfast, said it gave the dead a reason to stay quiet,

and the living a reason to show up. At the time, I thought it was just an old man talking nonsense. No, I'm not so sure. We get ours from a place called Graziano's, a corner grocery one town over. Doesn't advertise, no signs on the road, no website either. You won't find it on a map. I've never been there myself. I've never met anyone who has, actually. But the beans show up when we need them, no matter what. There's a landline

under the register. Big clunky thing with push buttons that stick. You use that to place the order. No cell phones, no online forms, just the landline. When you call, someone answers after the first ring. Always fast. Doesn't say hello. Doesn't ask for a name. Just waits. You say, the usual. Then hang up. That's it. I don't know who it is on the other end. I don't think anyone does. There's a guy who runs Graziano's. I think his name starts with a D? Denver? Daniel? I don't know. Something like that. That doesn't really matter. He's a bit of an ass hat, but we need the beans. You'll find the beans in the freezer the next shift.

Same burlap sack every time. Red twine around the top. Smell strong. Earthy, bitter. Almost like burnt chocolate. That's the scent the monsters recognize. Don't switch it out. Don't mix brands. The coffee machine itself is ancient. but it still works. Big metal frame, slow to heat up. You fill the basket, load the filter, press the button, and let it run. The pot's thick glass chipped along the handle, but it holds up.

You brew one batch after another. Keep it going. The regulars drink more than you'd expect. Some of them come in just for the coffee. You can tell because they never order food, but they sit and drink for hours. If the pot ever runs low, you top it off. If the machine stalls, you don't try to fix it. You unplug it. That's all. You don't open the panel. Don't press extra buttons.

Don't bang on the side. You walk away. There's a backup percolator in the pantry. Bottom shelf. Slow, but it works. You use that instead. When the main machine breaks down, you might hear something moving underneath it.

Not loud. Just a slow sort of motion. Like someone shifting their weights in a tight space. Doesn't happen every time. Only when the machine's been running too long without a break. The goblin that lives under there likes to fix things. And the machine starts working again after a while. Usually within the hour.

So remember, keep the coffee stocked and you should be fine. Rule number five. Give Joey a cup of Joe. Speaking of coffee, there's a hallway behind the friars that leads to the old manager's office in what used to be a storage room. Room six.

That's where Joey stays. It doesn't come out much. Doesn't eat? Doesn't talk unless you're standing right in front of him. He sits in front of a wall of monitors and watches the feeds. front lot, back lot, hallway, kitchen, freezer door, everything. Nothing happens without Joey Singh at first.

He looks dead because he is. The skin on his face is the color of cold clay. His hands shake a little when he moves. The clothes he wears haven't changed since I started here. Same jeans, same zip-up hoodie, same scuffed boots. They never smell, stain, or wrinkle. He isn't rotting. Just stuck.

If you ask him why he's here, he'll give you a story. It's never the same one twice. Sometimes, he says he was a butcher who fed something he shouldn't have. Other nights, he says he worked in a bank that only loaned money to the dead. Last week, he said he drove a city bus that ran its route through a graveyard and never stopped picking people up. The story is never the same, and sometimes I ask just to see which one he'll give next. But one thing's for sure.

Joey is here because of a deal he made with the Grim Reaper. A deal for his soul. Now most people imagine the Grim Reaper, as a skeleton in a robe carrying a sieve, showing up when someone's time runs out. That picture isn't completely wrong, but it skips over what happens after. The Reaper doesn't always finish things. Sometimes, he takes a person and keeps them somewhere in between, neither alive nor fully gone. He doesn't put them in hell or heaven, and he doesn't let them drift away.

He puts them to work. That's what my grandfather used to say, and the longer I have been here, the more it sounds right. The Reaper assigns tasks instead of punishments. He gives out jobs that fit whatever went wrong in a life. Long jobs without an end date. It isn't torture in the way people think. It's just endless duty with no way to clock out.

And if you're lucky, you keep a body that can still move. That's actually where the real idea of zombies comes from. They're not rotting brainless things like the movie show. They're not hunters or monsters. They're people caught between two states. Still moving, but no longer healing. Still breathing. But not really alive.

They don't decay and they don't get better. They just continue. Like a sentence that's been left unfinished for years. Most of them lose their sense. sense of who they were. And what's left is only the habit of moving. Joey hasn't lost all of it yet. He remembers enough to sit in room six, keep an eye on the screens, and drink his coffee. Whatever the Reaper assigned him to do, he's still doing it. He doesn't sleep, and he doesn't look away from the cameras. That's what keeps the rest of us safe when we're too busy to notice what's

outside. So, we bring him coffee every shift. Black with cream. Hot enough that you'll burn your hand if the lid slips. Don't get creative. Don't add anything, okay? Just brew it and bring it straight back. He doesn't ask for much, but I try to visit once every shift.

You don't have to stay long. Just drop the cup. Say thanks. And leave. Whatever Joey was before this job, it led him to where he is now. And whatever he did, the Grim Reaper must have thought this was fair. That's what Joey says, that he was cursed to work odd jobs until the end of time. Security, inventory, night shift, janitorial, says the Reaper wants him useful.

I don't know what kind of life leads to a strange. punishment like that but I know this Joey keeps watch he sees what's out there before it sees us he's the reason things don't walk through the back door unannounced so you respect him you bring him his coffee you don't ask how long he's been here and that's the fifth rule bring Joey his cup of Joe every shift and don't forget the cream all right And rule number six. Clock out by doing the salt lines.

At the end of your shift, there's something you'll do before locking up. You'll sweep a line of salt across each way out. Doesn't take along, and you'll do it every night whether you feel like it or not. The salt comes from a bag under the register. It's heavy, and the grains are coarse, now the kind you'll find in a kitchen. It doesn't pour like regular table salt, and it holds a bit of a bit of. moisture, no matter how long it sits sealed. When you hold it, you'll notice it clings to your fingers a little, just enough to remind you this isn't for flavor. There's a scoop in the

bag. Keep the bag dry. That matters more than anything. You don't need to empty it out. Just take enough to lay a clean line. You'll start at the front door, run the salt edge to edge, right across the threshold. Doesn't need to be deep, but it does need to be, unbroken, no gaps, no thin spots. Then you'll do the drive-through window, pouring it along the inside sill. The last one's the back door near the freezer. Same process. We started doing this because of someone who waits across the street. Most nights, if you look past the lot, just be on the edge of the curb. You'll see a man standing standing. standing under the broken street lamp.

Nobody's caught him showing up. He's already there by the time the place starts to shut down. Doesn't matter if you close early or late. He's already standing there when you check. The street light above him hasn't worked in years, but he's always easy to spot. Dirk, the guy who trained me, called him Mr. Wide Mouth, said the name came from an old story. online. The name stuck.

Even if this one doesn't move or talk like the thing from those early creepypasta threads. Maybe it's the same one. Maybe they just pass names around. His face looks normal at first, but then your eyes settle on it. And you'll understand the name. His mouth stretches too far.

He started showing up every closing shift months ago, and an old manager got the idea that it was time to start laying salt lines around the property. Salt has been used in protection rights for centuries. Different cultures placed it at thresholds, mixed into the bricks, buried it under windows, or circled it around beds. Some said it purified. Some said it sealed. Some believed it reminded the dead that the boundary was was still there. Whatever the reason, it stayed in practice long enough to become a habit in places that dealt with things like this. We picked it up after he started showing up more often. You won't be told what happens if you forget. Nobody shares those stories.

So that's the final rule. Don't forget the salt. All right, well, that's all the rules. There's more. you'll figure out for yourself probably the mop closet has a leak the drive-through headset cuts out every third night don't use the microwave after 1 a.m. and don't ask why the security monitor in room 6 sometimes shows red doors we don't have the job's not hard exactly just take someone who knows how to pay attention someone who doesn't get too curious someone who's good at keeping their head down and their hands busy.

You know, you actually seem like that kind of person. Well, I got some things to finish in the back, but you're ready to take the register now. Coffee's already brewing. Friars are hot. If you get a quiet minute, check the red binder. Start learning the names. It'll help. Oh, don't forget the pretzels.

The goblins are already under the sink. You won't hear them, but they're waiting. signs still flip to open, so don't let the time get away from you. Three minutes goes faster than you think. And remember, when the shift ends, don't forget the salt. I'll be out back if you need anything. And, uh, yeah, good luck.