Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Work at an Amazon Warehouse. We have strange rules | Scary Stories

Episode Date: July 16, 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 an Amazon Warehouse. We have strange 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!

My name's Jason. I'm 32 years old and I work in an Amazon warehouse out in the middle of nowhere. It's one of those massive fulfillment centers, surrounded by nothing but flat land, a few scattered trees, the kind of place where the wind always seems to be blowing, but you can't tell where it's coming from. I didn't plan on ending up here. Back in high school, I had dreams of becoming a graphic designer. I even took a few community college courses, but life has other plans. Bills piled up and I needed a job that paid immediately. That's so I found myself at this warehouse packing boxes and shipping them out day after day. The job is monotonous. I spent hours scanning items, placing them into boxes and sealing them up. The rhythm is almost

hypnotic and sometimes I catch myself going through the motions without even thinking. It's not fulfilling, but it pays daily, and that's what I need right now. My manager Jeff is a bald guy with a beer belly and a funness for old sitcoms. He often plays Golden Girls reruns in the break room, laughing louder than anyone else. Despite his quirks, he's a decent guy. He doesn't micromanage, which is good, lets us do our work as long as we meet our quotas. The break room is a small windowless space with a few vending machines and a coffee maker that produces something resembling coffee.

During breaks, I usually wrestle with a vending machine, which seems to have a mind of its own, and sip on the bitter coffee while watching whatever Jeff has on the TV. My coworkers are a mixed bunch. There's Mike, a high school dropout who always has a new conspiracy theory to share. Some of them seem true, actually. And there's Sarah, a former high school athlete who talks about her glory days on the track team. We don't have much in common, but we get along well enough. In a place like this, breakroom gossip makes the days go by a little faster.

Over the months, I've noticed some odd things about this warehouse. There are certain areas we're told to avoid in some packages that were instructed not to open under any circumstances. At first, I thought it was just company policy. But the more I observed, the more I realized there was something strange going on. I've started compiling a list of these peculiar rules and guidelines, almost like an unofficial employee handbook. I share it with the new hires, hoping to prepare them for the oddities they'll encounter. It's become a sort of right of passage, and most of them think it's a joke, until they

experience it for themselves. So here they are. Let's just say this Amazon warehouse has some strange rules. Rule number one, don't eat the beef jerky in the vending machine. It's not beef? I know that sounds like a joke, but I mean it, seriously, it's not beef. First few weeks on the job, I didn't think much of the vending machine. Look like every other one, metal, Glass front, rows of snacks with that little coil that turns. But then I noticed the packaging. Everything looked off. The colors were faded, like they'd been left out in the sun.

A lot of the rappers were so old I couldn't even read the names. The chips had logos I didn't recognize. Some of the candy bars looked homemade. The plastic was cloudy, and I couldn't find an expiration date on anything. But I was tired and hungry one chef, so I tried it anyway. I picked what looked like beef jerky. I was wrong. The texture was wrong.

Too soft in some places. Too crunchy in others. I chewed one bite and thought maybe I was imagining things. Then I felt it. Something sharp. I spit it out in my glove. and saw something pale and tiny in the mess. Look like a tooth?

That was the first and last time I touched the beef jerky. Thing is, even when the food doesn't bite back, the vending machine still messes with you. Mike tried to get a candy bar once and got a handful of toothpicks. Sarah paid for a Diet Coke and ended up with a single shoelace and a note that just said sorry in lowercase. written in blue marker on a torn scrap of cardboard. I watched it happen.

She stared at it like it was a prank, but her face went real quiet, like she suddenly remembered something bad. Sometimes the machine gives you coins instead of snacks, not quarters or dimes foreign stuff, weird shapes, soft metal, no markings. One looked like it had a hole punch straight through the middle. I kept that one.

Then I lost it. Or maybe it left. And don't ask what the sandwiches taste like. No one's made that mistake twice. The freakiest part is. The machine never stays in the same place. First time I saw it, it was in hallway B near the mopsinks. Next shift, it was gone.

A week later, it showed up near the same. the loading dock, just standing there, like it always been part of the building. I asked Sarah if she remembered it ever being there before. She said no, but didn't want to talk about it. Sometimes it's by the break room, sometimes it's next to the main exit. Once I saw it in the men's bathroom, just standing next to the sinks like it belonged there. No one sees it move. I asked Jeff once, trying to sound casual. He was watching Golden Girls reruns in the break room, drinking a beer out of a travel mug.

And I said, Hey, you know how stocks that vending machine? He paused for a second, then said, It was here or I got here, man. I got no idea. That was it. Like, that was a good enough answer.

So, yeah, don't trust that thing. Especially not the beef jerky. Rule number two, if you hear banging behind Doc Door 9, ignore it. Doc Door 9, that's hard to say, is different from the others. First, it's red, bright red, like fire truck paint, only smoother. No other door in the warehouse looks like that. Second, it's been welded shut. Four thick silver lines running across it in a big X.

It looks like someone wanted to make sure it never opened again. Jeff told me the freezer line burst back in 2009, said the whole back end of the warehouse turned into an ice box overnight. A few workers got frostbite, believe it or not. They sealed off dock door nine after that, said it was too dangerous. But then I asked why they welded it, not just locked it, not just blocked it, Well did it shut like they were afraid of something getting out. Jeff just said, Some doors are better off dead.

That's the kind of thing he says sometimes. I don't think he even hears himself. Now and then, during night shift, you'll hear it. The banging? Loud, heavy. Like someone throwing their whole body against the door. First time I heard it, I thought it was just noise from a tree.

truck pulling up light. But then I saw the loading schedule. No trucks were due that night. Second time, it sounded closer, more desperate. And something about it didn't sound right. Not random banging. It was rhythmic. Like knocking? Then silence. Mike says it's just air pressure from the freezer remnants. Says there's still pipes back They're still cold storage infrastructure, creaking and groan, and... Maybe. But I've heard voices, too. Sometimes, when it gets real quiet, you can hear something behind that door that sounds like talking.

I've heard my name. Only once. Jason. It said. Calm and clear. I kept walking. Everyone has a theory. Mike thinks a monster hunter used to work there. Says he read about someone online who hunted supernatural creatures and needed a place to stash him.

Claims they paid cash to rent out part of the warehouse under the radar. Said Doc Door 9 was where they kept one of them locked up. When the hunter disappeared, corporate shut the whole area off. Sarah thinks an employee got locked in there during the freezer burst. says he lost his mind and started screaming like an animal. Maybe he died. Maybe he didn't. Either way, she doesn't go near that side of the warehouse anymore.

Me. Well, I remember what my mama told me. She was a pastor's kid. Grew up in a tiny house next to a tiny church, the kind with folding chairs and an out-of-tune piano. She used to tell me stories about demons. Not the movie kind. The kind that smiled too wide.

The kind that sounded like your neighbor or your uncle or your friend until they got inside. She said, if something talks to you from behind a door and it doesn't show itself, don't talk back. That ain't no person, no matter what it sounds like. So when I walk past Dock Door 9, I keep my head down, I don't listen, I don't stop, and if I hear my name, I don't answer. Rule number three. Don't wear cologne or scented lotion.

When I first started working here, I used to wear this cheap cologne I got from a gas station. Smelled like pine and burnt sugar. I thought it made me smell better after a long shot. shift, I know. Sarah made fun of me for it, said it reminded her of her high school gym lockers and bad middle school dances. Then one night, something followed me to my car. I didn't see it. Not really. But I heard the gravel crunch behind me, like footsteps. And I saw the outline of something huge in the dark. Something too big to be a coyote. and too fast to be a person.

I unlocked my car and jumped in. I sat there for ten minutes, not breathing, just watching the trees. After that, I stopped wearing cologne. Jeff was the one who told me, pulled me aside one day and said, Yeah, don't wear scented stuff, Jason. It attracts them. Just like that? No explanation, no sarcasm, just advice.

Flat and simple. Them? I asked. He nodded. Where wolves hate Jasmine. Makes him crazy. Wendigos don't like axe spray. Think it smells like prey. There's others, too.

Come and clean. No sense. Shower, if you got to. He patted me on the shoulder and went back to watching Golden Girls. I didn't ask questions after that. Mike swears he saw something one night in the tree line, said it was seven feet tall and walked like it had too many joints. He thinks the company keeps something in the woods,

like a fence-line test or something military. I'm not sure what I believe, but I have noticed the security cameras outside, only point inward, not toward the forest. I also noticed Jeff keeps a tiny little bottle of baking soda in his locker. No shampoo, no soap, just a plain box of powder. He uses it to scrub up before every shift, just enough to smell like nothing. Sarah switched to unscended deodorant. She She doesn't like to talk about it, but I saw the claw marks on her car once. Three long scratches down the back bumper.

Like someone tried to peel it open. Rule number four. If you find a bone in a package, reseal it and put it back on the belt. You think I'm joking, but I have seen it happen more than once. You're packing a box, regular stuff, batteries or vitamins or I don't know. socks and tucked in the corner underneath the bubble wrap, there's something that looks like a piece of rib bone, or a finger. Once, I saw what looked like part of a jaw. It had teeth, tiny ones. Your first instinct is to stop everything. You look around for a manager. You expect alarms

or someone to come running, but nothing happens. No sirens, no warnings. No warnings. Just silence. You look closer. No return address. No shipping label. Just a tag that says for the institute. There may be 10 or 15 boxes like that every night. Not always bones. Sometimes it's something sealed and plastic that smells wrong. Or a jar filled with liquid that moves on its own. I don't ask questions. None of us do. The first time it happened to me, I stared at the bone for a solid minute. Look too big to be at dogs, too small to be at cows. I didn't want to touch it.

But I didn't know what else to do. That's when Jeff walked by. He didn't flinch. Just looked at the box and said, Red sticker, put it back on the belt. Not your fight. So that's what I did. There's a roll of red dot stickers by the tape guns now. You see something that doesn't belong, you slap one on, seal the box, and send it back down the line.

Don't put it in the return bin. Don't report it. Just let it go. And it always finds its way. Jeff always knows where to send it. Sometimes I think he doesn't sleep. Sometimes. I think he's the only one here who actually.

knows what this place does. Mike's got a million theories. Says the warehouse is part of a secret contract with some underground research group. Says Amazon made a deal with the government years ago. And now they ship more than just diapers and books. He says the Institute is real. Says they're the ones who handle the stuff regular people aren't supposed to see. I used to laugh at him.

No, I don't. Sometimes the institute boxes hum a little, just under the tape. A low, steady sound, like something mechanical, or maybe alive. One night, Sarah swore she saw one twitch. She marked it with two red dots, just in case. Now, whenever I'm packing and something feels wrong, I don't even open open the box all the way. I peek in, peel off a sticker, and I move on. Not my fight. It doesn't pay enough to be my fight. Rule number five, only take your 10-minute break in designated zones. We get two breaks per shift, 10 minutes each. Not a second more, not a second less. Jeff is very strict about that. You'd think it's because he's a company man, but it's not. It's because there are only three safe spots to take your break, and if you sit anywhere else,

something might find you. The designated zones are the break room, the chair cluster behind Station C, and the bench near the mop closet by hallway A. That's it? Nowhere else. Don't sit near Doc 9. Don't even walk near it during your break. I know one guy who did.

His name was Derek. He was new, maybe three days in. Tall guy, neck tattoo, always chewing gum. Thought the rules were jokes. He said he liked the quiet and wanted to take his break outside by the loading dock. We warned him. He rolled his eyes and went anyway. He didn't come back.

No one found a body either. His badge was still in the system. He never clocked out. Jeff said it must have been a personal emergency, and someone from HR cleared his locker before the end of the night. But I know what happened. There's a werewolf that stalks Doc Nine. It's not like the movies.

No shredded clothes, no half-man nonsense. Just a creature with long legs and thick arms and yellow eyes. Sarah swears she saw at once through the break room window, said it walked like it owned the place. The cameras don't catch it. We checked. Mike even pulled the footage from his phone one night and scrubbed through it. Nothing. But we still hear it.

Late breaks, especially toward the end of the shift, sometimes you hear breathing from outside. Not fast, not heavy. just slow and even like it's waiting sometimes you'll hear a howl I don't go near Doc 9 anymore not for anything

even when Jeff asked for help move in pallets I find an excuse one night I saw a streak of fur by the loading ramp just a flash low to the ground like it was crawling No wind, no noise, just a flash.

That's all it took. Now when I take my ten, I sit in the plastic chair behind Station C. I face the wall. I sip bad coffee, and I chew old gum and count down every second until I can get back to work. It's safer that way. Rule number six. You clock out before sunset. Always, no matter what.

You'd think a company like Amazon would love overtime, but not here, not at this warehouse. No one stays past sunset. Not the workers, not the janitors, not even Jeff. There's no warning siren or loud bell when the sun starts going down. You have to watch the windows, check the shadows, and keep an eye on the clock. When the sky starts turning orange, you drop whatever you're doing and head straight to the front office and clock out. Doesn't matter if you're in the middle of packing a box. Doesn't matter if a manager asks you to stay.

Doesn't matter if you're two minutes from finishing a shift. When it gets close to dark, you leave. And you leave fast. I learned that my first month here. I stayed late one night. Not on purpose. I just didn't realize how fast the sky changes out here. I was working the belt near the back wall when everything got quiet.

I looked up and saw the sunset bleeding through the windows. Pink, orange, purple, I thought. All right, ten more minutes and I'm done. That's when Sarah grabbed my arm and said, You need to go. Now. I've never seen her look. look that serious. We didn't even stop to log out properly. Just ran for the clock and hit the

button. Jeff was already outside, holding his keys like a weapon. He looked me dead in the eye and said, Don't ever cut it that close again. Mike thinks the night brings out real monsters, says they live under the warehouse, and they only come up after dark, says the building, changes once the sun sets, gets taller, feels heavier, like something wakes up inside the walls. I don't know if that's true, and I don't want to. What I do know is this. When the sky turns orange, I stop everything. I grab my things, clock out, and I get in my car.

Because this place isn't safe after dark. Whatever lives here gets stronger then. And you do not want to be here. Rule number seven. Monsters are real. If you want to survive, believe it. I wasn't sure if I wanted to add this rule. It felt too big, too final.

Like saying it out loud would make it harder to ignore. But after everything I've seen, everything I've heard, I knew I had to write it down. Monsters are real. Actually real. Not just animals that look weird in the dark. Not just stories made up to scare kids. Not just rumors.

Passed around during night shift to keep things interesting. I've seen too much. I've lived through too much of it to pretend anymore. They're not people in costumes. They're not misunderstandings. They're not tricks of the light. They're monsters. Different kinds, different rules.

Some walk. Some crawl. Some mimic voices. Some just wait. But they're all here. And they all know us. Some of them stay in the corners of the warehouse. Some show up and shift.

shipments. Some move the vending machine when no one's watching. Some follow the scent of Jasmine and some sleep behind red doors and some. Well, some just wait for you to break the rules. Sarah's going to quit. I can tell. She doesn't talk as much anymore. Doesn't joke like she used to. She keeps looking at the sky through the narrow break room window. Times or clock out to the minute. packs her stuff before the final hour. Mike won't last long after that. He's all talk and big stories, but he needs someone like Sarah around to keep him balanced.

Without her, he'll either dig too deep or give up entirely. Either way, he won't stay. And mean? Well, I've started looking for another job. Something slower, something far from here. Even if it doesn't pay daily, even if I have to stretch pennies. I can't keep coming back here.

There's something very wrong with this place. I've written these rules for whoever comes next. The newbies. The ones who show up looking for quick cash and think this is just another warehouse job. It's not and it never was. Take the money. Save what you can.

And while you're working here, follow the rules. Every single one. Don't eat the beef jerky. Don't listen to the red door. Don't wear scented lotion. Don't open the box with bones. Don't take your break in the wrong spot. Don't stay past sunset.

And most of all, remember this. Monsters are real. This job is not for keeps. You're not supposed to stay. Get in, get paid, get out. That's the only way. Me, I'll be gone soon. And when I leave, I will leave these rules taped to the back of the locker door.

Look for them there. And follow them. It's the only way to survive. Because there are real monsters here. And they're hungry.