Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Work at a TV News Station. The Government Wants Us To COVER SOMETHING UP | Scary Stories

Episode Date: October 5, 2023

You won't believe what really happened.   Story from Saturdead Make sure to check out more of their work at u/Saturdead  Original Post: What we never reported from April 12th, 2013 : r/nosleep                                     Original YouTube link: I Work at a TV News Station. The Government Wants Us To COVER SOMETHING UP              For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Merch: lighthousehorror.com  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 day, 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!

It was the 12th of April 2013. I was working at a local branch of a national TV news organization. We were probably the third largest newsroom in West Virginia at the time. I was mainly working as a news writer, but I helped with assignment editing for our reporters whenever we had something big coming up. I got cold up just after midnight. All hands on deck. Just from the way they talked to us, any urgency in their voices.

I thought we were looking in another 9-11. I was fully expecting something vast and catastrophic. When I got to the station, I didn't know what to believe. The parking lot was packed, but I didn't see anyone resembling police or FBI vehicles. I did recognize the symbols from the U.S. A.CE, United States Army Corps of Engineers and EPA, Environmental Protection Agency, though. At this point, I thought we were looking at a natural disaster. I was ushered inside by a strange man in rough denim jeans, a flannel shirt, and some kind of

Bluetooth headset. He was clearly supposed to look like a civilian, but everything about his demeanor screamed military. The determined eyes, the no questions asked kind of demeanor. There was no point in questioning him. These people were brick walls. The newsroom looked different in the dark. Everything does.

The shadows were longer. and everything had a slight echo to it. Maybe the sounds just weren't soaked up as quickly by the background noise. There weren't enough chairs for everyone, so some people were sitting on the floor. I was in the back, leaning against the wall next to my fellow newswriters, Ben and Erica. Last names withheld. We were all a bit worked up and anxious, but Erica couldn't turn herself off. She was always working and always making mental notes.

Not everyone's here, she whispered. What? We're missing people, she repeated. We're missing a live camera crew. She was right. Peter usually did live camera coverage. He worked closely with Noel, who was also nowhere to be seen. Literally everyone, but those two were there.

Noel usually did night and early morning coverage, so I expected her to be front and center. They, uh, they were working up in, um, Juniper? Ben asked. Got a call from a local. Something happened up there? I asked. Wildfire? No, no, nothing like that. No. Ben shook his head. No idea what, though. Something down in that valley. Erica shrugged. We never seen anything like this. A woman in a pantsuit walked in and two men stepped up to block the exit. We'd never seen any of these people before.

We usually use this room for morning briefings, but without the murmur of people sipping their morning coffee, the room seemed more sinister. The pantsuit woman held several folders and kept talking to someone over her earpiece. Out of all the people in the room, she seemed to be the one with the most answers. As to demand our attention, she slammed the folders down on the front desk. Hard. The room fell silent. There is a situation developing in Greenbrier Valley, the woman said.

There has been a small earthquake. There are no casualties. In many ways, this is an insignificant event in and of itself. How your news team even heard about it is beyond our comprehension. Erica gave a knowing smile. People around the valley love Noel in her early morning segments. She had the most recurrent viewers by a large margin. If something happened around the valley, she'd know about it.

Since this is a matter of national interest, she continued, we've had to clamp down to control the spread of information. We don't want to cause any unnecessary grievances. If it's such a small deal, why go to all this trouble? One of our editors, Charlie said, she never knew when to stay quiet. The woman in the pantsuit stopped, considered the question, and took a deep breath. I could tell she was stressed. It's a developing situation.

It might have some impact on the local wildlife, hence the presence of our friends at the USAC and the EPA. And what organization are you representing? Charlie continued. She just couldn't help herself from asking questions. The woman in the pantsuit might have tolerated a single interruption. But not too. One of the armed men covering the door walked up to Charlie, grabbed her by the arm, and lifted her to her feet. I'm just asking who you're working with. Charlie scoffed.

Is that a problem? Is there a problem telling me who we're working with? She refused a budge. The man tried to pull her away, but she twisted herself loose and stepped back. There was a murmur, as we could see things escalate from frustration to potential confrontation. Just tell us, Charlie continued. Are you with a DNR? NoAA. Why aren't you answering my question?

The man with the flannel shirt caught up with her, and she put her hands up. With no resistance and no provocation, he pushed her down on one of the tables, face first. He pushed his elbow into her neck, causing her to heave and cough like she was being strangled. He put her in zip ties in a matter of seconds and dragged her out in a show of force. Now everyone was off the floor. The crew tried to talk over one another in this storm of complaints and questions. One of the camera operators tried to get out and had a gun pulled on him. Things were escalating fast, and it only stopped when the woman in the pantsuit slammed down her folders again.

For a split second. I thought it was a gunshot. If we start working together, she began. Y'all might just have a career left by the end of the night. Since cooperation doesn't seem to be a given at this point, we must take some... Precautions. They took our phones away and patted us down to make sure we didn't have anything hidden. The woman in the pantsuit laid out a bunch of documents for us to sign.

We didn't get the time to read them, just a pen to sign them with, and a promise of pain if we refused. Once it was said and done, she left. I never saw her again. Over the next hour, they brought in more people. Two more cars of armed guards dressed in civilian outfits. Once they took us out of the meeting room, we were divided into three different teams. Marcus, our news director, was completely sidelined. Quarantine, sort of.

There was no clear organizational structure. It was all ordered remotely. We could hear the various agents receive instructions from an off-site central command. Something down in Greenbrier Valley, we suspected. A man arrived just past two in the morning. He was in his early 70s and dressed in a cheap navy blue suit. But I could tell he was the one to keep my eyes on. The other agents seemed to pay special attention to him.

He had this goofy little sunflower pin on his collar, something old and corporate. We were dragged back into the meeting room as the guard started handing out folders. All right. Well, we got three possible developments, the old man said. All equally possible, and we need to be prepared for each of them. There will be more people coming in through the night, and you'll be expected to stay here for the next 16 hours minimum. There were no questions.

We hadn't seen Charlie since she was carried off. They talked to Marcus about it, and ever since he'd. been quiet. This was a man who was usually standing at the front of the room, barking orders and taking charge. Now he looked like a beaten puppy. Those of you with green folders are to stay right here. The old man continued. Blue folders need to go with the gentleman by the door. Red folders, you're coming with me. All newswriters got differently colored folders. I got a red folder. It was ominous, to say the least.

We were taken into one of the back rooms along with an armed contingency. There was a seal on the folder, and I didn't want to take a chance on breaking it. A reporter, a video editor, an assignment editor, three people from the production crew, and one of the anchors. I can't tell you the name, but you'd recognize him if you lived in West Virginia in the 2010s. We all sat down around a small table. The old man followed us there, reminding us about the NDA we'd been forced to sign. Once we were all behind closed doors, he had the guards waiting for him outside.

For a moment, it was just the old man and us. I need your absolute discretion on this topic, he said. You can read your briefing. We broke the seals and went through our folders. page after page of details, pictures, graphs, and statistics. Mine was about diamond-back rattlesnakes, how there was an aggressive and invasive brood, and how people were supposed to stay far away from the lakes near Greenbrier Valley because of them. Something about an urgent call for people to stay out of various underground caves,

and to not be alarmed by the presence of wildlife specialists in the area. It all seemed hastily prepared. One of the editors raised his hand, and the old man allowed him to speak. Um, yeah, this doesn't make any sense, said the editor. You, uh, you know, there's no diamond bags like that around here, right? Doesn't matter. You're going to have to report it. The old man replied.

No, no, I mean, like, This is a lie, you know, it's fiction. They're native to, like, Georgia. Doesn't matter what it is and what it isn't. You're reporting it, the old man replied again. But I'm telling you, people are going to notice. They'll believe whatever we damn well tell them to believe, the old man replied.

He slammed his hand down. Hard. We all recoiled as one of the guards opened the door. He was waved aside and the door promptly closed. As tempers cooled, the old man stepped outside to have a smoke. The rest of us were left to discuss on our own for a while. We compared notes and we weren't thrilled about the implications. This was clearly a worst-case scenario kind of folder. And while the whole story about enraged rattlesnakes were fiction, it still highlighted something. If this scenario took place, there'd be armed guards surrounding a massive area. They spoke of a possible controlled burning of the undergrowth and closing several large roads. About three dozen homes would have to be evacuated.

Minimum. But it wasn't even about what they were saying. It was about what they weren't saying. This was clearly not about rattlesnakes, so what the hell were they afraid of? Whatever it was. It was bad enough for them to threaten to burn down several acres of forest in the Lewisburg area. Then I saw the eyes of our news anchor go wild. There's time stamps.

He said, this one is in four hours. To put that whole plan into action, with such short notice, they had to already have put things into emotion. When the old man returned, we were again separated and told to start working on the news segment. I was to write it up and summarize it, using the provided information and quotes to make it cohesive. There were some pictures and videos handed to our video editor. Our news anchor was told to perform a mock interview with a supposed

snake expert who could explain the situation. It was actually just one of the guards sitting in the adjacent room with a walkie-talkie. We were going to pre-record it all so that the segment could be played if a sudden evacuation was necessary. I found it strange, considering our station was nowhere near the area that officially needed to be evacuated, according to their own fictional scenario. There was something else brewing. I managed to catch a glimpse of Erica, and we exchanged a look across the hall. I asked one of the armed guards if I could use the restroom. He didn't seem to mind, but told me he'd check in on me in a few minutes.

I excused myself. I met Erica in the bathroom. I could tell she was flustered. She kept washing her hands as if trying to keep herself occupied. What'd you get? I whispered. What'd they tell you? They say they're hunting an escaped convict, armed and dangerous, you?

Rattlesnakes. Diamond-back rattlesnakes. Huh? Yeah, I replied. Rattlesnakes. We compared notes. The stories provided were completely different, but they had something in common. Evacuation of an area and the presence of armed guards.

Both could also be a future explanation for possible civilian injuries. What changed was the scale? Erica's story was much smaller in scope and somewhat more believable. Mine would have the same effect, but to a much larger area. Also, her story didn't involve setting fire to parts of the valley. It did mention locking doors, though, and not picking up hitchhikers. Erica was dumbfounded. She walked back and forth, scratching her head.

What the hell is this? What aren't they telling us? Yeah, this is not the time to ask questions. I replied, we got to stay low on this. But this is bullshit, she weezed. What the hell are we going to lie about next? Bigfoot? The Chupacabra?

The red piper birds that trick kids into the woods. I don't know. I replied, but it doesn't matter. We can't do shit right now. Erica didn't like it, but she knew I was right. And to be fair, that red Piperbird story has some merit to it. I know a guy. Our time was up, and we were moved to different rooms. I was plopped down in front of a laptop with a guard supervising my actions. They'd pulled our Wi-Fi, but I started sketching up a segment about the supposed diamond-back outbreak. Every paragraph was reviewed, and there was no revision. Everything was immediately sent to the studio or sent back with a list of notes. There were

protests from the crew, but they were quickly silenced. The video editors had little to nothing to work with, and with Noel and Peter, we knew people would start to ask questions. You can't just have an early morning segment without them. About ten, you know, something so outlandish. Not only were we lying, we were forced to do it badly. It's just a precaution, we were told. That's all there is to it. A precaution, it probably won't even err.

People were running all over the place. Some of them were screaming at each other in corridors. Someone was crying in the bathroom, and a guy from the production crew passed out from the stress. He looked like a ventriloquist dummy. sitting with his eyes half open as he slumped over in the corner. One of our assistants were trying to explain something to a guard and got a right hook straight to the jaw. Things were getting out of hand quickly, and I was under intense pressure to finish my writing.

At one point, we were all pulled out of our chairs and pushed up against the wall. When people started protesting, we were all told to be quiet. And for a few minutes, you could hear a pin-jured. drop. And somewhere in the distance, a helicopter. The guards started buzzing about. They talked about preparing for something. They brought out a kind of plastic paneling and duct tape from one of their trucks and forced one of the writing teams out of a meeting room on the bottom floor. The helicopter was coming our way. I heard screams about emergency landing as people scrambled to prepare something downstairs. I could see a little from a window on the top floor. I couldn't see where the helicopter

landed, but the sound it made was deafening. Even from inside the building, I had to cover my ears. I could see camouflage soldiers bringing something inside, someone screaming at the top of their lungs. A woman, I think, boil water, someone said. We need to boil water. "'Towls! We need more towels!' yelled another. There was intense debate. Even now, the news anchor was told to keep recording. The old man was debating something over his earpiece. I couldn't quite make it out, but I heard some colors mentioned.

It seemed that the red folder would be the likely outcome. Then at some point, it sounded like the red folder wouldn't be enough. They were already talking extensions and further contingencies. At one point, while the initial parts of the segments were exported for review, the old man pulled me aside. I was taken downstairs closer to the screaming and put in a small side room. I'm going to be honest with you, he said as we shuffled down the stairs. We might have to go off script on this one. There were no more physical folders to distribute, but they called this theoretical contingency,

the violet folder. It was just me and Ben working on it, seeing as the first folder had been completely abandoned, and we needed a new solid concept. The mildest scenario was no longer plausible, it seemed. The old man sat us down and complained that we needed something to explain a whole new set of events. We're talking maybe six or seven miles increased radius in each direction. Complete water shut down for all of Lewisburg for at least 36 hours. Semi-controlled fire at an unprecedented scale.

Intermittent power outages, waves of ground shocks that can cause everything from traffic distribution to bursting gas and sewage pipes. The old man said. I don't... Where do we start? Asked Ben. The old man threw up his arms in defeat. He looked ten years older.

I don't know, he admitted. I can't. It has to make sense. So just tell him the truth. I said, tell us the truth. We can help. For a moment, I could see he was considering it.

He was nodding, looking down, and searching for the right words. And then something changed. He held a finger up to his earpiece, and his eyes shifted. Someone was talking. Suddenly he shot out of his chair. You're not bringing them here, he told someone on the other end. We have civilians. You can't know.

No. And with that, he ran out of the room. Ben and I just sat there for a while. I tried to imagine what could be happening out there to cause this kind of response. I thought back on what the woman in the pantsuit had said. This is a situation developing in the Greenbrier Valley. That is a huge area. Was it that she just been unspecific, or was this something that really encompassed the

entire valley. Considering I was working on the violet folder, I was starting to consider the latter. I don't know what to do, Ben admitted. There's like, there's nothing like this that, you know, that I've worked on, I mean. None of us have. I added water, power, plumbing. Did he say earthquakes? Earth shocks, nodded Ben. Not at Ben. Not earth. earthquakes, but like a series of aftershocks. How do those come about? I asked. What the hell do we say?

I'm not a, I'm not a geologist, Ben said. The helicopter was leaving, but something was happening outside. People were going quiet in the hallways. From the safety of our little room, we could hear them bringing something in, something being rolled on squeaky wheels. Ben was about to peek out, but I pulled him back. We weren't getting involved. Not on my watch.

The screaming woman had gone quiet. Maybe she'd passed out. I could hear something banging on metal, a gargle followed by a snake-like hiss. Squeaking wheels kept turning, as something was slowly being pushed through the building. Then another banging sound, followed by a snap. Everything fell deafly quiet.

A second later. Chaos. Gunshots. Screams. Screeching metal. Wood breaking, glass shattering, automatic gunfire, hundreds of rounds sprayed in all directions. As the gunfire died down, I can,

could hear people running, scrambling for safety, doors being slammed shut with desperate voices calling out for barricades and ammunition. There's still people out there, a muffled voice came through. Get them out of air. And then, a completely alien noise. The best way I can describe it is a rattled breath. The same kind of rattle you hear when a big wasp struggles against a glass window, but bigger and organic. It was rhythmic, like someone taking deep, wounded breaths. Then there was a clicking, sharp dolphin-like clicking. It bounced against the walls, forcing an echo. It was such a sharp sound that it tickled

my inner ear making my head spin. I heard footsteps, several pairs, multiple individuals, and they were coming our way. Our room was just a little meeting room, a table with a set of laptops, five office chairs, two fake plants, and a gray carpet. That was it. But I got the feeling that if whatever was out there made its way in here, we'd be in trouble. This had to be the answer to whatever was happening down in the valley, and whatever it was, that sound was going to haunt my nightmares.

I pointed at the light switch, but Ben didn't get the hint. I tried waving my hand around, and that seemed to do the trick. He snapped back to reality, killed the light, and we both crawled under the table. Moments later, something wet slapped against the door. Ben covered his mouth to stifle a scream. I could still hear him whimper. Another slap against the door, this one higher up. I could hear another set of footprints further off,

counting at least three individuals in total. And then creaking metal. The handle was turning. Ben couldn't shut up. He was on the cusp of hyperventilation, and it seemed to just be a matter of time. You gotta stop, Ben, I whispered. You gotta stop, okay?

Just stop. I can't. I can't, no, no. It got worse. I put my hand over his mouth, forcing it shut. I could feel his hot breath on my fingers. The door handle turned. As something wet slapped its way into our room,

Only slightly muffled by the carpet. More clicking. More rattled exhales. Something viscous and warm dropping onto the floor in chunks. I could feel Ben's breathing growing more and more irregular. Faster. Something slammed down on the table above us. And Ben couldn't help it.

He yelped. For a moment, everything was silent, every room, every guard, every vehicle outside. I didn't even realize I was holding my breath until my face started feeling warm. And then one of the office chairs was flung across the room. Hissing, angry, animalistic hissing. And suddenly, Ben shuddered, it's standing on my foot. It's standing on my foot. My foot, Ben said as he grabbed a hold of me.

And in the next breath, he was pulled out from under the table. He wasn't even screaming anymore. Just wailing like a frightened child, struggling to understand his lungs. I heard something heavy come down on him. Over and over. Like a primate trying to crush a watermelon. Temporary lapses in his breathing as his. ribs were crushed, something snapping as his arm was twisted out of its socket, drops of

something warm spattering, hitting me across the face and the right side of my arm. I could have stayed. I could have hoped that they'd move on, and yet something in the back of my mind was telling me to run. So I did. Even in the dark I knew this place by heart. I scrambled out from under the table, burst through the door and headed straight for the exit. A dozen voices screamed at me from a dozen directions.

Go, come on. This way. Don't look back. Stay low, stay low. Something was panting, trying to catch up. Something wet. I could feel it brush against the back of my head, pulling away a handful of strands of of hair. The front doors opened as the man in the flannel shirt pulled me out. Gunfire echoed,

as whatever had been behind me retreated into the dark. I only caught a glimpse of them. Slick, oil black skin, eyes like a shark, deep and unfeeling, rows of syringe-like teeth, roughly humanoid, but only by shape. Someone yelled out that they got one. Emboldened, doors started to open. More gunfire, screams, and flashes of light. Yet all I could concentrate on was the deep, dark blood covering my hands, still dripping from my face.

After that, things went fast. I was pulled out and examined. They went for the segment about the escape, convict, claiming at least one known victim. Ben. They kept the story small and local. If you lived in the area back in 2013, it is possible you might have caught it on the morning and afternoon news on April 12th, a short mention of it on the 13th. We were under strict control, and they weren't kidding around when it came to threat. They made it very clear that a single war about this would not only jeopardize our career, but our very lives.

It's been ten years. I've changed a few locations, a few names, and a few details. But the gist of it's right there. Maybe they're still checking in on us from time to time to see if we're behaving. I don't think they are. I'm making this as a sort of witness to what really happened that day. There was no escaped convict, no knife attacks, but people did die that day. And I still haven't got the faintest clue as to why.

But I won't forget. I can't. And you'll never find me anywhere near West Virginia again.