Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Work at an Amusement Park called Wonderworld. We have Seven STRANGE RULES | Scary Stories

Episode Date: March 14, 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 ninerioarts          Original YouTube link: I Work at an Amusement Park called Wonderworld. We have Seven STRANGE RULES.        Merch: lighthousehorror.shopFor more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | PatreonMusic:Lucas King - YouTubeMyuu - YouTube IncompetechDarren Curtis Music - YouTube Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

I never wanted this job. Let's start there. My name's Spencer. Back in college, thought I had my life figured out. I was going to graduate with a business degree, get some shiny desk job in a shiny building, and work my way up the ladder like everyone said I should. But life has a funny way of throwing you off course. One failed class turned into two, and before I knew it, I was falling behind. The pressure to catch up felt like trying to dig my way out of quicksand. I told myself I'd take a semester off, just one, a break to clear my head. My parents didn't like that idea. Neither did my friends.

But I thought I'd bounce back. I didn't. The longer I stayed out, the harder it was to go back. College isn't built for people who pause. The world moves on without you, and soon you're stuck in place, just watching it go. I needed something steady, something I could rely on while I figured things. out. And that's how I ended up at Wonderworld. Wasn't supposed to be permanent. I figured I'd work here for a little while, save some cash, and eventually go back to school. It's been seven years. I started as a ride operator.

Back then, my job was simple. Pull the lever, smile of the guest, make sure nobody threw up on the seat. It wasn't glamorous, but the pay was better than I expected. Way better than it should have been. I didn't think too hard about that. Why question good money, right? But things changed. They always do. I worked my way up to manager, which sounds more impressive than it is. I don't sit in an office or wear a suit. Mostly I walk around the park making sure everything runs smoothly. I tell people what to do, fill out reports, handle complaints, and step in when something goes wrong. A lot goes wrong. More than you'd think. It's not a bad gig all things considered. The hours can be rough, especially during the summer when the park is packed, but the paycheck makes it worth it.

I've even got benefits, which is more than most of my friends can say. Still, if I'm being honest, money is one of the two reasons I've stayed. The other reason, I can't leave. I can't leave. I can't That sounds dramatic. I know. But it's true. When you sign the contract to work year, you're signing more than just a piece of paper. It's binding. In a way, I can't quite explain.

I don't mean they'll hunch you down if you quit or anything. It's just complicated. I'm getting ahead of myself, though. Let me tell you about Wonderworld. It's an amusement park, obviously. Open back in the 80s, during the boom of theme parks trying to ride Disney's coattails. And it shows. You can tell they were going for that same kind of magic.

The colorful rides, the cheerful mascots, the themed areas that make you feel like you've stepped into another world. But Wonder World doesn't have Disney's polish. It's like looking at a knockoff. A good knockoff, sure, but still. Kids love it, though. Families come from all over to spend the day here. We've got roller coasters, spinning teacups, a log ride, and all the usual stuff you'd expect. There are theme park sections, candle cove, galactic frontier, enchanted forest, and more. The food is overpriced. The mascot costumes don't get washed, and we've been using the same theme music for decades. It's not a bad place,

kind of charming in its own way. But as an employee, you start to notice things that guests don't, little things that don't quite add up. And that's where the rules come in. There are a lot of rules at Wonderworld. Most of them are what you'd expect. Show up on time, wear your uniform, smile at the guess. But then there are the other rules,

the ones they don't tell you about during orientation. the ones you only learn once you've been here long enough. Like I said, I'm getting out of myself. You're new here, and there's a lot to cover. Welcome to the Wonder World family. Before the park even opens, there's something you need to know. A rule?

Probably the most important one. And it's not something they mention in the employee handbook. Always wear your ID. when using the underground. Yeah, I should probably explain what that is. See, underneath the park, there's a whole network of back entrances, hallways, and strange little rooms we just call the underground. It's like a secret city beneath the park, but instead of bright lights and cheerful music, it's all bare concrete, flickering bulbs, and the constant hum of machinery. The Underground is how employees move around without the guests noticing.

It keeps the illusion alive. If you're a kid at Wonderworld and you see someone dragging a trash bag or pushing a mop around, kind of kills the magic, you know. The Underground fixes that. We can pop him through one door, disappear below the surface, and come back up somewhere completely different. It's practical, efficient even. But it's not normal.

You'd think a set of hallways and back rooms wouldn't be a big deal. I mean, how complicated could it be? But the underground doesn't follow the rules of logic, or physics for that matter. I don't know who designed it, or if anyone actually did. But it doesn't make sense. Doors don't always open to where they should. Some of them open to brick walls, and others lead to empty rooms. with a single red chair in the middle,

there are staircases that lead right up to the ceiling and doors that drop off to a garbage chute down below. The maps don't help much either. There's a few scattered around the underground, but they're old and faded, with water stains bleeding out the lines. Half the time, the map doesn't match the actual layout. Hallways that are supposed to be there just aren't.

Other times, there are doors where a hallway is supposed to be, or vice versa. I know it sounds ridiculous, but trust me, this place will mess with your head. And that's why you always wear your ID. It's a little plastic badge on a lanyard with your name and photo printed on the front. You'll get one when you start. At first, I thought it was just for security purposes, you know, so people could tell you're not some random person wandering around. But it's more than that.

The ID keeps you from getting lost. I can't tell you how it works, because honestly, I don't know. It's not like it comes with a built-in GPS or anything. But when you've got your ID on, the underground doesn't seem as confusing. The hallways feel shorter. The doors lead where they should. and those weird rooms with a single red chairs, well, you don't find them, at least not as often. My grandma used to tell me stories about spirits who liked playing tricks on people.

They'd get you lost, turn you around, make a place feel like a maze when it wasn't. She said the only way to escape was to turn your clothes inside out. I thought it was just a superstition, something old people said to scare kids and to be behaving. But after working here, I am not so sure. The underground feels like one of those places where spirits play. Or maybe it's something worse. Either way, the ID works like that trick my grandma talked about. It keeps you grounded. Let's the place know you're not a stranger. I guess it recognizes you as part of the park. And without it, your fair game. You're fair game. I've learned that the hard way.

One time, back when I was still a ride operator, I forgot my ID at home. Didn't think it was a big deal. The park wasn't open yet, and my shift was at the carousel. But I needed to grab a toolkit from the supply closet in the underground first. I thought I knew the way. The first hallway looked at normal. Bare concrete walls, a few metal doors, a sign pointing to the near. nearest exit. I passed one of the old maps and ignored it. Then I took a left, or was it a right?

The hallway stretched longer than it should have. Much longer. And there were more doors than there should have been. All of them unmarked. The supply closet was supposed to be right next to the entrance, but it wasn't there. I tried searching for it, opening random doors and hopes of finding the toolkit, but most of them opened up to a solid brick wall. Then I saw the stairs. They went up, narrow and steep, disappearing upwards. I thought maybe they led to the surface, so I started climbing, but the stairs didn't end. It felt like hours. Maybe it was just a few minutes, I don't know. I realized I wasn't getting anywhere. The stairs just stopped at a blank ceiling. I turned to go back, but the staircase didn't look the same.

The straight staircase I'd climbed was now a spiral, curling downward into the light below. As I looked down, I noticed landings. Floors I didn't remember passing on the way up. Some had doors, others just empty hallways. None of them looked familiar. I turned away from the impossible staircase and heard, I breathed back the way I came. I kept walking, hoping that if I retraced my steps, I'd find my way back.

Eventually, I saw an exit. The metal door was the same as the others, but a red sign plastered on the front told me this was the way out. I pushed through and stepped outside, expecting to find myself near the supply closet where I'd started. I wasn't. I was on the other side of the park. The entrance of Galactic Frontier stood ahead. The Ferris wheel loomed in the distance. But that wasn't right.

I'd entered the underground near the carousel in the center of the park. There was no way I should be here. I didn't think about it. I didn't try to explain it. I just went home, grabbed my ID, and I made sure I never forgot it again. The underground hasn't messed with me since. Not everyone has been so lucky. There's a kid named Aaron who started working here around the same time as May.

He thought the rules were more like suggestions. One day, he went into the underground without his ID. He didn't come back for days. We found him three days later, curled up by the emergency exit. He was shaking, mumbling about back rooms and doors that opened to nowhere. He stopped talking much after that day. Now, I always wear my ID, even above ground. It's like a second skin, a little piece of plastic I never take for granted.

So if you're new here, take my advice. Always wear your ID. Here's a rule you need to know. Always carry black licorice. No, it's not for you. I don't care if you have a sweet tooth. if you're the kind of weirdo who actually likes the stuff. Don't touch it.

The licorice isn't there for you to snack on during your shift. It's for the night visitors. Let me explain. Wonder World is open 24 hours, at least according to the ads. What they don't tell you is the park isn't open for regular guest after sundown. At night, there are no families, no laughing kids, no tourist with cameras. The people or things that come to the park after dark aren't like the daytime guests. They aren't human.

I don't know where they come from. All I know is they've been coming here long before I started, and as long as we stick to the rules, they leave us alone. That's the deal. No questions, no curiosity. So what about the licorice? It turns out monsters like sweets. Even my grandma used to say that.

And that's where the black licorice comes in. You're required to carry a small bag during your shift and have an extra bag in your locker. It's not optional. If you run into one of the night visitors, and you will, you'll know them by the smell. They smell like old cigarette. Your second clue is the red coat. Every single one of them wears red. Sometimes it's like a trench coat, other times short like a jacket.

But it's always the same color. When you sense them nearby, don't look at them directly. Stop. Take out a piece of licorice and offer it with your hand. Let them take it. Then step aside. Do not watch them walk away. Don't ask where they're going.

Just let them be. If you're on the night shift, there are extra rules to follow. First, leave three candied apples at the base of the Ferris wheel every evening. No exceptions. They say something bad happened there when the park was being built. No one knows what. But whatever it was left the mark. If you ask around, some of the older employees will tell you it was a construction accident.

A worker died on the job. The park was being built on a tight budget, and safety gear wasn't exactly a priority. One wrong step? Now is it. It's a peace offering. A way to keep things calm. Second, if you see a child walking around, don't call out to them. I know it sounds cruel, but that's not a real kid.

Not anymore. Offer them cotton can. and point to the exit. If they take it, good. If not, walk away. There's nothing else you can do. There's one more thing you'll need. White chalk.

Always keep a piece in your pocket. If you feel something, grab your arm and no one's there, do not panic. Do not try to pull away. And whatever you do, don't turn around. Just stop, pull out the chalk, and draw a circle around yourself on the ground. Stay inside the circle. Don't move for an entire hour.

That happened to me once. It was my first week on the night shift. I was walking through the underground, heading toward the exit near Candle Cove. And then I felt it. Fingers wrapping around my arm. The air smelled like. cigarette smoke. Every instinct told me to turn to pull away, but I knew the rules. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the chalk, and started drawing a circle on the ground. My hands were shaking so

badly. The line was crooked, but I didn't care. The second I stepped inside the circle, the grip on my arm just went away. I stood there for a long time. Eventually, the air stopped, smelling like cigarettes, and I just knew it was safe to leave. When I looked at my arm later, there was a bruise shaped exactly like a hand. The next morning, my co-workers noticed it right away. No one asked what happened. They didn't need to. Everyone here knows what a hand-shaped bruise means. It's not something we talk about. So carry black licorice, keep some shock in your pocket, you will need it. Do not talk to the mascots.

That's one of the rules they drill into you when you start working here. They don't explain why. They don't tell you what will happen if you do. They just make it clear, leave them alone. The park has a bunch of mascots, just like any other amusement park. Bright, cartoonish characters with oversized heads, waving at guests, taking pictures, making kids laugh. Normal stuff.

But if you work here long enough, you start to notice things that don't make sense. No one sees them enter or leave. At most theme parks, mascots have shift changes. You'll see them duck into back rooms, swap out performers, take breaks. Maybe take a smoke or sip on a water bottle.

But not here. The mascots at Wonder World are just there. Always in character, always moving around the park, always waving and posing and entertaining. There's no schedule. No employee names attached to them. No locker rooms or storage areas where they keep the suits. If you ask management who's inside the costumes, they won't answer. They'll change the subject or act like they didn't hear you. The suits don't get washed either. You'd think they'd need to be cleaned, aired out, repaired. But no one ever sees these ones getting cleaned.

No one even knows where they go at the end of the day. You can walk through every storage room in the underground, check every maintenance closet, and you won't find a single mascot costume hanging up. Try as you might. You'll never catch a mascot taking off their head. You'll never see them adjust their gloves, Or sit down to rest or drink a sip of water.

Even if you follow them all day, they'll just keep going. And that's where the rumors start. Some people say the mascots are real. Not real, as in there's a guy inside the suit. Real? As in they aren't suits at all. It's just a story, of course. an urban legend that's been passed around by employees for years.

Everyone has their own version, but they all start the same way, with a group of missing teenagers. Back when the park first opened in the 80s, it wasn't open 24-7 like it is now. It had regular closing hours, and when the gates shut, they shut. Security would do a sweep, make sure no one was left inside,

and that was that. But one night, a group of friends decided to stay after hours. They were the first ones inside that morning, racing past the crowds when the gates opened. They spent all day riding the coasters, eating junk food, messing around. And when the park started shutting down, they didn't leave. They hid. It wasn't hard back then. The underground wasn't as heavily monitored, and there were places you could duck into

if you wanted to avoid security. The plan was simple. Wait until the park was empty, then sneak out and have the whole place to themselves, a private playground for the night. Except they never made it out. The next morning, they were gone. No bodies, no signs of a struggle,

and their parents raised hell. The police swarmed the park. Reporters covered the story for weeks, but nothing turned up. It was like they just disappeared. And then the mascots appeared. The park introduced them just a few days later. Brand new characters nobody had seen before.

Management made a big deal about it. Big press event, lots of excitement, something to distract from the missing kids. The weird thing. There were five teenagers who went missing. And the park introduced, five new mascots. Some people think that's just a coincidence.

Others say it's not. Some say the five were stuffed into the costumes. Their bodies hidden away beneath layers of fabric and foam. That their limbs were broken. Their mouths stitched shut. Forced to perform forever. Others say there were never costumes to begin with. that whatever happened to those people that night, it changed them.

That they became something else. Something that never needed to eat or drink or rest. That they became the mascots. And that's why the suits don't get washed. That's why you'll never catch them taking a break. That's why you don't talk to them. Most of the time, the mascots stick to the park. They walk around in the oven.

open, doing their usual routine. But every now and then, employees have seen them after hours, wandering through the underground, standing perfectly still in dark corners, waiting. For what? Well, no one knows. But if you ever find yourself alone in the underground and you hear footsteps behind you, Don't turn around. If you're walking through a back hallway and you see a mascot standing at the end watching you, keep walking. If you catch a glimpse of one after sundown standing where they shouldn't be, where no guests are around, just keep moving.

Because the rules are clear. Do not talk to the mascots, especially not at night. and never in the underground. There's one last story about this park you should know. It's the story of how it got built. You see, people come here for fun. They bring their families, ride the coasters, eat overpriced food,

and take pictures with the mascots. They don't think about what's beneath their feet. They don't know what's under the bright paint, the clean sidewalks, the towering rides. But we do. Back when the park was being built, they were on a tight deadline. Investors wanted it finished fast. Money was pouring in, but every day of delay meant more cost, more questions, more pressure from the people funding it. So the higher-ups did what higher-ups always do. They cut corners. Safety gear was cheap.

Work hours were long, warnings from engineers were ignored. The focus was speed. not safety. Then, on one cold morning, everything went wrong. The scaffolding collapsed while workers were pouring cement. One minute, the structure was standing. The next it wasn't. Dozens of men fell, the metal and wood crashing down with them. Some were crushed under beams, some were knocked unconscious. But the worst part was the cement. It didn't stop. It kept flowing, swallowing everything beneath it. The people who could move tried to claw their way out. The ones who couldn't just disappeared under the wet concrete. It should have been an emergency. It should have been all hands on deck rushing to pull them out. But it wasn't. Instead, everything stopped. The area was sealed off. No ambulances, no firefighters, no rescue teams, just silence. The higher-ups didn't want bad press. They didn't want headlines about death and negligence tarnishing their shiny new park. They didn't want reporters sniffing around, asking how a construction site could be so unsafe.

that a dozen men were buried alive. So they waited. Hours passed. Some say an entire day. By the time they let anyone in to start digging, it was too late. The cement had hardened. The bodies that weren't recovered became part of the foundation. No one talks about it. There's no memorial, no plaque, nothing to acknowledge what happened. Officially, it's just a rumor. The park denies everything. If you ask the managers, they'll tell you it's an urban legend, a ghost story meant to scare new employees.

They say there was an accident, sure, but nothing that bad. No deaths, no cover-up. But if you work here long enough, you start to wonder. Certain areas of the park just don't feel right. The Ferris wheel especially. People don't like standing too close to it at night. Even the guests seem to avoid it without realizing why. They take their pictures from a distance, but they don't linger.

Employees do their closing duties quickly. The night shift workers leave the candied apples at the base without saying a word. There are other spots, too. Some doors in the underground don't open, and no one remembers what's behind them. Some walls sound hollow when you knock, but there's no way to get inside. Maintenance workers say there are pipes and vents that lead nowhere, sealed off spaces that don't match the blueprints. It's like parts of the park were never finished, or like something was built over, covered up. I've walked those walls.

I've seen the way some sections don't quite fit, like they were patched over, instead of fixed. I've seen the places where concrete doesn't match, where the walls are just a little too thick. Maybe the rumors are true. Maybe the bodies are still down there. Maybe that's why the contract exists. Because once you sign it, you finish it. That's the last rule. Never break employee contract. People joke about it. The way the paper is work is weirdly specific. The way it doesn't just cover the usual stuff. Hours, responsibilities, payroll, but something else.

Something that makes it clear. Once you sign, you're here until the end. You always finish your shift. You never walk out in the middle of a job. You never break contract. And if you do, something happens. I've seen it before. New hires who panic. People who don't take it seriously. They get spooked by the mascots or by the underground or by something they can't explain. And they think they'll just quit.

They think they can just leave. They don't make it far. One guy tried. He was supposed to be working the tilter whirl, but something rattled him. I don't know what. You wouldn't tell me. He just turned pale, muttered something under his breath, and started walking, then running. He was almost at the staff exit when he tripped. It looked like nothing. A small crack in the pavement. His foot caught, and he went down hard. The sound his arm made when it hit the ground was wrong.

A sharp, wet crack that made everyone around him freeze. I saw him afterward. Curled up on the pavement, his face twisted in pain. His forearm was bent the wrong way. They called medical. Took him to the back, and that was that. He finished his shift. Even with his arm mangled, they made him sit at a booth, handing out maps and answering questions. The contract isn't normal. People don't just leave Wonderworld. Now without something happening. If you break contract, you get hurt. It's always an accident.

When you sign on to work here, you get a start date and an end date. That's how it works. The contract isn't forever, but it has to be completed. You can't quit halfway through. You can't walk out in the middle of a shift. No matter what happens, you finish your time here. And when your contract is up, well, you can leave. If you choose to stay, if you renew because the money's good, that's all on you.

But once you sign again, you're locked in until the next end date. If you try to leave before then, things happen. It's never anything obvious. No mysterious disappearances, no outright violence, just bad luck. Freak accidents. Things that could happen to anyone. except they always happened to the ones who try to break contract. One woman worked here for five years before she decided to move on.

She put in her notice, worked her last shift, said her goodbyes. She was happy, excited for something new. The next day, she slipped in her driveway and dislocated her knee. Just like that, her new job had to wait. months of recovery. By the time she was walking again, the job had already hired somebody else. Another guy left because of the underground. Said he had a bad feeling about it, that he couldn't keep working somewhere that made him feel watched all the time.

He quit, packed up and moved across the city. A week later, his kitchen caught fire. A gas leak, they said. His apartment didn't burn down. But the damage was bad enough that he had to move back in with his parents. He was unemployed for almost a year after that. And some people don't even make it that far. A new hire quit after just two shifts.

He hadn't even been here long enough to learn the rules, but something spooked him. He didn't show up for his first shift, didn't answer his phone. The next morning, we heard he fell down the stairs in his apartment building. Nothing too serious. Few bad bruises. A sprained wrist. Enough to put him out of work for a while.

It's never a punishment, not exactly. Just bad luck. A reminder. The contract doesn't let you go until it's time. Nobody knows if there's a way out that doesn't end in an accident. Some people retire. Some people just stop showing up. And we never hear about it.

them again. Maybe they're fine. Maybe nothing happened to them. But I don't think so. Because the ones who are still here, we don't try to leave. Well, I've got three weeks left. After years of working here, after all the shifts, the long nights, the rules I had to follow without question I am almost done. My contract is finally coming to an end. I counted the months, then the weeks, then the days. Soon, I'm going to be walking out of this place for good. I don't plan on coming back. I've saved up enough to start fresh somewhere else.

That's why I stayed as long as I did. The money was good, too good. It's why a lot of people stay longer than they should. It's why people renew. Every time your contract ends, the park offers you more. A raise, better benefits, a bigger bonus. They make it easy to say yes, and that's how they keep you. I used to think it was just a job. At first, it felt like any other workplace. Stressful, weird co-workers, annoying customers. But as time went on, I stopped pretending things here were normal. They aren't.

I don't know what this place is. I don't know why the underground doesn't make sense, why the mascots never take off their heads, why the guests who visit at night aren't like us. I don't know what would happen if we stopped leaving the candied apples at the Ferris wheel. I don't know what the contract actually is, or why breaking it always leads to an accident.

And you know what? I don't want to find out. I thought about staying. Even now, part of me is tempted. It'd be easy. I know all things work here. I know the rules. I know how to keep myself safe. The money is more than I'll make anywhere else,

and I could sign another contract. Stay a little longer, build up even more savings. But that's how it starts. A little longer turns into another year, then another and another. and before you know it, you're one of the employees who never leaves, the ones who've been here since the beginning, the ones who talk about the rules like they aren't rules at all, just facts of life. I don't want to end up like that. So when my contract ends, I'm walking out those gates

and I am not coming back. But someone has to take my place. And that's where you come in. You signed the contract, didn't you? That's why you're here. That's why I told you all of this. So you'll be ready. Because the rules... They aren't just stories. They aren't rumors.

They keep you safe. They keep you here. You'll see what I mean soon enough. Don't ask questions. Don't try to make sense of it. Do your job. Finish your contract. And when it's time to leave, leave.

If you can. I hope my story's helped, rookie. You do well to remember him. Welcome to the Wonderworld family.