Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Work at Disneyland Ohio. They have STRANGE RULES

Episode Date: June 5, 2026

Join Lighthouse Horror on Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | PatreonNew Merch out! https://hauntedstuff.com/Art & Credits: ninerioartsMusic by Lucas King, Myuu, Kevin MacLeod & Darren CurtisOriginal YouTube link: I Work at Disneyland Ohio. They have STRANGE RULES. Copyright © 2025 Lighthouse Horror. All rights reservedThank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this 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 Wayne Roberts, and for the last 11 months, I've worked at Disneyland, Ohio. If you've never been in northern Ohio before, there's one thing you should understand first. Some people joke about Ohio online. Cornfields, flat roads, whatever. But up near Lake Erie, different story, especially in the summer. Every year, millions of people drive north towards Sandusky for Cedar Point. Families from Cleveland, teenagers from Columbus, guys from Michigan riding motorcycle, up route too with girlfriends hanging onto their backs you see license plates from everywhere once June hits Pennsylvania Indiana Kentucky sometimes even Florida

and honestly I get it cedar points incredible you ever ride Millennium Force at night with a lake wind hitting your face at 90 miles an hour you'll understand immediately why people love that place steel vengeance feels like the tracks are trying to kill you maverick launches so hard it punches the air out of your lungs. Even top thrill dragster when it was running right sounded like a fighter jet taken off every few minutes. Whole place smells like sunscreen, lake water, engine grease, and funnel cakes. As a kid, I loved it there. My dad used to drive me up from Cleveland every August before school started again. We'd leave it like six in the morning to beat traffic. Stop at some gas station

off Route 6 for coffee and donuts. Then spend 12 straight hours walking the park. until my legs felt like concrete. That was the good version of Northern Ohio. The normal version. What most people don't know is that if you keep driving north late enough, really late. You can find another amusement park out there. And trust me, it's a hell of a lot scarier than Cedar Point.

I found it by accident. At least I think I did. Last year, I was broke. I mean completely. broke. I'd been bouncing between jobs around Cleveland for almost two years after getting laid off from a warehouse near Brook Park. I worked overnight stocking in a grocery store for a while, then drove a forklift at a shipping center outside Illyria. Did some landscaping one summer. None of it stuck. Every job either paid garbage or cut hours the second business slowed down. By October I was behind on rent,

my truck needed brakes and my checking account was sitting at negative 200. And that's when I saw the listing. It wasn't online normally. I found it buried on some weird local hiring board while scrolling through overnight jobs at like two in the morning. No company logo, no photos, just a blank screen with white text. Overnight park operations, Sandusky region, midnight to 5 a.m., transportation required. Excellent pay.

That was it. No business name, no details. But the pay listed underneath was insane. Almost triple what I've been making at the warehouse. I figured it was some kind of seasonal Halloween attraction, maybe one of those haunted amusement parks that hire actors and cleanup crews during October. I applied immediately. No interview, no resume request.

About an hour later, I got an email with a location pin in one sentence. arrive at 1145 p.m. Do not be late. That should have been enough warning right there, but when you're broke enough, your brain starts ignoring red flags. The drive took about an hour, hour and a half from Cleveland. I remember most of it because the whole night felt strange even before I got there. The roads got emptier, the farther north I drove. Once I got past Sandusky, traffic basically disappeared completely.

Just long stretches of dark high. highway, cutting through fog, drifting off Lake Erie. Every now and then I'd pass some old motel with half the lights burned out, or a closed bait shop sitting empty near the lake. The fog kept getting thicker, too. Not normal fog, either. Stuff looked heavy, dense, like smoke rolling across the asphalt. Around 11.40 p.m., my GPS started glitching, screen flickering, route,

disappearing and reappearing. And then the map just froze completely. And that's when I saw the lights. At first I honestly thought it was Cedar Point off in the distance. I could see glowing towers through the fog and hear faint music somewhere ahead. But the closer I got, the more wrong it looked. The lights were different colors. Not bright amusement park lights either. Softer, older looking somehow. And then I saw the gate. Massive iron rising out of the fog beside the road with giant glowing letters overhead. Disneyland, Ohio. I actually laughed out loud when I saw it. Thought it had to be some kind of joke. Because obviously everybody knows there's no Disneyland in Ohio. But after I'd work there a while,

Shane finally explained the name to me. According to him, Disneyland, Ohio was built in 1915 along Lake Erie, decades before the real Disneyland. He said this place was the original idea. A park built for ghosts, monsters, demons, and the dead. One night I asked him why they called it Disneyland at all. Shane just shrugged and lit another cigarette. And then he told me people around Sandusky had theories.

about the place for decades. Occult groups. Freemasons. Some even claim that Disney family had ties to circles like that, and that Walt Disney himself was involved with Freemasons and other secretive groups

interested in the occult. None of it was ever proven, but according to Shane, Disneyland, Ohio came first and that Walt Disney knew about it. More than that, some believed he based his entire Disneyland

off the original park built along Lake Erie back in 1915. I asked him if you actually believed any of that. He stared out toward the castle for a few seconds before answering. After working here, I think people know a lot more about monsters than they pretend to. And honestly, after everything I've seen, I... I'm not completely sure Shane was wrong. Because the first time I pulled into the parking lot, I realized something was very off.

The parking lot was full, not just crowded, full, thousands of cars, except most of them looked old, really old, rust-covered station wagons, huge Cadillacs from the 50s, burned up pickup trucks, an ambulance with shattered windows. I even saw what looked like an old hearse parked crooked near the entrance. and the people walking toward the gates. At first they look normal. Then I started noticing things. A woman in a wedding dress with half her face burned black.

A little boy carrying a balloon with muddy water dripping from his clothes. An old man in a confederate uniform smoking a cigarette with a hole straight through his neck. Nobody acted strange about it. They just walked calmly. toward the park entrance, while old carnival music echoed through the fog. And then I saw Elvis. I swear. White jumpsuit, black hair, standing near a popcorn cart talking to two women dressed like

they'd stepped out of the 1940s. And that's when I almost got back in my truck and laughed. But before I could, somebody knocked on my window. I jumped so hard, I hit my knee on the steering column. A skinny guy in a yellow employee jacket stood outside holding a clipboard and smoking a cigarette. You, uh, Wayne Roberts? I rolled the window down slowly. Yes?

Well, you're late. I looked at the clock. 11.46 p.m. By one minute, I said. Yeah, still late. And that was my first time meeting Shane Phillips. Looked exhausted. Gray skin, bags under his eyes, smelled like cigarettes and coffee.

He opened my truck door before I could answer. All right, come on, shift starts in midnight. As we walked toward the gates, I kept staring at the guest. Some looked normal, some definitely weren't. I saw a woman floating three inches above the pavement near the ticket booths. I saw a tall man with completely black eyes, laughing behind a hot dog stand, saw someone with antlers disappear behind one of the midway games. Nobody else reacted. Nobody screamed. The entire place operated like a completely normal amusement park.

The castle at the center of the park glowed pale blue through the fog, while rides clattered somewhere in the distance. Rollercoasters roared overhead. Ferris wheels turned slowly against the clouds. Music echoed from hidden speakers, and mixed into all of it was the smell of popcorn, lake water, and machine grease. And something rotten underneath. Shane led me backstage through an employee gate beside the entrance tunnel, and back there everything looked older. Concrete walls stained dark from moisture. Employee lockers covered in scratch marks. A break-room coffee machine that looked much, much older than me.

Shane opened a metal locker and tossed me a yellow employee jacket. And then he handed me a laminated card. Read it. I looked down. Six rules. That was it. No welcome packet or training manual. Just six rules.

I started laughing again because, honestly, I thought this still had to be some kind of elaborate, a red haunted house attraction. And then Shane looked me dead in the eyes and said, Most employees quit after the first night. Smart ones follow the rules. Rule one. Always seat loved ones together. That was the first real rule I learned at Disneyland, Ohio.

Because until you work Widows Run for a few nights, you don't understand what kind of place that park actually is. Most people think that dead would act scary all the time, violent, angry, like zombies or something. And that's not how most of them are. Honestly, most of them just act like people on vacation. They laugh, they eat, they ride rides. Some hold hands walking through the midway. Some carry giant stuffed animals from game booths.

Some stand in line, arguing over food like normal couples at Cedar Point. It's unsettling. It feels too normal. And nowhere felt more normal than Widows' Run. The coaster sat near the back of the park beside the lakefront section. Huge wooden structure towering over the fog with pale blue lights running along the tracks. Every few seconds you'd hear the wood groan and the chains rattle up the first hill. The trains looked old too.

Not modern roller coaster trains. These looked like something from the 1940s or earlier. Heavy lap bars, brass trim, dark wood paneling along the sides. And every single train was full of dead people, sitting right beside someone they loved. That was the important part. Always beside someone. Shane assigned me there in my second night. Hey, you'll shadow Craig, he said.

Craig White was probably in his life. late 50s, big guy, gray mustache. We're the yellow employee jacket over an old Browns hoodie every night like he'd stopped Karen years ago. He smoked constantly. First thing he said to me was, hey, you know how to count? Yeah, I said. All right, good, then you're qualified.

That was basically my training. Widows run had one loading station and two trains cycling constantly through the fog above of the Midway. Most of the guests there were ghosts, families mostly, couples too. And honestly, when they sat together, the ride was probably the happiest place in the entire park. I'm serious. You'd hear laughing all night long there. Not creepy laughing either. Real laughing. I saw an old man smoking a cigar next to a woman in a blue dress while the train climbed the first hill, saw little kids screaming excitedly, beside parents, saw teenagers holding hands. One little ghost boy rode that coaster six time in a row with his older brother, and every

single time they came back laughing hysterically. And for a while, I actually forgot where I was working. And then I noticed something strange. Every ride operator at Widows Run checked seating assignments obsessively, not restraints, not lap bars, seating. Craig would literally stop the train dispatch if somebody boarded the wrong row. Move him beside her. No, not there together. Kid rides with mother. Over and over. Eventually I asked why, and Craig looked at me like I was very stupid. And then he pointed towards the tracks overhead. You separate dead people. You separate dead people from the folks they love, and they stop acting like guests. That was all he said at first.

And a few hours later, I learned what he meant. Happened around 1.30 in the morning. Busy night, too. Fog rolling through the midway. Ferris wheel glowing through the mist. Old carnival music echoing everywhere. A family of four came through the Widows' run entrance line. Mother, father, two little girls.

All ghost. You could tell because their clothes were soaked black like they'd climbed out of Lake Erie. Water dripped off the father's sleeves every few seconds right onto the platform. The younger daughter looked maybe six years old. The older one, maybe ten. They all stayed very close together. Craig immediately pointed toward the front row. Oh, family rose one.

and two," he said. Simple enough. But while I was checking lap bars, another group boarded behind them, and for a second things got mixed up. One of the little girls ended up seated three rows behind her parents beside an empty seat. The second Craig saw it. He grabbed my shoulder hard enough to hurt. Fix it, he said. I didn't understand the urgency, and then I looked at the little girl and she was not smiling anymore. Neither were the parents. The station suddenly felt colder like somebody opened a walk-in freezer somewhere nearby. The little girl stared toward her parents silently. The mother stood halfway up from her seat and every other guest on the train slowly stopped moving. Like somebody hit pause. The lap bar is. The lap bar

suddenly slammed downward on their own with a loud metallic clank. Several gas turned toward me at the same time. None blinking or smiling anymore. Craig shoved me forward. I hurried down the platform and unlatched the restraint. The second the girl climbed back beside her mother, everything changed instantly. The temperature normalized. The guest relaxed.

The father wrapped his arm around both daughters. and then the entire train started laughing again, like nothing had happened. Craig dispatched the ride immediately, and the train vanished into the fog above the midway. I stood there staring after it. What the hell was that? I asked. Craig lit another cigarette. You ever lose somebody? he asked. Yeah, my brother, I said.

Craig nodded once. Well, imagine dying. Then somebody separates you from the only person you wanted to spend eternity with. The coaster roared overhead through the fog. Blue lights flashing across the wood beams. Way farther down the midway. I could hear demons screaming on another run. But Widows' run sounded different.

Happier. Like a normal amusement park. Craig smoked quietly for a minute before speaking again. You know, most of these people come here because they miss life. They miss, you know, birthdays, summers, family vacations, little moments. Another train rolled into the station carrying laughing ghost. A little boy jumped out excitedly, pointing back toward the tracks while his mother laughed beside him. Craig nodded toward them.

This place gives them some of that back, he said. And that was when I finally understood why the rule mattered so much, not because the ghosts were evil, but because they had emotion, because some part of them still remembered what it felt like to lose somebody. And if you reminded them of that loss, things got dangerous fast. About an hour later, Craig finally told me about Randy Burke. Randy had worked Widow's Run three summers earlier.

Young guy, early 20s. Didn't take the rule seriously. Well, one busy night he separated an older couple because the train needed balancing weight across the rows. The husband ended up in row six, the wife row nine. At first nothing happened. Train dispatched normally. climb first hill and then the ride stopped not emergency stop stopped either just paused right at the top Craig said every guest on the train slowly turned toward the station all of them staring directly at

Randy then the ride started again when the train came back the husband was gone empty seat Lap bar still locked. The wife was hysterical. She kept asking where her husband went. Craig said Randy spent the rest of the night shaking. And next shift, he was just gone. Management never explained anything, and nobody ever found out what happened to him. They just assigned another operator to widows run and kept the ride moving.

And that was Disneyland, Ohio. No investigations or police tape or grieving counselors, just another shift, another rule. Well, around 4.30 a.m., the fog near the tracks started getting thinner. And that meant sunrise was getting close. The guest started looking calmer near dawn. More peaceful almost. One older couple rode the coaster three times in a row holding hands the entire time. The husband tipped his hat. me after the last ride.

Wonderful evening, isn't it? He said politely. And then they disappeared into the crowd. Craig finished another cigarette and crushed it beneath his boot. You know the mistake people make about this place? What? I asked. He watched another train climb into the fog above us. They think the only dangerous ones are the demons.

The coaster rattled somewhere. rattle somewhere overhead. Cold wind blowing in off Lake Erie. Craig looked back toward the loading station where another ghost family waited together near the gate. And then he said quietly, Death already took enough from these people. Don't take more. Rule two. Always stay behind the glass on the demon drop. The second rule at Disneyland, Ohio, was the one everybody talked about backstage. Not Widows Run or the Banshees, not even the Grim Reaper. The Demon Drop. Every employee in the park hated working that ride. Even Shane. The demon drop was different. You could feel something wrong with that ride before he even saw it. The first time I walked toward

it, I smelled sulfur halfway across the midway. Not a little either. You were. strong, like burned wires mixed with fireworks and rotten eggs. The ride towered over the entire park near the lakefront cliffs, massive black steel structure disappearing into the fog overhead with glowing red lights running vertically up the supports. And yes, the actual ride was called the demon drop. The thing stood exactly 666 feet tall. I know because somebody had welded the number directly onto the front gate in huge, rusted, red metal numbers. 666 feet.

Very subtle. The ride vehicles looked like giant iron cages hanging from thick black rails. Every few seconds one would slowly climb toward the top, while passengers screamed and laughed inside. Except the passengers weren't. human. Not most of them anyway. Demons loved the demon drop. I still don't know why. Maybe because of the fear or the height. Maybe because 666 feet meant something to them. Whatever the reason, the ride was packed every night. Some of the demons looked almost normal.

Others absolutely did not. I saw one with burned skin hanging off. off its jaw, sitting calmly beside what looked like a businessman from the 1980s. Another had tiny horns pushing through its forehead, while black smoke drifted from its nostrils every time it breathed. And every single one of them smiled too much. Way too much smiling. Shane brought me there my fourth shift. The operator booth sat beside the loading platform surrounded by thick reinforced glass walls bolted into concrete. Three separate locks on the door. Heavy steel framing.

Emergency switches everywhere. The whole thing looked less like a ride booth and more like a prison guard station. Shane handed me a radio. All right, simple job. You load the ride, check restraints, operate controls. And you listen to me. You never.

Never leave the booth once the ride starts bored, and you understand me. He pointed toward the laminated rule card hanging beside the controls. Always stay behind the glass. Then he lit a cigarette. You understand? Yeah, I said. But why? Shane looked out toward the loading platform,

where a demon in a tuxedo was laughing with something that had no. eyes. Because they'll try to get you outside. That was the entire explanation. Well, at first the ride honestly didn't seem that bad. Creepy, absolutely, but manageable. The demons mostly acted like drunk theme park guests. Loud, annoying, sometimes aggressive. But still functional. You checked restraints through a sliding inspection panel in the glass. Once everybody was locked in, you sealed the booth door completely and operated everything from inside. Easy enough. And then I started noticing the voices.

That's the first thing everybody notices I've heard. They always sounded real. During my first shift at the demon drop, I heard somebody knocking on the outside glass about 20 minutes after midnight. Soft tapping. I looked up and saw an elderly woman standing outside the booth. clutching her chest. I can't breathe. Please help me.

She looked completely human, tiny old lady wearing a green sweater and glasses. I instinctively stood up. The second I touched the booth handle, Shane grabbed the back of my jacket. Hard. Sit down, he said.

The old woman outside immediately stopped acting. her expression changed instantly the fear vanished and she smiled her mouth stretched wider than it should have been able to way wider like skin pulling apart at the corners Shane stared her through the glass while smoking then looked back at me she almost got you on day one the woman laughed softly, then walked calmly toward the ride entrance where another train was already loading. And that was the moment I realized that Neiman's weren't just dangerous. They were patient.

They liked the game. Over the next few shifts, I saw all kinds of tricks. A little boy crying beside the ride gate saying he lost his parents. A middle-aged man screaming that his restraint to wooden lock. A woman claiming another guest attacked her. Every single one, fake, always fake. And every single trick had one goal. Get the operator outside the glass. That was where Freddie Williams messed up. I heard a story from Craig during break around 2 a.m. one night. We were sitting backstage near the maintenance tunnels drinking burnt coffee from paper cups, while the midway music echoed faintly outside. Craig smoked while staring at the floor.

Yeah, kid was 19. Good kid, too, he said. Freddy had started during Halloween season two years earlier. First week on the job, management assigned him to the demon drop because they were short-staffed. Craig shook his head while telling the story. Never should have happened, he said. According to him, Freddy took the rules seriously.

But the demons learned people fast. They study you. Figure out what kind of person you are. Freddy's mistake was caring too much. About halfway through the shift, one of the trains loaded normally. Mostly demons on board. And then Freddy heard a little girl crying near the front row. Craig said she looked around eight years old.

blonde hair, pink jacket, small enough that she looked completely harmless. She kept tugging at her restraint. Sir, my seatbelt won't lock. Freddy checked the control panel. Everything showed green. Ride timer already counting down. Ten seconds. He tried shutting down the ride, but the timer kept going.

He told her to stay calm. and then she started panicking harder. Please, please help me. I'm scared. Craig stared into his coffee while telling me this part. Damn kid forgot where he was, he said. The countdown hit five seconds. Other employees started yelling at Freddy over the radio.

Do not open the door. Do not go outside. But Freddy panicked. He stepped outside the glass, and the second his foot touched the platform, the little girl grabbed his wrist. She changed immediately. The girl's smile stretched wide across her face, eyes completely black, and then the ride dropped 666 feet. Craig said Freddy screamed the entire way down. and the demons on board laughed the whole time. I wish I could say management shut the ride down after that.

They didn't. They stopped operations for maybe 20 minutes. That was it? Maintenance crews washed the ground. New operator took over. Ride reopened. Disneyland, Ohio in a nutshell. I actually saw some of the cleanup photos later in the middle.

maintenance office. Blood sprayed across the underside of the restraints. Pieces of yellow employee jacket hanging from support rails. Bent radio. Covered in dark stains. One picture showed a demon smiling directly into the camera while holding what looked like Freddy's name tag. Somebody had written file closed across the bottom and red marker.

And that story sat in my head every single time I worked the ride afterward, especially because the demons got smarter once they realized I knew the rules. The tricks became more personal. One shift, I heard my mother's voice outside the booth. I slowly looked toward the window. Something stood outside in the fog, not fully visible, just as shape. demons inside the ride cages started grinning at me, all of them, every single one staring directly at the booth now. The glass slowly started fogging from the outside. I could hear scratching now, too. Tiny scratching sounds dragging across the metal walls. The demons started laughing quietly.

And about 30 seconds later, everything stopped at once. The fog cleared from the glass Nothing outside anymore The demons all looked disappointed One near the front row Actually gave me a little nod like I'd pass some kind of test And then the ride timer beeped And the demon drop screamed downward into the fog

Later that night Shane came by during shift change I told him about hearing my mother's voice He didn't even react. Just wiped blood off the control panel with an old rag. That means they're learning you, he said. He tossed the rag into a bucket. And then he looked directly at me through cigarette smoke and said, You know, they want your soul first.

But if they can't get that, they'll settle for killing you. Rule three. Only enter the door. dog and cat area of the Ghost Animal Park. If the Demon Drop was the most dangerous ride in Disneyland, Ohio, then the Ghost Animal Park was probably the strangest place. It sat near the far western edge beside the old Midway section where most of the lights were dimmer and the music sounded older.

Everything over there felt quieter, less crowded too. Most guests avoided it. Not because they were scared. a lot of the dead came there for personal reasons. You could feel it immediately when you walked in. The entrance looked like one of those old zoo gates from the 50s. Rusted green metal archway, wooden signs, fake rock walls, the smell of wet grass drifting through the fog. Except none of the animals inside were alive. The first time I entered the place, I honestly thought it was kind of beautiful. At least the dog and cat section one.

That was the safe area, the only safe area. The park itself split into different trails connected by low fences and narrow concrete paths. Old carnival lanterns hung from trees overhead, casting soft yellow light through the fog. Signs pointed toward different sections. Aviary, Deer Trail, Monkey House, small mammals. And then one giant red red. sign near the employee gate. Employees are only permitted inside the dog and cat area.

Underneath it, somebody had spray-painted, no exceptions. Craig brought me there around 2 a.m. during one of my later shifts. Easy assignment tonight, he said. Just refill water bowls and keep gas out of the restricted areas. And compared to the demon drop, it honestly sounded relaxing. And for a while, it was. The dog and cat section looked almost normal. Ghost dogs ran through open grassy areas chasing glowing tennis balls. Cats slept on benches beside dead guests. Some of the animals looked transparent, while others looked almost completely real except for glowing eyes. And unlike most places in Disneyland, Ohio, that area actually felt warm. Comfort I watched an old woman kneel beside a golden retriever near the fence line for almost 10 minutes,

while just petting its head. The dog wagged its tail the entire time. Another ghost cat curled up in the lap of a little dead girl sitting beneath one of the fake trees, while her parents smiled nearby. You could tell some of these people had missed their pets more than anything. Craig leaned against the fence, smoking while watching them. smoking while watching him. You see, not everything here is awful, he said.

And then a huge black ghost dog walked directly through another guest and dropped a slobbery tennis ball at my feet. I stared at it. The dog barked once. Craig sighed. You throw it, or he'll keep bothering you. So I threw the ball. Then the dog sprinted after.

after it happily into the fog. I made the mistake later of asking about the other sections. Craig immediately stopped smiling. Hey, you stay out of him. Why? Because they ain't friendly, he said. Later that night I found out exactly what he meant. Around 3 a.m., one of the maintenance lights near the restricted trail started flickering

on and off. Shane radioed us saying guests were complaining. handed me a flashlight. All right, come on. We walked deeper into the animal park past the dog and cat area toward the restricted trails, and the atmosphere changed immediately. The farther we walked, the quieter things got. No barking or purring.

No happy guest. Just distant scratching sounds somewhere in the darkness. The deer enclosure came first. I only saw shapes, moving between trees, but whatever those ghost deer were, they looked wrong. Their eyes reflected bright white in the dark, and their legs bent oddly when they moved. Past that was the aviary. I heard wings flapping overhead, hundreds of them, but when I looked up, I couldn't see anything above the fog. Then we reached the squirrel section, and even Craig slowed down there. The enclosure, it's

was huge. Entire artificial forest surrounded by chain-link fencing nearly 15 feet tall. Trees packed tightly together inside with fog hanging low across the ground. At first I didn't see anything. And then the eyes opened. Hundreds of tiny glowing eyes all over the trees. Just watching us. Tiny scratching noises echoed everywhere. Craig immediately kept walking. Don't stop, he said quietly. What's wrong with him? I whispered. No idea, he said.

One squirrel suddenly darted down a tree trunk so fast I barely tracked it with the flashlight. It didn't move like a normal squirrel. And when the flashlight hit its face, owls dropped the light. Its teeth looked almost huge. human. Long flat front teeth stained dark around the gums. The thing clung upside down to the fence, staring directly at us, while its tail twitched violently behind it. Craig grabbed my jacket. Keep moving. We reached the broken maintenance light near the far side of the enclosure. While Craig worked on the panel, I kept hearing movement in the trees behind me. Constant movement.

branches shaking, tiny little claws, scratching bark. And then something hit the fence hard enough to rattle it. I spun around, and at least 30 squirrels clung to the chain link staring at me. I backed away instinctively. Craig didn't even turn around from the maintenance panel. I told you not to stop. The second the light came back on overhead, the squirrels scattered instantly into the dark.

darkness. Every branch in the enclosure shook at once. Then everything went quiet again. As we walk back toward the safe area, I finally asked the obvious question. What the hell happened to those squirrels? Craig lit another cigarette. Nobody knows. About halfway back through the trails, he finally told me about Jessica Mitchell. Jessica worked park maintenance around five years earlier. Young girl, 22 maybe. Apparently she didn't believe the squirrel stories. Most new employees didn't at first. According to Craig, another worker dared her to step into the enclosure during cleanup. Just for a minute. Jessica climbed the fence after closing, made it about 15 feet inside before they attacked her. Craig said the screaming brought half the

maintenance crew running. By the time they pulled her back out, she was covered in bites. She survive? I asked. Craig nodded slowly. Technically. A few nights later, I actually met her. She still worked there, sort of. Jessica handled trash collection near the midway now. Long sleeves every night no matter the temperature. Yellow employee jacket zipped all the way to her throat. They still follow me home sometimes, she said. And then she walked away before I could ask anything. And after that conversation, I took Rule 3 very seriously. Rule 4.

Never wear religious items around demons, vampires, or banshees. The rule sounded ridiculous to me at first. Not because of the monsters. By that point, I already accepted monsters were real. But because Disneyland, Ohio, operated like customer service. That was the weird part. The park didn't want fights or panic. Didn't want angry guests.

Especially not angry dead guests. And according to Shane, nothing upset certain creatures faster than religious items. Crosses, rosaries, saint medals, scripture shirts, anything like that, demons hated him. Vampires hated him. Banshees absolutely hated them. And for some reason, mummies didn't care at all. Craig once asked an old mummy in the smoking area about it. The mummy just shrugged and said,

Different department. The first time I saw Rule 4 become a problem happened near the food court around 1 a.m. A new employee named Tyler forgot to remove a silver cross necklace before his shift. Small thing, too. Barely visible. But the second he walked out of the midway, nearby demons immediately noticed it. I watched one demon physically recoil beside a pretzel stand. Tall thing wearing a stained business suit with burned skin stretched tight across its face. It pointed directly at Tyler's necklace, and then it started screaming.

Like somebody blasted floodlights into its eyes. Other guests started reacting too. A vampire woman near the carousel suddenly doubled over vomiting black liquid out of the pavement while her husband hissed at the employees nearby. And then the banshees started wailing. You get heard across the entire park. Long shrieking cries echoing through the fog while rides slowed overhead. One old banshee woman stumbled against a popcorn cart clutching her chest,

"'My heart, my heart!' Shane moved fast after that, probably faster than I'd ever seen a move. He grabbed Tyler by the jacket and dragged him backstage while demons shouted behind us across the midway. Guest started leaving rides. Fog thickened everywhere. One vampire family actually stormed out through the front gates, hissing at employees, while security tried calming him down. And the entire time, Tyler kept saying,

It's just a cross, what's the big deal? And that's when Shane finally lost his temper. He shoved Tyler against the backstage wall, hard enough to rattle the pipes. If you insult the guest, they won't come back. That line stuck with me. Not they'll kill you, not they're dangerous. The problem in this case was business. Disneyland, Ohio operated like a real amusement park first.

Everything else second. A few minutes later, I saw the old Banshee woman again near the employee tunnel entrance. She stared directly at Tyler's necklace while black tears rolled from her eyes. And then she turned and disappeared into the fog beside the midway. Afterwards, Shane made Tyler remove the necklace completely before letting him back onto the floor. And honestly, the second he removed it, the park calmed down immediately. Rule 5. Never accept a wish for Mikey Mouse.

Now, I didn't notice Mikey Mouse my first few nights working at Disneyland, Ohio. Not really. I saw him, obviously. Everybody did. But at first I figured he was just another mascot wandering around the park. A weird mascot, yeah, but still a mascot. And that changed the first time I saw a demon, walk the other direction to avoid him. Happened near the castle around 2 a.m. fog rolled low across the midway,

while old carnival music echoed through the speakers. Ghost families wandered between rides carrying popcorn and stuffed animals, while fireworks burst silently, somewhere above Lake Erie. And standing near the castle bridge was Mikey. big round black ears, white gloves, old black and white cartoon face, not Mickey, exactly, older than that. Like the original version before somebody cleaned it up for kids. The costume looked ancient, too. Fated fabric, cracks running across the giant's smile, water stains down the sleeves, like he'd spent years standing in rain and lake water. And unlike the other mascots in the park, Mikey barely moved.

That night I watched a tall demon in a red suit, walking toward the castle, suddenly stop, the second it noticed Mikey standing near the bridge. The demon immediately lowered its eyes and turned around, didn't hiss or laugh, just left fast. And that bothered me more than anything else I'd seen there, because demons at Disneyland, Ohio, acted scared of almost nothing. A few nights later, I finally asked Craig about him, and Craig stopped walking immediately. Yeah, don't talk to Mikey if he talks to you first. Why? Craig stared toward the castle. Because Mikey grants wishes. Craig saw the look on my face immediately. How you think I'm joking? A little.

Craig lit another cigarette. Then he pointed toward an older ghost, sitting alone near the food court. I'd seen him before, late 60s maybe. Brown jacket, old baseball cap, always sitting alone every night near the castle, staring into space. That's Walter, Craig said. He used to come here with his wife. What happened? Well, she died, and...

And Walter asked Mikey for one more night with her, he said. And? I asked. Craig stared at him silently for a few seconds before answering. He got it, Craig replied. He went on to tell me that at exactly 3.15 every night, Walter's wife appeared wherever he was. Didn't matter where. Food court, bathroom, parking lot, employee tunnel once. She always found him. And every single night, Walter locked himself inside somewhere and waited for the fifteen minutes to end. The first time I saw it happen, I finally understood why.

Walter was sitting alone near the food court when the clock hit 3.15. The lights around the midway flickered once. And then she appeared standing beside the table. At first I thought she looked normal. And then she turned toward him. and half her jaw was missing. Walter! She said. One eye hung crooked and gray inside the socket. Maggates crawled slowly through her hair

and around the empty flesh beneath her cheek. Water dripped constantly from her dress onto the concrete, and she looked furious. Walter immediately stood so fast he knocked over his chair, and then he practically ran into the nearby employee bathroom and slammed the door shut. A second later, something hit the other side hard enough to shake the walls. Then another hit and another. Guests nearby didn't even react, like this happened every night. We gonna do something? I asked. He's probably fine, Craig said.

and for 15 straight minutes, the thing that used to be Walter's wife circled the bathroom entrance, scratching the walls, slamming into the door, making horrible, wet choking noises through what remained of her jaw. Walter stayed inside the entire time, shaken so hard I could hear him crying through the door.

And then at exactly 3.30, she disappeared, vanished. The pounding stopped immediately. A few minutes later, Walter finally came back out looking pale and exhausted. And then he walked over to the food area and ordered a funnel cake and a hot pretzel. Like he'd done this a thousand times before. And that was when Craig looked at me and quietly said, Be careful what you ask Mikey for. Rule six.

Always bring the Grim Reaper a soda before your shift ends. Now, I expected the Grim Reaper. paper to look terrifying, that everybody expects, right? Huge monster, glowing eyes, bloody robe, something dramatic. Instead, he was average height, dark hair, brown eyes. He did have a black hooded coat hanging almost to the ground, old employee name tag, clipped crooked near the collar, white gloves, and yeah, he carried the sieve. But even that looked old, worn down. Like a maintenance tool he'd been carrying too long. The Grim Reaper worked the final ride in Disneyland, Ohio. Ghost Canyon. And unlike the other rides in the park, Ghost Canyon wasn't for the dead.

It was for the living. That realization hit me slowly. At first I didn't notice anything strange about the passengers they look normal enough. Quiet. Some crying, some confused. Some strangely. calm. But then I started overhearing conversations. One old man in hospital clothes, asking where his wife was, a teenage boy covered in dried blood, asking if his parents knew he was okay. A woman in pajamas, repeating, I think I fell asleep at the wheel. And that's when I finally understood. These people weren't dead yet. Not fully. They were dying somewhere else. Hospital beds, car wrecks, heart attacks, comas,

and somehow they ended up here first. Ghost Canyon sat near the cliffs overlooking Lake Erie at the very edge of the park. No music over there, no carnival barking, just fog rolling over black water below. The ride itself looks simple, small train. six passenger cars, old wooden station, tracks disappearing into thick forest fog ahead. No big drops, no loose, no screaming. Just a slow ride into the mist. And every single time the train returned, it came back emptying. The Reaper operated the ride completely alone. No supervisors or maintenance workers. Nobody bothered him.

Honestly, most employees avoided him entirely. Not because he was violent, because being around him made you think too much. The first night I worked near Ghost Canyon, I watched him greet every passenger personally before boarding. He knew all their names somehow, every single one. An older woman arrived in a wheelchair, pushed by two silent ghost in medical uniforms. The Reaper knelt beside her, slid. Slowly. Good evening, Margaret, he said gently.

His voice surprised me too. It was calm, warm almost, nothing monstrous about it. The woman looked terrified, she whispered. The Reaper nodded slowly. I know. It's okay, he said. Then he helped her into the train carefully. and pulled down the lap bar for her, not cold or emotionless, patient.

Like a nurse helping somebody onto their final ride. The train disappeared into the fog a few minutes later, and when it returned, her seat was empty. I asked Craig once where the ride actually went, and he shook his head immediately. Yeah, don't ask questions over there, he muttered. Eventually, I did speak to the Reaper. That happened near the end of my second month working there.

By then, I'd learned another part of the rule. I always bring him a soda before sunrise. Nobody knew how it started. Apparently some employee offered him one years ago during break, and the Reaper appreciated the company. And since then, every overnight worker did it. And weirdly enough, he had preferences. Coke, sometimes root beer. At the moment he liked seven up. Craig handed me two cans near closing

one morning. One for him and one for you. Why me? He likes company. I found the Reaper sitting alone on a bench overlooking Lake Erie while the park slowly faded around us. This always happened near sunrise. The fog thickened, the lights dimmed. The rides started flickering like dying bulbs, whole sections of the midway, disappearing piece by piece. I walked over slowly and handed in the soda. Oh, thank you, Wayne Roberts, he said. The fact he knew my full name immediately bothered me. But I sat beside him quietly.

For a while, neither of us spoke. We just watched the lake. Far below the cliffs, black waves rolled against rocks. while the last ride lights flickered behind us. And finally, I asked him something that had been bothering me for weeks. Are people scared of you? I asked. The Reaper stared out toward the water. Usually, he said.

You seem nicer than I expected, I said. And that actually made him laugh softly. Strangest sound I ever heard in that park. Not evil, not creepy. He looked over toward me. The demons scream. The ghost grieve. The vampire's hunger.

He opened the seven-up can slowly. But humans. Humans are usually just afraid. Somewhere behind us, part of the midway, vanished into fog completely. I watched the lights disappear one by one. I asked, why does this place exist? And the Reaper sat quietly for several seconds before answering. Then he finally looked toward me, smiled a little, and said,

Because the dead still like roller coasters. And even monsters still get to have fun sometimes. And suddenly the whole park made sense. the roller coasters, the carnival games, the popcorn, the music, all of it. The dead weren't there just to haunt people. Even vampires wanted nights out. Even banshees wanted somewhere to laugh and scream. And that was another strange thing about Disneyland, Ohio.

The monsters still acted humans sometimes. The Reaper stood as the final sections of Disney. Disneyland, Ohio began fading into the sunrise. Ghost Canyon disappeared behind him, piece by piece, until only fog remained near the cliffs. And then he looked down at me one last time and winked as he just faded away. I still work at Disneyland, Ohio. That probably says something bad about me, doesn't it? Maybe it just says the pay's really good, I don't know. honestly after a while this place starts feeling normal you stop staring when elvis walks past carrying cotton candy you stop carrying when vampires argue over churros near the midway you stop flinching when demons laugh

behind you on the demon drop eventually it all just becomes work clock in at midnight clock out before sunrise don't break the rules that's the job and the crazy thing is some nights are fun i know how insane that sounds. But there are moments there that don't feel evil at all. I've watched ghost kids win giant stuffed animals at carnival games and run excitedly to show their parents. I've watched old couples hold hands on widows run like they were teenagers again. I have seen dead soldiers eating popcorn while watching fireworks explode over Lake Erie at three in the morning. Sometimes the midway music echoes through the fog just right, and for a few minutes, the place honestly feels like a normal amusement park again. And then you remember where you are. Then you see the banshee crying near the food

court, or hear screaming from the demon drop, or notice the grim reaper walking another trainload of living people into the fog. In reality comes rushing back. You know, I still haven't told any of my friends or family were at work. Who would believe me? You think I'm going to sit in a Cleveland bar somewhere and explain that I spend my nights operating roller coasters for dead people beside Lake Uri? No chance. Most people already think Ohio is weird enough. And honestly, maybe it's better this way. Every summer, millions of tourists still drive north towards Cedar Point. Families pile into SUVs packed with luggage and sunscreen. Kids scream excitedly when they finally see Millennium Forests over the horizon. Couples stop at gas stations outside Sandusky for snacks, before

spending all day riding coasters beside the lake. Most of them never notice the other road, the one farther north, the one the fog rolls over after midnight. But sometimes, very rarely, Someone does. A few months ago, I watched a car slowed down near the entrance around 11.50 p.m. Young couple inside, probably early twenties. The girl pointed toward the glowing gates through the fog, while the boyfriend leaned forward over the steering wheel trying to read the sign. Disneyland, Ohio.

They looked confused. Curious. Exactly the way I looked my first night. For a second, I honestly thought they might pull into the parking lot. But instead, the light turned green, and they kept driving. Good choice, because Cedar Point is for the living. But Disneyland, Ohio, is for the dead.