Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Work for the SCP FOUNDATION. There are 6 Rules To Survive

Episode Date: October 22, 2025

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My name is Marcus, and I work as a janitor for the SEP Foundation. I never planned on being a janitor, though. Not that I thought I was above it. Just figured by now I'd be doing something else. Something with health insurance. Something where people at least pretend to know your name, you know? I used to work maintenance in a middle school back in town. Same kind of job, just with more gum under desks and less respect.

But it was stable. I paid the bills. I had my routine. Coffee at six, mop in hand by seven, lunch in the back room with a busted vending machine. I could have done it forever, honestly. Then the school closed. Budget cuts. They gave us all three weeks notice, a paper check, and a half-hearted thank you for your service.

I was in my late 30s and back on the market, trying to convince people I still had something useful left in May. left in May, besides bad knees and an above average tolerance for mold. It was rough. You think you're not that old until you're standing in a line of 20-somethings applying for the same grocery job, and they look at you like you wandered in from a different century, and I guess I did. My wife, Jen, tried to stay upbeat about it. She's always been better at that than May, said we'd get by.

said maybe it was a good thing, a sign to slow down. Take a breather. She even started working weekends at the diner again. I hated that, watching her come home with sore feet and fake smiles while I sat there scrolling job boards for openings that didn't exist. And then one day, poof, this letter showed up. No return address.

No postage. Just sitting in our mailbox, like it always been there. Inside was a single page, typed, said they were looking for someone experienced in custodial work, adaptable, and discreet. No interview, no phone call, just directions to a facility in the mountains and a time, Monday at 8 p.m. The last line read pay is nightly, envelope upon shift completion. No questions asked. Jen thought it was a prank.

I thought maybe it was one of those shady contract jobs, cleaning up foreclosures, you know, fixing up crime scenes, something like that. But still I went. We needed the money. Our savings were down to coins in a jar, and a check from her cousin we never planned to cash. Figured I'd show up. See who was there.

Maybe walk away if it felt too weird. But there wasn't. anyone at the gate. Just a red button next to a camera and a quiet buzz when the gate slid open. Like they were already expecting me. Like it wasn't the first time they'd done this. That first night, I walked down a long hallway with white floors and overhead lights that never flickered. There was a locker with my name on it. A blue uniform folded inside. A key card. and six rules taped to the inside of the door. That was it.

No boss, no handshake. Just get to work. Keep your head down. And when the night's over, there's the envelope. Heavy with cash? No name, no note. The envelope is the only reason I keep coming back. Now there's a couple things you should know about the SCP Foundation.

Things I learned the hard one. way. People think the SCP Foundation is some secret government branch or that it's run by aliens. I've heard everything, black site rumors, internet theories. One guy in the locker room even said it was funded by time travelers. None of that's true as far as I can tell. The truth is simpler and weirder. The SCP Foundation exists to keep the world boring. That's one of the The cards told me on my third night. After I asked why the lights and Hall B never turn off. Because routine keeps the weird things asleep, he said.

Like it was obvious. That's how people talk around here. Like you're just supposed to understand it. But I didn't. Not at first at least. What they actually do is lock up stuff that doesn't make sense. objects, creatures, sometimes whole rooms or places. They call them anomalies, things that mess with physics or time, or the idea of what should be possible. They study them, contain them, and make sure

no one out there knows they exist. Also the rest of the world can go on living without knowing there's a mop that can eat fingers or a chair that grows teeth. They've got this three-part motto. Secure, contain, protect. They put it on everything. Paperwork, walls, even the plastic on my mop bucket. First, I thought it was a joke. And then I realized they mean it.

These people really believe they're keeping the world safe by keeping it the same. No surprises. no chaos, no truth bigger than what people can handle. Me? I just clean up after him. My job's more janitor than scientist, but sometimes I feel more like a zookeeper. I mop the halls, scrub fingerprints off the viewing glass, disinfect the walls outside of the containment chambers. I don't go inside, ever. That's one of the rules. But sometimes the entities get close. They tapped the glass.

They smile. One of them held up a sign once that said, nice shirt. I didn't like that. There's always work to do, always smudges that weren't there five minutes ago. Scratches on the floor that weren't there the night before. I don't ask questions. Nobody here likes questions. You show up, suit up, clean up.

get out. At the end of the night, there's an envelope in your locker. It's always sealed, always cash, enough to keep the fridge full and the lights on. I've been here a few months now, and I still don't know why they picked me. But I've got a theory. Back in high school, they used to make us take these career tests. One of them was psychological, questions about stress, fear, moral reasoning. I remember the kind of counselor called me in afterward, said I scored off the charts for fortitude, mental resilience, the kind of person who could handle pressure without cracking. I think the foundation got a hold of those results.

Makes sense. You'd have to be built a certain way to walk these halls and not lose it. You can't flinch every time something looks at you through glass. Speaking of, they have a lot of weird monsters here. I'll start with the first one they ever assigned to my care. Mr. Hugs. Now they don't give a lot of instructions here. Just the six rules.

And they don't explain them. You're supposed to follow them without asking. This one was the first time memorized. Rule number one, always feed the bear its Cheerios. Yeah. The yellow box that says gluten-free and apparently helps lower your cholesterol. I keep a box in my cart near the spray bottles and the rags. The regular kind, none of the honey or multi-grained stuff.

Bad things happen when you veer into unknown territory and introduce something new to these creatures. So, I stay clear of trying to be smart and follow what I know. Yellow box. And always keep extras. Now Mr. Huggs is in sector B, second hallway, last cell on the left. His chamber is floor-to-ceiling glass on three sides, steel walls behind him, and padded floors. There's a sign above the entrance with a big red bear face, like a sticker you'd find in a kid's hospital wing. But that's just for show. Nobody here thinks he's cute.

He's about nine feet tall. Give a tech. Fur matted in some places, smooth than others. Like he's been dragged through a barn and then brushed by someone who gave up halfway. His arms are long and always resting on his knees. Head oversized and too round, like a cartoon. One glass eye is missing. The other just stares, blinking every once in a while. I'm not sure how it blinks. The whole thing stitched together, but it moves like it's breathing. He sits on a cushion in the center of a cell, swaying his head left and right, like he's listening to music. He never stands.

He never pays me any attention when I walk past, except for when it's feeding time. He always knows when I've brought the box. I usually do my rounds starting at the far end, working my way down. I mop the tile, check the filters, wipe the base of the viewing glass. I make sure my cartwheels don't squeak. When I get to Mr. Hugs, I take out the Cheerios and set them on the little steel tray near the shoot. I press the button, the tray slides inward, and the box is gone. Sometimes I come back later in the shift and leave another.

box, doesn't matter what time. Doesn't matter how many. If I put it in, it disappears. I've never seen him eat. Never seen the box open or cereal spilled. There's no crumbs, no sign of movement. But it's always gone. Once, out of curiosity, I put a small camera on the box, cheap kind battery powered, thought maybe I'd see how he did it. The next morning, the camera was sitting on the tray. The box was gone. The camera still worked, but the footage was wiped. That was the only time I tried that and figured it was best to either ask the guards if I was curious or just probably keep to myself. People here have theories. Some things. He's not real.

Just a shell for something inside. Others? Well, others say he's some kind of child-level mind-trap. Like if you show him anything but kindness, he snaps. I don't buy any of that. What I know is years ago, he belonged to a little girl on a farm in Alabama. After she got sick, the family started losing animals. First, the dogs.

the dogs, then the pigs, eventually the goats all found dead, no wounds, just dropped. People assumed poison or disease, and then the parents died too. When the foundation got there, they found the girl missing, the house empty, and Mr. Hugs sitting in the barn, surrounded by a circle of dead goats. They took him in that same day. There's a laminated photo tape to the inside of the viewing glass, shows him clean and new, with a girl smiling next to him. That part's probably supposed to be comforting. But the way he sits now swaying like that, I don't know.

Makes you wonder what he remembers. I don't touch the glass. I don't speak to him. I don't stay long. I do the floor, I restock the cereal, and I move on. He's never given me a reason to worry, but I still keep two extra boxes in the cart. Just in case. Now, I should probably tell you the next rule before we talk about something else.

Rule number two. If you see Miss Lady walking the halls, say good evening, and keep moving. Miss Lady is what they call her here. Officially, she's SCP-7231, but nobody uses that number. Everyone just calls her Miss Lady, and they say it in a low voice, like the walls might be listening. She came from Las Vegas. According to the file, she was discovered wandering behind a gas station on the edge of the strip.

A man taking out trash saw her first and thought she was a drunk woman who'd lost her way. And then he noticed her torso wasn't attached. The story says he fainted where he stood. And when he woke up, she was still walking circles near the dumpster. The foundation came for her the same night. They lured her into a transport van by shining a light in the back and waiting for her to step inside. She didn't resist. She just walked up the ramp, calm and steady, like she'd been waiting.

The strangest part is how she looks, or what's left of her. Miss Lady is pale from the waist down, skin stretched tight across bone and muscle. Her legs are long, but not graceful. Her knees bend with a strange stiffness, as though her joints have been worn down from too many miles. Her feet are bare. The souls are dark and scuffed, the nails broken, and every step she takes leaves a faint mark as though the floor itself dislikes her touch. Her body ends just above the hips.

There's no clean cut, no smooth surface where the rest of her should be. It's open. It's raw. Her torso is missing, and if you make the mistake of looking too closely, you can see into the cavity. Miss Lady doesn't stay in one place. She roams. The foundation tried to hold her in a chamber, but she never stayed. Doors closed, blocks checked, light secured, yet she'd be gone before the next patrol pass through. Now, she wanders the halls between two and three in the morning. Never earlier, never later. If you're assigned to those hours, you prepare yourself. though she's never violent. Then again, that does not mean she can't be. That's what most of the monsters here are.

And it's best to remember that when you're making your own rounds. The rule is simple. If you see her, you say, good evening. Don't ask questions. Don't comment. Don't stare. A greeting is enough. Then you keep moving.

The first time I saw her, I didn't know that. I was cleaning the main corridor in sector B when I heard footsteps behind me. They weren't noticeable, I read, each one clear and sharp on the tile. I thought it was a guard, so I turned to check. And what I saw froze me in place. Her legs were pale and stiff. Her feet blackened from endless walking.

And above her hips was only the swaying movement of organs in the open. I remember my mop falling from my hand and hitting the floor. Then everything went dark. When I woke up, I was on the ground with a sore neck. A security guard stood over me. He looked annoyed, not worried. He told me the second rule, word for word. Then he just walked away.

Now I don't take chances. When I hear her steps, I keep my head for word. forward. I don't let my eyes wander. I say, good evening, with a steady voice, and I continue walking. She never answers. Just passes by, her bare feet leaving faint marks on the tile. Other workers whisper about her in the break room. Where this monster came from? How she came to be. Most importantly, why she is one of the few allowed to roam around unattended? And whether or not we're safe when she does. I have passed her enough times now to know the sound of her steps.

They stay in rhythm, never hurrying, never dragging. Sometimes they fade into the distance. And sometimes they stop just long enough to make me think she is standing right behind me. I never look. All right, rule number three. When Randy appears, keep him in your line of sight and slowly walk backwards until he's gone. I've only seen Randy three times, and I hope that number never goes up. His full designation is SCP 8092, but nobody here bothers with the whole thing.

They just call him Randy the reverse man. The name sounds like a joke until you see him. After that, you never call him anything at all if you can help it. They keep him on the west wing, deep in a part of the facility no one uses for regular work. The whole hall stays dark unless you trip the motion sensors. Even then, the lights never come on all the way. They buzz at half strength, like they don't really want to be involved. When I clean down there, I do it fast.

I don't listen for sounds. I don't think too hard about shadows that change shape. The rule is simple. If you see Randy, you look at him. You keep looking. You do not blink. You back away slowly, eyes on him the whole time. Once he's out of view, you do not go back until the next shift.

I found out why the rule exists during my second month. month. A researcher explained it in passing, right before disappearing from the site roster two days later. He said Randy is like the weeping angels from that old show Doctor Who, creatures that can only move when no one's watching. The difference is, the angels were stone. Randy is something else. He looks like a man wearing a dark gray suit. The clothes are neatly pressed, and the buttons always seem polished. His shoes are black and old-fashioned, but not scuffed. From a distance, he could pass for someone real.

The problem starts when you look closer. His arms are backward. The elbows bend in reverse. And the fingers flex in a way that looks painful, even though he never shows pain. His legs are jointed wrong too. His knees point the wrong way, and his ankles twist in slow, deliberate rotations as he walks. He moves in reverse, step by step, like a tape being played backward.

His head is on backwards, too. His face is on the back of his skull, and he always smiles. His teeth are small and too square, and he smiles. smiles like he knows what you did last week and found it amusing. He doesn't blink. He doesn't breathe. And if you close your eyes even for a second, he will be closer when you open them again.

The first time I saw him was during a late shift. I'd been sent down to clean the unused corridor near Lab 7C. Nobody told me Randy was out. I rounded a corner and there he was. standing at the far end of the hallway, with his arms hanging loose at his sides. I thought he was facing away from me until he began to move backward. Toward me. I froze.

My brain struggled to process it. His arms bent the wrong way as he stepped closer. His neck turned in a slow half circle until his eyes were on mine, even though his body never rotated. The lights above me flickered once, then steadied, and I remembered the rule. I locked my eyes on his, and I started walking backward. As I backed up, he passed through the edge of the light and entered the darkness behind me. I could still see him clearly.

His eyes never shifted. His smile didn't fade. When I finally reached the end of the hallway, I turned the corner and broke line of sight. And I stood still for full ten minutes before I moved again. I didn't finish cleaning that corridor. I didn't log it. And I didn't report what happened.

The researcher is already known. Everybody here does. They just don't talk about it unless they have to. Now, I check the schedule before every shift. If Randy's been logged as active, I stay away. If my cart is assigned to that wing, I request a reschedule. If that doesn't work, I carry a mirror.

I angle it over my shoulder while I walk, and I never blink more than I need to. I would rather deal with Miss Lady ten times in one night than see Randy again. Rule number four. If Gusty is in the hall, do not turn your back. walk away slowly and keep your eyes fixed until you're safe i did not believe gusty was real until i saw myself people talk in this place they say things to fill the silence you learn which stories are only rumors and which are warnings when i first heard about gusty i thought it was just the randy story told with new paint sounded too similar you know another figure

that only moved when you weren't looking. Another one that froze under your gaze. But then I found out there were files, reports, and even photos. He was not another version of Randy. He was worse. Gusty looks like one of those plastic anatomy models from high school biology classrooms. I remember ours stood near the window, always dusty, the left lung missing. Gusty is complete, down to the smallest arteries painted on the inside of the rib gauge.

His plastic muscles are layered across a clean skeletal frame, all glossy red and pink, and his face is an open grin of molded teeth. He even has a removable heart panel locked in his chest, though no one dares test if it actually comes loose. When he stands still, he could pass for a science problem. that someone forgot to pack away. But if you look away, even for a second, he moves. And that's where the problem starts.

If you catch sight of Gusty while you're on your rounds, you can't just keep walking and hope he goes the other way. You have to stay locked on him. He only moves when you aren't looking. If you blink too long or turn your back or even walk behind a cart and lose line of sight for half a second. He advances. He doesn't creep like Randy. He lunges. And if he catches you, he knocks you out cold and drags your body, always to the second-floor

science room. Doesn't matter where you are when he gets you. That's where you wake up, slumped in a plastic chair with classroom posters on the wall and gusty standing beside the projector like a teacher ready to begin. That's how they found a level two researcher last month. Everyone who works this wing knows the risk. Once you see him, your night's over. You either lock eyes and back away until you're clear or you use the only tool the foundation has found

that freezes him in place. There's a backup plan for staff who can't handle the stair down. It's called video number 004. You have to go to the old viewing theater on the south end of the facility. The player barely works, and the button sticks when you press it. But once the tape starts, Gusty will stop moving. The video is an old documentary about the founding of the school he was taken from. The original name of the school has been erased for men.

every part of the film. You'll see students in uniforms, long empty hallways, a headmaster giving a speech about legacy and science, and a shot of a science club posing behind a skeleton model that looks exactly like Gusty. The entire film runs about 18 minutes. As long as it's playing, Gusty doesn't move. You can look away. You can walk right past him. You can even clean the floor under his feet if you're feeling brave. But the second the tape ends, he picks up where he left off. His limbs rotate. His head turns. And if you aren't ready, he comes for you. I've only used the tape once. I didn't have the nerve to keep eye contact that night. I ran to the theater, hit play, and stood behind the glass window while he froze

mid-step. His arm was raised like he'd been mid-reach. He didn't twitch. Not once. I cleaned the hallway in six minutes, didn't touch my mop water after that, and left before the credits finished. It worked, but I don't like how it worked. The researchers think he recognizes the school. They think the video calms him. I'm not sure about that. I think that it just reminds him of something. All right, rule number five. Make sure the yellow kid's cell is always raining. Check the valves.

Check the tanks. There's a child here. Or something shaped like one. We call it the yellow kid. No one knows what it looks like underneath. It wears a yellow raincoat with a hood pulled down low over its feet. face. You can't see any skin. You can't tell if it's a boy or a girl. The coat is too big, and the sleeves hang past where the hand should be. The whole thing looks soaked all the time.

Doesn't move much. It stands in the middle of its room with its head slightly tilted, like it's waiting for something. The rule for it is simple. Its containment chamber has to be raining at all times. Not wet, not misted, not damp. It needs to be actively raining. Real steady drops from overhead, like a storm that never stops. The artificial rain is created by a special system installed in the ceiling above its chamber. Pipes run down from a set of tanks on the lower level. Those tanks feed water into a pressure system that controls a grid of nozzles. When the system is on, the nozzles release a controlled rainfall inside the room. The pattern is light and steady, designed to simulate a calm weather system. It's enough to

keep the whole room wet without flooding it. Keeping that system running isn't my main job. That's handled by full maintenance. They're the ones who refill the tanks, replace broken parts, and reset the controls if something goes wrong. But during my rounds, I've been told to check the basics. That means I look through the observation window to make sure it's actually raining inside. I glance at the gauges beside the control panel and confirm that the main tank pressure is high enough.

If the water stops and I don't notice, it can become a problem fast. So the responsibility lands on whoever's in the hallway at the time. Most nights, that's me. The tanks are tall metal cylinders with markings that show how full they are. The primary tank has a strip of black tape wrapped around it. That's the 60% line. If the water falls below that tape, the pressure starts to drop,

and the rain may come out uneven or stop altogether. If I see that the water has dropped too low, I don't fix it myself. I call into maintenance and then activate the backup valve. That valve connects to a secondary tank. It's not ideal, but it works in emergencies, and it keeps the rain going until the primary system can be restored. The yellow kid doesn't move when it's raining. That's the part everyone agrees on.

It stays still, right in the center of the room, with a hood over its face and the sleeves covering its arm. But if the rain ever stops, well, I've heard stories. It's bad. I heard four people were killed one night in the outside hallway, before someone finally turned down the sprinklers. So we make sure it always stays raining. Rule 6. Give the sand man his dinner every night at 8.

Never miss the time. The Sandman is different from the others. Most of them don't speak, or if they do, it's not in any way you can follow. They stare, they shift, they rattle a little in their cells. The Sandman's not like that. He talks. He talks like he already knows you, like you've met before. And sometimes I answer him.

I know I shouldn't. The foundation calls him. him S.EP 9912, but everyone on staff just calls him the sandman. The name doesn't fit him at first. He doesn't have a bag of dreams or a gentle way about him. His chamber is lined with sand dunes that shift without wind. The floor is never still. Sometimes it piles high against the walls. Sometimes it spreads flat, but it's always moving. The sandman's stands in the middle of it, like a post in a desert. He's tall, his frame hidden under plain clothes that look like they were dug up out of the sand itself. No face, just smooth skin

where the features should be, stretched tight and pale. You can tell where the head points, because the neck bends in your direction when you walk in. You know he's looking at you, even without eyes. The rule is simple. Every night at exactly eight, he gets a meal. The tray looks ordinary. There's always protein, a side of vegetables, and a glass of juice. Sometimes eats chicken, sometimes beef.

The vegetables change, too. Green beans, carrots, peas. The juice is usually orange, and at first glance it looks like cafeteria food. But it isn't. Every item has been treated with a tonic. It's packed with caffeine, far more than any human could drink without shaking apart. That's the point. The sandman is not allowed to sleep.

I don't know why. I don't tell us those things. I know better than to ask. But I can guess. You don't drug someone every single day of, their life unless there's a reason. And when that someone can reach into people's heads, you don't take risks. It's ironic. The sandman who never sleeps. When I bring the tray in, I don't go far. I place it in the marked square on the floor, just inside the door. The sand shifts around my boots

while I step forward, as though the room itself doesn't like being disturbed. He never moves when I do this. He only speaks. The first time I nearly dropped the tray, it said. I wasn't. My watch said 759. I placed the tray and backed out. The next day he said my wife's name. After that, he said the name of the street I grew up on. Sometimes it's worse than that. Sometimes he says things I've never told anyone. I don't know if he's reading my mind or if the foundation gave him my file. Both are bad answers. Both feel true, actually. Most nights I don't answer him, but sometimes I do. It slips out before I can stop it. If he says my name, I might say, yes. If he asks a question, sometimes I mutter a reply under my breath.

Never laughs, never jokes. His tone never changes. But when he gets a response, it's like he's satisfied. His presence is unnerving in a way the others aren't. Randy will freeze you with fear if you slip up. Gusty will knock you out and drag you back to his classroom. The sandman doesn't have to touch you. He makes you feel like you've already lost.

before anything happens. And that's why I always follow the rule. Dinner at eight. Protein vegetables juice. Each one laced with enough caffeine to keep a man awake four days. I don't know what would happen if he ever fell asleep. And I don't want to find out. And that's all I know.

Yeah, I mean at least for now. I'm just one of many who work here. There are others like me, janitors who were brought in without much explanation and handed a list of rules. Some of them manage full wings on their own. Some don't talk much. A few I haven't seen in weeks, actually. I don't know if that means they quit or were transferred, or if something much worse happened.

Nobody tells you. You just show up, clean what you're told to clean, deliver what you're told to clean, deliver what you're told to deliver, and keep your head down. The place is bigger than anyone admits. It's not just one building. Not really. It stretches deeper and farther than makes sense. I have walked the same hallway for months

and still come back across doors I have never seen before. Elevators go to levels that aren't listed on any map, and some rooms don't show up in any log. The foundation doesn't correct you when you ask. They just look at you like you're supposed to know better. I mop the floors, I scrub the windows. I deliver dinner trays to things that don't sleep, don't eat, or shouldn't speak at all. I check valves and switches, refill supplies, and note down anything that feels wrong.

I keep a small notebook in my locker just for myself. Not because I think someone will read it later, but because writing things down reminds me what's real and what's just the job. When the shift ends, I go back to the locker room. My envelope's always there. Thick, sealed, and unmarked. I don't count the money anymore. It's always enough. I drive home while it's still dark and crawl into bed beside my wife.

She always stirs a little And mumbles something sweet I don't tell her about my day She doesn't ask anymore That's the agreement we have And yeah That's the job If you're thinking of taking it

Just remember one thing Always follow The rules