Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Work for a Monster Circus. We have 6 Strange Rules | Scary Stories

Episode Date: June 4, 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 for a Monster Circus. We have 6 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!

They always send the new hires to me first. Not because I'm special or good with people. And not because I asked for it. Trust me, I didn't. But because I've been here longer than most. I know how to explain things without making it harder than it already is. My name is Michael. That's what everybody calls me.

I've been with a circus for four years, but I still think of it as something I stumbled into by accident. Before this, I worked at a gas station off Highway 47, Night Shift. It was one of those places that looked like it fell out of time, just one rusty pump, no working restroom, and a flickering light above the register that buzzed so loud you couldn't hear yourself think. The boss was a guy named Jackson who never smiled. Always carried a shotgun, be kept under the counter, like we were guarding gold bars instead of lukewarm soda and expired jerky. I didn't mind the work, but I didn't feel like I was.

was going anywhere. Most nights, I just stood there leaning on the counter, watching bugs at the glass, and wondering how much of my life was going to get eaten up waiting for something better. Then one night, I saw a flyer stapled to the cork board by the ice machine. It was printed on cheap yellow paper that had already started to curl at the edges like had been there a while. The words were simple. Written in thick black font. Varelli's grand traveling expedition seeks general laborers, meals included. No experience necessary. At the bottom was a local number and a line that said,

Bring Boots, must not scare easy. It sounded like a joke, but it didn't read like one. I took a photo with my phone, and I called the number after my shift ended. A voice answered on the second ring, low and calm. They didn't give me a name. Just told me to be at the edge of the quarry by sundown, near the tree line, and to come alone. That was it. No interview, no questions.

I almost didn't go. Almost. But something about the way the guy spoke, clear, flat. Final. Made me feel like this wasn't the same. sort of invitation you got twice. So, I drove out there. I didn't tell anyone where I was going, and I didn't pack more than a change of clothes and a flashlight. I didn't think I'd be gone long. I figured maybe it was a local fairground thing, some oddball temp work to kill a weekend,

and maybe come home with a few extra bucks. I didn't expect to stay. That's not how it works here. Nobody expects to stay. And yet, the people who do, they stay a long, long time. Back then, the place still looked like what you'd imagine a backwood circus might be. Trailers parked in loose rows around a worn-down field, sagging tents patched with mismatched canvas. A ring set up in the middle with bleachers so old they creaked when the wind changed. There was a half-broken sign leaning against a trailer near the edge that still had the original name painted on it.

Varelli's Grand Traveling Expedition, though by then, no one called it that anymore. Around here, people just call it the lot, and it hasn't moved in decades. It's been parked out past the quarry since sometime in the 50s. Nobody really remembers the exact year it stopped traveling. But after the war, the government started auctioning off military trailers they didn't need anymore. Big, rusting things, built like tanks. And the circus bought a few for cheap. They've been here ever since.

Slowly growing roots, patching together their own little world behind the trees. You won't find it on any map. It's too far from the roads people use now, and the ones who know about it don't talk much. That's part of the appeal. It's quiet out here. They're kind of quiet you don't get anymore. No traffic, no planes overhead, no cell service. And on clear nights, you can still see every star in the sky.

That's what people always say at first, that the stars look more real out here. Brighter, sharper, like someone scrubbed the sky clean just for us. I started off in maintenance, cleaning trailers, checking locks, topping off the fuel drums, and making sure the electrical lines didn't fray themselves into a fire hazard. Simple work. No real training. I kept my head down, stayed out of the way, and listened more than I talked. That's the first lesson, by the way, listened more than he talked.

Not because people will teach you things, but because most of the time, you don't want to say the wrong name, at the wrong time. Not everybody here likes to be noticed. About a month then, somebody disappeared. A crew member. One of the regulars, someone who'd been around for a long time. The details don't matter right now, and no, I'm not going to tell you their name. It's not personal. It's just not your turn to know yet. What matters is that when the time came to clean up the mess they left behind, I didn't ask questions. The people in charge noticed. They didn't say anything, but two days later, I wasn't doing maintenance anymore. They moved me up. Now, I do a little bit of everything. I still keep the power on and make sure the fuel levels don't drop too low, but I also deal with the newcomers,

people like you. I walk them through their first few nights, make sure they learn the rules, and keep an eye out to see if they're going to last. Some don't. You've been sent to me because somebody upstairs think you might be the kind of person who can stick. I don't know if that's true yet. I'll find out. You will too.

But for now, all you need to do is sit there and listen. All right. Rule number one. Don't open the green trailer behind the lion tent. The trailer looks harmless enough from the outside. It's smaller than most of the others, a dull green box on uneven wheels, with a dennet top and one rusted door facing the back lot. There's no markings on it anymore.

But if you run your hand along the side, you can still feel the imprint of numbers and letters that were painted over years ago. Most people never notice it. It blends in, tucked behind the lines. lion tent and shadowed by trees thick enough to muffle your voice if you scream. That green trailer. It's not really a trailer. It's a holding cell. Repurposed from military stock sometime after the war. No one ever confirmed exactly where it came from or what it was used for. But the best guess is that it held prisoners.

Something happened with it in 54. Details are fuzzy. because everyone who was here at the time either laughed, died, or stopped talking altogether. But the trailer showed up one morning, park where it still sits now, with the latch on the door welded shut, and the wheels sunk deep into the earth. Nobody touched it for decades. Then, a few years back, we had a new guy, maintenance crew, came from out east, didn't talk much, which usually works in his favor here. But he was curious.

You can't be curious here. Not in the wrong places. He wanted to see what was inside the trailer. Said he thought it might be an old animal cage. Said he heard movement from inside. That was probably true. Some nights, if you're close enough, you can hear it too. The latch has been rusted for years, but he brought a crowbar.

He didn't even tell anyone he was going to do it. We found the door wide open the next morning. He wasn't in the trailer. We didn't find much at all. His boots were lying six feet away, toes pointing forward, laces still tied, like he'd been lifted clean out of them. His ear was lying nearby, still warm, still pink, not even torn, just detached, like it'd been handed.

back. We sealed the door shut again, this time with a chain wrapped three times and welded at every crossing. If you go near it now, you'll smell the metal and leftover blood. So now you know, do not open the green trailer. Don't even touch the handle. If you hear something moving inside, walk away. If you hear someone calling for help, walk faster. in there needs help. It only needs a door. Rule two. Always feed Ahab the Griffin, steak, and potatoes. Ahab isn't one of the acts you'll see in the ring, and most guests never lay eyes on him. He's kept in the back quarter behind a set of trailers that used to be part of the original Petting Zoo, back when we still did that sort of thing. Now it's just him, alone, in a

reinforced pen with three lock layers and a feeding shoot bolted to the wall. He's a griffin. Not the kind for movies or cartoons. He doesn't sparkle. He doesn't speak. And he doesn't fly anymore. Not since he lost his leg. No one's sure how old he is. Some say he was brought over with the first batch of creatures in the 20s back when the circus was still moving and the rules were still being learned the hard way. Others say he's older than that. Something inherited rather than found. Doesn't matter where he came from. What matters is what he eats. Steak and potatoes. Always steak and potatoes. Not raw, not cold. Cooked. And warm enough that the scent carries through the bars before he open the shoot. He won't even touch anything else. Not chicken, not chicken, not

kibble, not fish. We have tried. Every time someone gets lazy or tries to cut corners, the same thing happens. He starts tearing at the cage bars with his beak, thrashing back and forth like he's trying to break through the wall with his neck. He hits the corner so hard, you can hear the bones in his jaw crack. He doesn't stop until something gives, either the cage or the beak. And once he draws blood, he loses the scent of the food entirely, and goes for the handlers next. We lost two people during the last trial run with substitute meat.

One of them had been here for over a year. No, the rule just didn't take it seriously. That's the thing about Ahab. He looks tired, almost slow when he's calm. But he isn't? The steak doesn't have to be fancy either. Doesn't need seasoning, but it has to be real. Same with the potatoes.

Doesn't matter if they're mashed or baked, just that they're hot and served on the steel tray he knows. He eats better than we do. And that is just how it is. And when he's fed right, he doesn't make a sound. He eats, he turns away, and he rest. And that is the version of him you want to see. Rule number three.

Do not get between the twins when they're fighting. Their trailer's the faded one near the old performance tent with the heavy silver curtains. You'll know about the sound. Even when they're quiet, you can hear the breathing. It's louder than you'd expect. Wet and strained. Like someone's running in place just under the surface. You'll hear it before you get too close.

clothes, which is good, because that's the only warning you're going to get. The twins aren't a costume act. They're not performers in matching outfits or two people pretending to be something strange. They're real. They were born conjoined, but not in the way you see in books or documentaries. They share part of a rib cage, which means when they argue and start pulling apart, they're not just fighting. They're tearing each other open from the inside.

One of them is human. The other one isn't. I mean it in the most literal way possible. Only one of them came out right. The other, well, it was carried to term. It lives, it breathes. But it's not like us. Its thoughts don't run in the same direction.

It doesn't talk, not in words you'd understand. but it watches, and it knows how to hurt. The human twin, her name's Kala, is the one who tries to live normally. She likes books and combs her hair with a fork, like it's a joke she's telling herself. She'll talk to you if she trusts you, which takes time. The other twin has no name, not one we use. Calla calls her the weight, but nobody else does. We don't speak to her directly, and we never, ever touch her.

They argue sometimes, usually over nothing. Small things like what to eat, which side of the bed to face, whether the lights should stay on. Most of the time, the fights end with silence. Callow retreats inward, and the other one settles. But when it turns physical, when Callow pulls or the other one resist, Get away from the trailer immediately. Do not try to mediate. Do not try to step between them, even if Calla's screaming, especially if she's screaming.

We lost to handle her that way two summers ago. She thought she was doing the right thing. He heard the noise, ran in, tried to help separate them. We warned her not to. She didn't listen. By the time we got to the trailer, There was blood across the ceiling. Her arms had been pulled clean off.

Not torn or nod, but snapped and twisted in two different directions. We found one in the sink. The other one was still clenched in Kala's hand, even though she doesn't remember grabbing it. They calm down eventually. They always do. The wound seals itself. The rib cage knits back. We don't know how or why. It just does. Now there's a quiet understanding. If you hear them start,

you back off. Give them room. Let it pass. They don't fight often. But when they do, it never ends clean. Rule number four. Don't eat anything from the cotton candy booth. It's an easy one to break, because on the outside looks harmless. You'll see the booth near the edge of the midway, between the ring toss and the balloon knives. The paints faded but still bright, pink with white swirl trim, and the machine inside works like any other.

When it runs, the drum spins slow, steady. Sugar catches in the air, and you get those soft cones of floss that shimmer under lights. To someone, you're not. who doesn't know better? Looks like a free treat. Sometimes the new hires or younger guest sneak a bite late at night when they think nobody's watching. That's the danger. It doesn't look cursed. It looks sweet. The booth belonged to a man named Ellis. He ran it for 17 years without missing a season. Always wore a vest and red bow tie. Always smiled too wide. We didn't

find out until much later what he was doing to the sugar. He used to mix in blood, not a lot, just enough to change the flavor. Said it made it brighter, like it sparkled more in your mouth, said people could taste the difference, even if they didn't know what it was. He claimed it gave the candy energy. Some thought he was joking, but the machine. But the machine, kept running, even after he disappeared. That's the part nobody likes to talk about. He vanished one night without a trace, left his cart, his coat, and his wedding ring all in the same place. Just gone.

But the booth still runs. Nobody powers it. No one loads sugar into the bin, but every so often it starts up again. spins real slow, fills the air with that sweet burnt smell, like someone left a marshmallow too close to a fire. Last spring, a guest found it spinning and thought it was part of the show. She reached in, took a bite before anyone could stop her. We didn't notice anything wrong at first. She laughed, said it was the best she'd ever had.

Two hours later, she collapsed near the snake dent. Blood came out of her gums and ribbons. She screamed for help, but no one could touch her. Every time we tried to lift her, it would get worse. We wrapped her in a tarp and carried her out in silence. Nobody talks about it now. The machine still runs, though not often. only when it wants to.

Now that I think about it, it's best if you don't eat anything here at all. Rule number five, don't give directions to tent seven. That sounds easy. You probably think, well, I just won't say anything about it. But you'd be surprised how often this one trips people up. Because folks will ask, strangers, visitors, people you've never seen before and people you swear were standing next to you five minutes earlier. They'll lean in, like they're lost, and ask if you can point them to tent number seven.

Sometimes they sound friendly, sometimes confused, sometimes they're holding a map that doesn't even belong to this circus. The catch is this. There is no tent seven. Not officially. Not on our records. Not on any schematic. And not on any of the route list we used to set up before show nights. We number up to six. Always have. The tents are labeled by the axe, acrobats, fire dancers, fortune readings, the usual draws. The empty lots where tents used to be are just that. Empty. But people still ask for number seven like it's real. Like it was always there. When they do, you say one thing. That tense closed tonight. You don't add more. You don't try to explain that there is no tent seven. You don't ask who told them to go there or what they're looking for. You just say the line and move on. Some people take the hint. Most don't. They wander off trying to find it on their own. And if they do,

Well, we don't get them back. They don't show up at the gates or down by the generator, and they don't scream either. There's no sound, no alert. You just realize later that they're gone. Their car is still in the lot, their coats still hanging on the chair, but they aren't there. We always know when it happens, because their ticket stub turns up torn in half in the lost and found bin near the front train. Same place every time. Ripped clean down the middle like it was fed through a machine.

It doesn't matter if they had the stub on them or not. It finds its way back. We have never figured out what tent seven is for. Rule number six. Check the perimeter rope every night. Every single night before you clock out, even if you're bone tired and sore and it's raining sideways. You check the rope. You start by the northwest corner near the dry creek bed, loop around past the trailers, behind the power shed, and finish back at the main gate. There's no

shortcut, no half measure. You walk the whole loop. The rope itself isn't fancy, just thick cord, waterproofed, fraying in places stretched between waist-high posts that line the property. Doesn't look like much, and that's part of why it gets forgotten sometimes. It's easy to miss. People think it's just for show, or maybe to keep guests from wandering off. But the rope isn't for them. It's not to keep things out. It's to keep things in.

We don't talk much about what lives here after hours. The guests leave. The acts go quiet. The lights flicker off, and what's left, behind settles in. Most of it stays where it belongs. That's the deal. They get a space, they get fed, they get left alone, and they stay inside the lines. The rope is the line. As long as it's tight, they respect the boundary. They feel it. Something in the material, something in the way it was nodded when the circus first settled here. We don't fully understand it.

All we know is it works until it doesn't. There was a week two years ago when we got sloppy. Some storm blew through and snapped a few of the rope ties clean off the east corner. Someone should have fixed it that night, but they figured it could wait till morning. That was a mistake. By sunrise, half the animals in the petting zoo were gone. No broken fences. No signs of struggle.

Just missing. We found one of the sheep hanging from the light post near the popcorn tent. Since then, we check the rope every night. If you find a section that's loose, don't panic. Just tighten it. If it's broken or missing entirely, call me or one of the senior crew immediately. Don't try to fix it yourself unless you've been trained. There's a way to tie it, a certain order to the nods.

It's not just about looping it through, it's about how the rope settles. If you do it wrong, it can send the wrong kind of message. I have walked that line every night for four years. I have seen things staring through it from the other side. Red eyes. Giant, red eyes. And that's the last rule. After this, well, it's just experience.

No one's going to walk you through every strange noise or shifting shadow, but you'll pick it up in time. You'll start to feel when something's wrong, even before you can see it. You might be wondering how it all started. You are not the first. Here's the truth. Nobody really knows the history of this circus. You can trace back some of it, back a few decades if you dig deep enough.

tax records, scattered news clippings, a few blurry photos from local fares. But the further back you go, the messier the story gets. Things stop lining up. Names repeat where they shouldn't. Dates overlap. Acts appear and vanish without any record of travel. Towns remember us coming through, but not leaving. Sometimes people swear we were there before they were born.

Some say this place used to be a real circus, the family-friendly kind, with elephants and cotton candy and men in coats cracking whips. Others say it was never a circus at all. Just a front? A place to move things, to launder money, to hide people or ideas that didn't belong. anywhere else. And somewhere along the way, the monsters got attached to it. Maybe they were drawn to the noise. Maybe they were here before we were, and just let us build around them. It's hard to say. But whatever it was at the start, this is what it is now, and we live with it. You'll hear stories,

some true, some not. Most have pieces of both. The one thing everyone agrees on is this, if you stay long enough, you start to change. You stop asking the wrong questions. You keep your head down, your feet moving, and your hands out of other people's trailers. And in return, the job pays well. You get three meals a day, a cop that doesn't leak when it rains, and a weekly envelope that's always full. No one's ever complained about the money. Most of us don't even know where it comes from.

But it shows up on time, in cash, and it's more than what you'd make working any other temp part-time job in this town or the next ten. And the best part. They offer dental. Well, that is it. Orientation's over.

You've heard the rules, at least the ones we're allowed to give you a friend. and you've made it all the way through without running, quitting, or trying to be clever. That's rare. You'd be surprised how many new hires lose focus halfway through the rope talk, or start laughing when I mentioned some of this crazy stuff. But you didn't. You listened, you stayed.

And now your shift's about to start. You'll be assigned a route in a few minutes, probably clean up or concessions, depending on how short staff we are tonight. It doesn't matter where they put you first, it all leads to the same understanding eventually. The lot has a way of teaching what it needs you to know. Some lessons you'll get from me or from the others. Some will come slower, quieter,

and you won't even realize you've learned them until the day you look around and realize nothing here surprises you anymore. You'll find your pace, You'll learn who to wave at and who to avoid. You'll figure out which paths take two minutes and which ones take a full hour if you step wrong. And most importantly, you'll stop trying to make sense of it.

That is the real test, not how brave you are, or how much blood you can handle, or whether you scream when something looks at you sideways. It's whether you can stand still, feel something wrong breathing down your neck, and keep sweeping the popcorn anyway, because you've still got 40 minutes left in your shift, and rent is due on the first. And if you can do that, well, you'll be just fine.

So good luck tonight. You're part of the lot now. I'll see you after your shift.