Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Work at a Retirement Home for MONSTERS | Scary Stories

Episode Date: June 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 ninerioartsOriginal YouTube link: I Work at a Retirement Home for MONSTERS. We have a Strange List of Rules.   Merch: lighthousehorror.shopFor more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | PatreonSocial MediaINSTAGRAM - @lighthousehorror FACEBOOK -  Lighthouse HorrorTIKTOK - Lighthouse HorrorMusic:Lucas King - YouTubeMyuu - YouTube IncompetechDarren Curtis Music - YouTubeThank 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!

Hey, I'm Charlie. You're the new nurse, right? Yeah, yeah, I figured. You got that nervous energy. It's alright, don't sweat it. Happens to everybody on their first day here. I'll show you around in a bit, but first, let me tell you a little about myself. It helps to understand why we're working here. I used to be like every other kid with pushy parents. You know the time. Straight A's, science fair ribbons, thick textbooks. with tiny print. My mom was a school teacher, and my dad was a dentist. They didn't say it out loud,

but they always had that look in their eyes when they talked about Dr. Charles. That's me, by the way. Or at least it was supposedly. I didn't mind, really. I liked learning. Biology made sense. Chemistry was like a puzzle. I liked putting things in order, you know, understanding how things worked, even if people didn't. And when I didn't like it, while I just kept going. That's what you do when your parents sacrifice their vacations and eat store brand cereal so they can save up for your MCAT prep courses.

Well, college was a blur of lectures, late nights, and frozen burritos. I wasn't the smartest guy in my class, but I was the one who never quit. You'd find me face down on my desk in the library at 2 a.m., half my dinner still stuck to my cheek. I got through pre-med, then med school. Passed the exams, did the rotations, interned in hospitals that smelled like bleach and old coffee. I was doing the thing. You know, the thing. The one everyone talks about like it's the only thing worth doing. And still, something fell off. I was surrounded

by other students, other future doctors, all hunched over their laptops like machines. And I started to wonder, was this it? That's when I found Grimley's. It wasn't even a part of the program. I stumbled on it by accident when I was out driving to a rural clinic for a volunteer weekend. Took a wrong turn somewhere between Pine Hollow and nowhere. No signal. Dead GPS.

I saw this long iron gate and a crooked little sign that said Grimley's home. And I don't know why, but I turned in. That was five years ago. My parents were confused when I told them I was staying. A retirement home, my mom said. Like I told her I was becoming a street magician. Is it even credited? Dad had asked.

I told them it didn't matter. I liked it here. They didn't get it, but they don't complain when I help cover their mortgage now and then. Now you're probably wondering what's so special about grimlies. Why a guy like me would give up the city hospitals for this old building in the middle of the woods. Why I stay. Why I smile when I walk these halls. You'll see.

But first, let me tell you about the place. Grimley started out like any other retirement home. Bage walls, soft music, long hallways that made your knees creak just looking at them. You know the type. It smelled like soup and hand lotion and carpet that had soaked up a hundred spills too many. Nothing special. Just another quiet building where old folks went to slow down and fade out. Then, Mr. Grimley made that deal.

with a demon. It was before my time here, but I still remember the first time I heard about it. I was in the break room, back when we still had the old vending machine that ate your coins, and Martha, the night nurse, was peeling an orange with that little pocket knife she always carries. She didn't look at me when she said it. Grimly didn't always look like that, you know. I glanced up from my sandwich. Like what? She just smiled, a tired smile.

Well, keep working here, you'll see. And I did? I first saw him two weeks in. It was early, maybe 5 a.m. And I was doing supply counts in the east hallway. The one with the floorboards that dipped like a boat. He came around the corner, slow, dragging one foot. His cane clicked once with every third step.

He moved like the hallway was too narrow for him, though he barely took up any space. I remember the smell first. Clove smoke, faint but sharp. The scent of something burned and bitter just under it. Like someone had torched a library book and then trying to hide the ashes in their coat pocket. He nodded as he passed. Polite? But I couldn't move.

Not right away. Because there were no eyes. Just smooth, pale skin where they should have been. No sockets, no lids, no scars. Like someone had decided he didn't need them anymore and removed them clean, like erasing pencil marks. He didn't stop, didn't stop. didn't speak, just disappeared into the dark end of the hallway, his keen echoing like a clock

you'd forgotten to wind. Later I asked around. No one gave me the full story, not all at once. I had to piece it together little by little. A phrase here, a warning there. But it always came back to the same thing. New Orleans. Apparently, years ago, grimly packed a single bag, locked the front doors, and drove south.

Didn't say why. Didn't leave instructions. He was gone for just under three weeks. When he came back, the staff found him standing outside the front gate at dawn. His shoes were covered in black river mud. His hands were shaking. He didn't say a word. From then on he walked with a limp.

He stopped speaking in full sentences, and he never blinked. The building changed with him. Lights flickered more than usual, like the wiring was tired. The walls felt older. Room stayed cold, no matter how high you turn the heat. And then came the visitors. They didn't ring the bell. They didn't call ahead.

Some were brought in the back of silent black cars. Some walked in on their own, dragging old suitcases, dressed like it was still 1932. One showed up wearing a suit made of stitched feathers and glass buttons. No one ever asked where they came from. No one had to. Grimley took them in. He'd stand by the front door. just nod once, and they'd pass by like he'd been expecting them for years.

Some stayed a month, others longer. A few never left their rooms at all. And the staff adjusted, quietly, carefully. We stopped asking why room nine only opened inward, even though it was built like every other door in the building. We learned that you don't serve, soup to room 17 unless it's tomato with a cracked pepper rim. And you knock twice on room four's door, then step back. Always step back. No one ever said the word, monster, but sometimes

you don't need to. Because eventually, you realize this place isn't just a retirement home. It's a resting ground, a halfway space between life and whatever comes next, for the ones who stayed hidden long enough to grow old. And it's our job to care for them. So, welcome to Grimley's home for retired monsters. We have some rules. Rule one, only polish the silver after the werewolf's go to bed. No exceptions. No, I know what you're thinking. Polish the silver. I signed up to give

meds and maybe mop a spill. I didn't come here to clean spoons like a servant in a haunted hotel. Trust me. I get it. But here we all pitch in. Grimley's is understaffed. Always has been. The cook's got a wooden leg and the dishwasher won't touch anything round. Don't ask. Don't ask. Point is, when it comes to jobs that no one else wants to do, sometimes they fall to whoever's around. And that includes silver polishing. You'll find the case of silverware in the locked cabinet next to the kitchen door. Blackwood. Brass, trim, heavy thing with a dial lock.

The codes 1019. You'll forget it. That's fine. Someone will remind you. We always do. Now, the silver. Yes, real silver. Not plated, not fake. The forks and knives gleam like they're made of frozen lightning when they're clean. And they have to be clean. Witches don't like dull edges. Says it messes with a purification, something about vibrations, or residue from human hands. I don't argue.

You won't either. Not once you've seen what happens when a spell rebounds into the soup line. We had a macaroni incident once. Let's just say, no one eats shell pasta anymore. But the thing is, and this is important, you cannot, under any circumstances, polish the silver when the werewolves are awake. I mean it. They hate silver.

I don't mean they're allergic. I mean they hate it. The way you hate that sound a fork makes when it scrapes a plate. Except for them, it's worse. It burns. If you bring polished silver into the East Lounge while they're playing cards, you might as well toss a hot coal at their feet. and most of the time they won't yell, they won't snarl, they'll just grab the nearest thing,

a tray, a chair leg, a blunt fork, and jab it into your side like they're poking at a stubborn tent post. That's what happened to Daniel. Good guy. Didn't last. Now about bedtime. The werewolves live down the east wing. past the double doors with the scratched brass handles. Their rooms are close to the laundry chute, because they shed like it's a sport. They take dinner around seven. Pork, mostly.

Sometimes turkey legs. Then they shuffle back to their rooms, listen to the radio, and by 8.30, they're out cold. Usually. Don't take chances, though. Give it until nine, nine-fifteen. just to be safe.

You'll know they're asleep, when the hallway lights stop buzzing. You'll hear the beds creak, one after another. The sound rolls down the hall like bowling pins tipping over in slow motion. Then it's safe to unlock the cabinet. Take your time with the polish, use the green cloth, not the blue. The blue scratches. Sit by the far window in the dining room, keep the tray in your lap. Don't spread out.

One of the witches might come by for tea, and you don't want to be in her spot. Trust me. You'll do this once a week. Twice if room 12 throws another tantrum and dumps the salad tongs into the coy pond again. Now let me tell you about Mr. Randall. He's the main reason this rule exists. Not the only one, but the loudest. Room 22.

first door on the left when you enter the east wing. Old werewolf, fur the color of fireplace ash, walks with a limp. Not from age, but from a hunting accident in 59. He never talks about it. He does talk about the war, though no one's quite sure which one he means. He's got to think about forks, not knives, just forks. especially blunt ones. Back when I was new, I asked Martha why he always had one tucked into his sock.

For balance, and because once someone tried to hand him a silver butter knife during brunch, she said. What happened? She just looked at me and said, Don't ask. Just remember this. Bacon donuts. That's what you just. Keeps Mr. Randall calm.

Not tea, not pills. Not soft music. Bacon donuts. We keep a box in the walk-in freezer labeled emergency. Randall. If he starts getting twitchy, you bring one out and leave it near the bingo table. Don't hand it to him. Just leave it.

He'll find it. Like a cat with a guilty conscience. He's not all bad. Sometimes he tells jokes. Dry ones, but still, he can be sweet when he wants to be. You just don't want to be around him when he's not in the mood, especially if you're holding silver.

We had a temp nurse last spring. Jared thought the rules were more like guidelines. You know the type. One night, he decided to get a head start on silver polishing, said he had plans after his shit. wouldn't listen when we warned him. Went into the East dining room at 8.30. Mr. Randall caught the shine of a polished ladle from the hallway.

Didn't say a word. Just walked up behind Jared and stabbed him in the ribs with a blunt end. The rag in your hand will start to blacken after the third fork. That's normal. You'll smell the polish in your nose for the. rest of the night. It sticks to your fingers no matter how many times you rinse. Use the deep sink, not the kitchen one. The drain there backs up when you run hot water too long. You'll hear footsteps sometimes. You'll want to look. Don't. It's usually the janitor, or something

pretending to be him. Either way, keep your eyes down. Keep the rhythm going. Buff, flip, rinse. Stack. Every once in a while, one of the lights will flicker above you. Just enough to remind you, this place doesn't run on electricity alone. The dining room clock is slow by about four minutes, so finish the tray before it hits ten. Stack the finished silver in the red bin, not the blue one. The blue bin is for spoons used during night tea, and you don't want to touch those. Once you're done, wipe the table. Put the rag in the metal pail under the sink. And when you pass room 22 on the way back, walk lightly. If you hear something shift behind the door,

just keep walking. No one's watching to see how well you follow the rules, but they will know if you don't. So remember the first rule. Only polish the silver, After the werewolves go to bed. Rule number two. If you hear coughing from the crawl space,

offer a candy through the vent. I know how that sounds. I remember the first time I heard it. I thought it was a joke Martha was pulling on the new guy. She has a mean streak sometimes, likes to see how far she can push people. So when she handed me a crumpled packet of candy cough drops and said,

Hold on to these. There for the cross-space, vampire. I thought she was messing with me. Then I heard the coughing. It was somewhere deep behind the east wing, in the wall just above the long hallway, with a fire exit that doesn't open. It sounded like a cat getting strangled underwater.

Wet, broken, jagged coughs, too sharp to be a heat, feeding pipe and too regular to be a raccoon. That's Gary. He used to be a vampire. A real one. Back when it meant something. Long coat, big collar.

Eyes like river stones. The whole bit. Had the voice, the stare, the cape with a ridiculous red lining. You know the type. He was part of some old noble house. maybe Romanian, maybe Hungarian, depending on who's telling it.

They say he was supposed to be one of the big ones, the lords. But something went wrong. Apparently, he fed on something, or someone, he shouldn't have. Maybe a priest. Maybe a dying witch. Either way, the blood twisted him.

Didn't kill him. but turned him half bat, and not the good kind. He got stuck somewhere between states. His wings are too short now. His arms bent weird. He can't shift back cleanly anymore, so he mostly crawls, lives in the crawl space between the walls and the insulation.

He doesn't like people seeing him, says it's a pride thing. But the guy's throat? Sounds like it's made of gravel and regret. Must be from breathing in dust and fiberglass for 30 years. Every few nights you'll hear it. Deep, rattling coughs bouncing through the vents. At first you'll think the building's about to collapse.

Then you'll hear the wheezing and a sort of muttering and broken Romanian. That's when you go to the main vent near the supply closet, kneel down, and shake the cough drop pack upward. If you do it right, you'll see a pale, gnarled hand slide out of the vent slots, quick and quiet, like a magician's trick. It'll snatch the candy out of your fingers, and van. You'll hear a tiny wrapper crinkle, a long slow sigh, and then quiet. That's Gary. He won't hurt him. He just coughs a lot. And he likes someone to talk to, if they can understand him. First time I said hi, he surprised me. I crouched near the vent and said, you okay in there?

There was a pause and then a voice that tastes like, more like salt. You mean the original one? It tastes like funeral shoes. I blinked. That's specific. Another pause. I nodded.

even though he couldn't see me. You must go through a ton of these, huh? A short hoarse chuckle came through the vent. Only on Thursdays. And when I think about poetry, that is most days. I laughed a little. So I got to ask you. Do you even have teeth anymore?

Silence. And then. And that was how I meant Gary. I bring him cough drops every time I'm on shift now. Sometimes he tells stories and half English, half grumble. I nod a lot. Smile where it feels right. It doesn't matter if I understand everything.

You don't really come to work at Grimley's to have normal conversation. You come to make sure the guy in the vents doesn't start coughing so loud. it wakes up the witches. Which brings us to the next rule. Rule three. Don't accept any tea from the West Wing. Ever. The witches live in the West Wing.

You'll know it when you get there because the hallway tiles change. Suddenly they're a dull green, like moss, and they don't match the rest of the floor. They say the original floor boards. kept catching fire, so the witches replaced them with something less flammable. No one's checked. The West Wing smells like cinnamon and burnt herbs. Don't breathe too deep. You'll get dizzy. Like your thoughts are wearing the wrong shoes. Everything feels one inch to the

left. The witches don't sleep much. They nap. They brew. They hummed to themselves in languages no one's translated. Their rooms are always warm. The doors are always closed, except when they aren't. And if you walk by and they're open, keep walking. Now they'll offer you tea. Sometimes they come out smiling. Sometimes they just hold out a chipped cup with something steaming inside. It won't look dangerous. Might smell like apple or ginger or vanilla. That's the trap. You drink it, and maybe you wake up with an extra toe. Maybe your hair falls out in patches. Maybe you lose something small, like your wallet or your car keys or worse. Five teeth. And maybe you won't notice what you lost until three.

Three weeks later, when it's too late to ask for it back. The witches don't do this to be mean. It's not personal. They're just curious. And that's worse. Martha's the only one they like. She's been here longer than anyone but grimly. She drinks their tea, and it doesn't touch her.

They call her old bone friend, which I don't love, but she seems okay with it. Sometimes they make her little gifts, jars of blue fireflies, bread that sings when you cut it. She keeps the stuff on a shelf in the nurse's office. She tells me their tea. When they're not playing tricks, is the best she's ever had. I wouldn't know I have never touched it. And you shouldn't either. Even if they're smiling, even if they call you dear.

even if they're holding a pretty little cup that smells like your grandmother's kitchen. Say no. Say you're fasting. Say you're allergic to root. I don't know. Just make something up and keep walking. Because once you take their tea, you're no longer a visitor. You're part of the game.

And they don't always play fair. So remember. Don't accept any tea from the West Wing. Rule four. Do not interrupt card games in room 12. And don't sit in. Not even if they smile. Not even if they pull out a chair just for you.

Just say you've got mopping to do. And get going. Now room 12 is at the far end of the north hallway. Quiet most of the time. then some nights without warning you'll see the glow from under the door you'll hear the low sound of cards being shuffled slow heavy

the kind of sound that makes you stop mid-step like something importance happening in there it always starts small a candle lit behind the window the soft scrape of a chair leg on wood and then they gather. The monsters in Room 12 aren't new. They're not even especially dangerous by today's standards.

But they're old, real old. Older than the country. Older than paper cards. Some of them knew how to play before humans knew how to read. And they've been making deals since the beginning. That's what you need to understand. understand. This isn't just a game to them. It's an urge, a pattern burned into their blood. Monsters used to make deals with humans all the time. You know the stories. Trade me your soul and

I'll make you rich. Give me your name and I'll give you power. Let me take your firstborn and I'll keep your village safe. It wasn't just evil. It was a system. Rules, stakes, terms. They made bargains because that's what monsters do. And we, stupid as ever, we played along. Now those days are over. But the monsters, well, they're still here.

And they still play. The regulars change a little, but some you'll see again and again. There's grin, the old werewolf with a half-missing ear. He wears a glove with a fingers cut off and keeps a silver tooth in his front pocket, wanted off a friend centuries ago. He's been quiet lately, but when he plays, he grinds his teeth until the cards tremble. Bella's there too. A mermaid, long since dried out. Her hair hangs like seaweed.

and she carries her own chair, lined with soaked towels. She smells like moldy stone, and carries her own deck in a sealed box, says she doesn't trust the house cards. Next to her is Cobb. You'll hear him before you see him. His coat drips steadily, even when he hasn't touched water in years. Drowned long ago, but still plays with a love. of someone who hasn't figured out they're dead.

He tosses coins from vanished empires like their pennies. And then there's Mary, a banshee, we think. Nobody knows for sure. She hums through her nose and stares at the cards like they're people she's waiting to bury. Never talks unless she's betting. The rest come and go. An ogre with tiny hands, a vampire who lost his fangs, but kept his appetite for deals.

A fairy woman who only spoke Latin, but could recite Hamlet. Every chair has got a name etched underneath it, but they swapped them around just to confuse staff. And always their plan. But here's the rule that matters. If you're human, you don't have anything. they want. Not really. They don't take food or money or anything you'd find in your pockets. If they ask you to sit in, they're being polite. What they really mean is, are you willing to part with your flesh? Because they will ask. You'll be sweeping the hallway, and someone from inside

will call your name. They'll say, We've got a hand open, just one round. They'll sound kind, warm, almost normal. But the moment you step in, they'll start looking at you the way old merchants look at fresh customers. They'll ask you what you've brought to wager. And if you try to joke, they'll laugh with you,

but not kindly, because the only thing they accept from humans is what's still attached. A thumb joint, a molar, a sliver of a rib, maybe just a pinky if the stakes are low. Something that can be taken, handed over, held in their palms, and passed across the table like an old coin. We had a guy once. Donnie, new nurse, fresh out of school. They invited him in. He sat. Bed his wisdom tube.

He came out smiling, said he'd won a silver comb with owl feathers, worked into the spine, showed it to me, looked ordinary. Next day he called in sick, said his whole jaw was aching. By the end of the week,

wig, he'd pulled two more teeth on his own, said the others were getting jealous. He quit not long after. I asked Martha once why they do it. Why it still matters. We were folding linens behind the West supply room. She said, Oh, it's what they've always done. Monsters make deals. We offer they take. That's the shape of it. but we're not offering anymore. She gave me a look. Sure we are. Every time one of us opens the door,

every time we stand there too long. And she was right. That's the problem. They don't need to go out into the world anymore. They just wait, play their games. And sometimes, we're stupid enough to walk in. It's not that they're cruel, exactly. They're just used to it.

Used to making rules, holding power, sitting behind tables, waiting for a nod and a handshake. Doesn't matter that they're old. Doesn't matter that they're in a home now. The deal-making part never left. And that's why you don't go near room 12 when the game's on. Don't interrupt. Don't joke, don't play, because they've been doing this longer than your bloodline's been alive.

And the only rule they follow now is the same one they always did. If you come to the table, you better be ready to leave something behind. Rule 5. Never go to room 32. Room 32 is at the end of the hallway on the third floor. You'll recognize it right away. The door is painted red, not bright red like a fire truck or lipstick, but dull, faded,

almost like it's been soaking in rust for too long. The hallway leading up to it stretches longer than the others, and none of the staff go up there unless we absolutely have to. The number on the door is bolted into the wood off center, a cheap metal plate, screwed in unevenly. The cleaning schedule skips room 32 entirely, and no one questions it. Cook delivers a tray once a week, always on Tuesdays. It's just raw meat on a flat tin.

Nothing else. He leaves it on the floor beside the door without knocking, and he walks away with his head down. I've never seen anyone open that door, and neither has anyone else on. on staff. Only Mr. Grimley knows what's behind it. He's the one who brought the resident in. There wasn't any moving truck, no visitors, no admission paperwork. One day the room was empty. The next, it had a number and a weekly meat delivery. People talk, even when they shouldn't. and over the years the story settled into something simple. The thing behind that red door is the boogeyman.

Not a boogeyman. The boogeyman. The one you were scared of as a kid when your parents left the lights off too long, and the hallway was too quiet after dinner. The one who lived in clocked, and under beds and waited for nights when nobody tucked you in. I used to be terrified of him. When I was seven, my parents were both working overnight shifts,

and I'd lie awake staring at the shape of my jacket, hanging on a chair across the room, convinced it was his hand reaching. The boogeyman is what monsters talk about, when they want to remind each other that even they have lines they don't cross. You see, most monsters don't hurt kids. They scare them, yes. They hide under their beds, scratch at the windows, groan in the floorboards,

but harm them. That's different. There's something in monsters that makes them avoid children, not always out of mercy, but out of order. Some say it's instinct, others say it's respect. The young are supposed to be off limits. It's not a written law, and no one explains it out loud, but you feel it. Some of the older monsters ask about the local schools.

One of the sea witches knits little mittens and donates them anonymously to the town church. The ones who have lived long enough don't want to cause harm to anything. not to anyone, not to anyone who hasn't had a chance to live yet. The rest are fair game. But the boogeyman never followed that rule. He hurt children, not to teach them, not to protect them, not even for revenge. He did it because he liked it. He took them from their homes while their parents fought or drank or simply stopped paying attention.

He crawled out from under cribs, out of basement doors that shouldn't have opened, and snatched them up before they even had time to cry. He didn't just scare them. He ate them. Hundreds, maybe more. Towns would try to cover it up. Parents would deny it. But too many children vanished for it to be ignored. Eventually, the story stopped being warnings and turned into bedtime threats.

The numbers became too high to hold onto. They faded into statistics, into urban legends, into something everyone remembered being afraid of, but didn't believe had ever been real. But he was real. And now he's here. Grimley won't say where he found him, or why he brought him in. Maybe he thought the boogeyman was too dangerous to be out there. Maybe he thought he was too old to keep going.

Or maybe it was part of the deal grimly made down in New Orleans, the kind that changed this place for good. Whatever the reason, room 32 is his cell now. The other residents don't talk about him. I've asked carefully once or twice. Mary, the Banshy, who glares in anyone who forgets to steep her tea, once looked up from her knitting and said, There's evil, and then there's him.

She didn't explain further. No one ever does. So you don't go near that door. You don't touch it. You don't even stare at it too long, even if you're just walking past. Don't even joke about it. Don't ask grimly what's inside, and you certainly don't ask what he looks like. Because the only person who knows is the man who brought him here, and he's not sharing.

We don't know what's behind that door. We only know that we should never. Find out. And that's it. Yeah, yeah, I think training's done. You've made it through all the rules, the whole strange, twisted map of this place, and I haven't had to fish you out of the crawl space

or patch you up with duct tape. Now you know what we're dealing with. You know not to polish the silver until the werewolves are asleep. You know the cough in the walls isn't a rat. That's Gary. And he just wants candy. You know to stay away from the witch's tea and farther from their jokes.

You know what a card game in room 12 actually means and why your teeth and fingers aren't worth a game of fairy poker. You even know about the red door on the third floor, and more importantly, you know to leave it alone. That's the job. Grimleys isn't like any other retirement home. There are no activity boards, No Hawaiian shirt Fridays.

No jazz playing softly from a Bluetooth speaker. Now don't get spooked. Not all monsters are cruel, but not all our kind either. Like anyone old, they're just tired, picky, stubborn, and set in their ways. They lived strange, long lives, and now they're here, trying to wind down in peace. If that's even possible, for something that used to eat people whole or scream villages into madness. And it's our job to make that piece possible. You, me, the rest of the staff.

Grimley himself in his own way. All that's left now is your first shift. And, hey, would you look at the clock? It's 9.30. That means the werewolves are in for the night. Start small, unlock the silver cabinet. Take out the tray. Use the green cloth.

Sit by the dining room window. Breathe. Stay alert. It's a simple job. Until it isn't. Welcome to Grimley's.