Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I work in a Gas Station in Ohio. We have Strange Rules | Scary Stories

Episode Date: July 9, 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 in a Gas Station in Ohio. We have Strange Rules.     Merch: lighthousehorror.shopFor more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | PatreonSocial MediaINSTAGRAM - @lighthousehorror FACEBOOK -  Lighthouse HorrorTIKTOK - Lighthouse HorrorMusic:Lucas King - YouTubeMyuu - YouTube IncompetechDarren Curtis Music - YouTubeThank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

I'm not the kind of guy who asked for much. Give me some peace, a fridge that works, and enough cash to keep the lights on, and I am good. My name's Charlie. I'm 22. Just finished my third year of college, and I'm trying to scrape together enough for the last push. Final semester coming up, and I still owe for textbooks and rent. I study environmental science, not because I think I'm going to save the world or anything, but because I like being outside. and I don't want a job that chines me to a desk.

I grew up in a town called Eldridge. One of those places with a diner that only plays 80s rock and a hard war store that smells like sawdust and old socks. People then know your name. Your dad's name? And which football game you missed? It's boring in a way that is kind of comforting. But it's not the kind of place where you find good work

unless your uncle owns something or you're good with cars. I'm not. I get oil on my hands and suddenly I'm wiping them on my jeans and then I, you know, I've ruined my jeans. That is me. This summer, I didn't want anything complicated. No internship with 15 unpaid hours and a resume full of fake smiles. I just wanted something easy. Something I could clock in and out of and not think about when I left. My buddy Trevor said working night shift somewhere quiet is the best way to keep your brain intact. He worked security once at a boat dealership, said the first three nights were weird. Then it was mostly microwave burritos and watching old kung fu movies on his laptop. So that's what I was looking for.

Simple, quiet, cash. I saw the ad in the local paper on a Sunday. It was wedged between a coupon for dog grooming and some woman selling rabbit cages. Night shift. Fuel station attended. No experience necessary. Start immediately. Good pay. No company name, no logo, nothing but a number printed at the bottom. That's all. I liked that it didn't ask for a resume. I'm not great at writing those. I've worked for a couple restaurants. did landscaping for one weird summer and sold popcorn at a movie theater where the air conditioner never worked but anyway I called the number that same day maybe 10 minutes

after seeing it a guy picked up on the second ring his name was Mason no last name I started saying hi calling about the night shift job and before I could ask anything else he just said you're hired that was it I waited, thinking maybe he was joking. But he just gave me directions to the gas station and said, Your shift starts at midnight tomorrow, don't be late. Then he hung up. Didn't ask for my name?

Didn't ask for a single thing, actually. I figured it was some kind of desperate place, probably on in the boonies. Maybe lost their last employee to something like boredom or a better pay. check. Either way, I was in. I needed the money. And I like staying up late. And honestly, it felt like something I could handle. The gas station was at the end of a dirt road miles out of town. Mason had said it was off road seven near an old sign for a fishing lodge that apparently burned down in the 90s. I had to Google the spot twice and still didn't see anything on the map. Just a line of road that turned into nothing. But I figured maybe it was one of those places that hadn't been

updated online. There's a lot of those around here. I left the house at 11.15 p.m. I had a backpack with me, water bottle, two packs of gum, a notebook, and an old magazine I found under my bed. I didn't bother bringing food. I figured a gas station would have snacks. The roads are mostly empty, not unusual. for this light. Once I turned off the main road, it got darker fast, real fast. There were street lights here and there, but more than one was busted. I remember that, clearly. One pole was leaning sideways, like someone had backed into it with a truck, and no one had bothered to fix it. The dirt road came up suddenly. No sign. Just a narrow turn-off with two bent mailboxes. and weeds growing around them. I slowed down and turned in, my tires crunching over the gravel.

It was a long drive-in, trees on both sides, tall and packed close. I couldn't see anything past him. I kept thinking, if I missed the place, there's nowhere to turn around. But eventually, after what felt like, I don't know, 10 or 15 minutes, the road opened up, and I saw the gas station. It was small, low roof, old siding, one flickering light above the sliding doors. A sign on top of the building said gas in faded red letters. No company name, no logo, just gas. One pump out front. A dusty truck parked on the side, but it looked like it hadn't moved in years.

There was not a soul anywhere. I parked my car and sat there for a moment. No movement. No sound, except for bugs chirping in the trees behind me. I got out, walked up to the doors. They were chained shut. Thick, rusted chains, wrapped around the handles, locked tight. I checked my phone. No new messages, no signal either. that part bugged me a little. And then I remembered Mason had said, keys in the potted plant. And sure enough, there was a big plastic pot next to the door.

It had one of those plastic plants in it, dusty and faded. I reached under the rim and felt something cold. A key, plain, metal, a little dirty. I used it on the padlock. It clicked open easier than I expected. The doors slid apart with a bit of effort. They stuck a little, but I got them open. And inside, it looked normal.

Sunglasses on a spinner rack up front. A whole wall of energy drinks in the bag. Gummy bears on the counter. It looked like any other gas station at first, until I noticed the giant list of rules. Behind the register, taped to the counter with yellowing edges, was a single sheet of paper, typed out, not handwritten. The first line stood out in bold, Rule 1. Feed the cat. Underneath that, it read, his name is Ripley, and he's an orange tabby missing an eye.

Sometimes, you'll find him sitting on the counter as if he were willing. waiting for you to arrive. Other times, he'll be facing the entrance to the back rooms. We don't really know why he goes there. And it's best not to ask. There's a box of yellow sardines from someplace called the Watermelon Company under the cash register. Use it to fill his red bowl you'll find near the entrance. Ripley is a good cat. Always keep him fed. Okay. stared at that for a moment, then looked up. A cat had jumped down to the counter while I'd been reading. Orange fur. One eye. The left one was missing, like it'd been plucked out long ago. His good eye was green, a little squinty, and not too interested in me. He was just sitting

there, like the note said, calm and waiting. Uh... Uh-high? I said softly. He blinked back real slow. I leaned over and opened the cabinet under the register. There was a box inside, pale yellow with blue lettering, watermelon company, sardines and oil, and faded print. The back of a box had something written in another language.

I didn't recognize the letters. Wasn't Spanish, wasn't French. Wasn't anything I'd ever seen. I opened the box. Inside were little round tins all the same. I peeled one open, and the smell hit me. Strong, oily, salty. The kind of smell that sticks to your fingers even after washing.

Ripley perked up when I opened the tin. I found the red bowl near the front entrance, just like the note said. It had a few old flakes of dried fish in it, but nothing fresh. I dumped the sardines in, oil and all, and set it down gently. Ripley jumped off the counter and trotted over, quiet as a whisper. He sniffed the bowl, then started eating, slow and steady, no rush. I watched him for a second. One eye focused, tail flicking slowly.

He looked like a pirate, a small, lazy, hungry pirate. That's a good cat, I said, and gave him a gentle scratch behind the ears. He leaned into it just a little. After that, I walked back to the register and put a little check mark next to the first rule with a pen somebody left beside the paper. All right, rule number one, feed the cat. Check. The next line on the paper was bold again.

Rule two. Check the locks. Under that, it said, It's all the way in the back past the freezer section in the old chip aisle. Looks like a normal door. Except it's red. There's red chain surrounding it. Make sure they haven't budged.

Ignore the screaming. Okay. Well, that sounded more like security work. which was fine. Maybe the place had break-ins or kids trying to sneak in through the back. I looked around and spotted the aisles. Nothing fancy. One shelf had a half-stocked row of dusty chips.

Most of them were off-brand. Things like salty crunch and zesty corn explosion. The bags were old and kind of sun-bleached, like they'd been sitting for a long time. The freezers were humming low. Half of them were empty. One had a few popsicles in the corner. Another had what looked like frozen burritos from another decade.

I passed them and turned into the far-back aisle. The air back here felt still, like this part of the building didn't get cleaned often. And then I saw it. The door wasn't hard to find. It was bright red. Not painted over, but a solid metal. like, I don't know, fire truck paint, heavy, thick, and wrapped in chains. Big red chains, thick as my hand, not just wrapped around the door handle, but across the whole door in a tight

X shape. The links looked solid. Some had little dense in them, like they'd been hid or scraped at one point. The padlock. It was huge. Old-fashioned, like something off a giant barn. There were scratches on the wall near the handle. I figured that part right away. Long, deep ones, like someone had dragged a tool or their nails down the drywall. Like they'd tried to get the door open. Or maybe tried to stop it from closing. I leaned forward. Didn't touch anything yet. Just looked.

Didn't feel like a backroom door. It felt wrong. Too solid. Too sealed. Like it wasn't meant to lead somewhere, but meant to hold something in. Something that should not be allowed out. Still,

I was supposed to check the locks. That was the rule. The rule also mentioned one more thing. Ignore the screaming. I didn't want to believe that part when I read it. I figured it was just written that way for effect. Something to creep out in new hires. But standing here now, with my ears straining in the silence,

I heard it. Faint at first. So faint, I thought maybe it was the freezer humming wrong. Then it rose, high and distant, like someone screaming behind several walls. It wasn't angry. It wasn't even clear. Just pain? Repeating.

Not words, not names, just human sound. Over and over, like it was on a loop. I reached out again. My fingers were just inches from the padlock when I heard it. A meow? Soft. Calm. I turned.

Ripley. He was sitting at the far end of the aisle, right where it opened back toward the front of the store. His good eye was focused on me. He meowed again, not loud, not angry, but sharp, like a warning. I lowered my hand slowly. All right, you're the boss, I said. I backed away from the door, turning carefully.

The screams hadn't stopped. They were still going up and down in volume, as if someone were being dragged across a floor, just out of reach. Ripley didn't move, not at first. He just sat there, tail wrapped neatly around his paws, watching me, waiting.

Then he turned and walked off like nothing had happened. I followed him back up the aisle, past the old chip rack in the buzzing freezers. The screams faded behind me, like they didn't want to cross the wall. threshold of that aisle. Back at the counter, I picked up the pen again and marked the paper. Rule two, check the locks.

Check. The third rule was just as simple as the other ones. Rule three. Clean around the gas station. No need to clean outside. It's the inside that counts, or so they say. You'll find weird things lying around from previous customers. who like to drop things.

Candy wrapper here, paper cup there. A loose tooth, maybe. Or an old photograph with a heads missing. Just throw it all away. Keep the place clean. It read. That one made me laugh a little first time I read it. A loose tooth?

Seemed like a joke someone typed out for fun. Still, the place could use a little tidying. Wasn't gross, but it had that look of a little bit. somewhere no one really took care of. Dust around the corners, empty cup under the chip rack, sticky patch by the slushy machine, you know, that sort of thing. I pulled my phone out and started playing music while I cleaned. Mostly old stuff, radio hits, little rock, something to break up the silence. I found a broom behind the counter and a roll of thin plastic garbage bags. Ripley followed me around for a bit, then curled up near the red bowl and dozed off. I started in the candy

aisle. There was a half-sucked lollipop stuck in the bottom shelf. I had to scrape it off with a key I found in the drawer. Then there were two soda cans behind the sunglasses rack and a single sock on top of the snack display. Not a pair. Just one. Weird, but not impossible. Then I saw the photograph. It was lying near the fridge that barely worked, face up on the floor. Black and white, little curled at the edges, looked like something someone's grandma might keep in a box of the attic. The picture showed a family. Two adults, and girl, a boy, standing in front of a carnival booth. Balloons in the background, some kind of striped tent behind them.

They were all dressed. Nicely. The boy even had a little tie. But none of them had heads. Not blurred, not faded, just gone, like they were never drawn in. Their necks stopped where their collars started, clean and flat, like cut paper dolls. I turned the photo over, nothing on the back, no writing, no date. I didn't feel right, throwing it away. So I slipped it under the counter near the sardine box. Then I kept cleaning.

And the weird stuff kept coming, but I got used to it. Bottle caps with teeth marks, candy wrappers folded into tiny origami birds. Once, I found a pair of tiny red shoes in the freezer next to a frozen. and burrito. They were child-sized and spotless, like someone had placed them there on purpose. Then there were the photos. At first, just one or two, tucked under shelves or dropped behind the drink coolers. But after that first week, I started finding them everywhere, folded behind snack displays, stuffed behind pages of old magazines, slid between cracks in the counter,

They were always black and white, curled at the edges with that worn paper feel, like they'd been handled too many times. Some were clearly from long ago. Town parades, old ribbon cuttings, a Boy Scout troop in front of a flagpole. Others seemed newer, maybe a few decades back at most. Kids posing at a fountain, teens outside a diner, families stand. in front of storefronts. Every photo had one thing in common. No one had a head.

The bodies were dressed up nice. Everyone stood still, smiling, holding hands or balloons or newspapers, but where their heads should have been, there was nothing. No blurring, no damage, no signs of age. Just clean, flat. space above the collars like someone had taken scissors and trimmed them off with perfect precision I never found two of the same photo never found anyone who looked familiar just headless crowds caught in moments they probably thought were ordinary when the

picture was taken I stopped throwing them out after a while I didn't want him but I couldn't make myself toss them either. They didn't feel like trash. They felt... I don't know how they felt. Not like trash. So I tucked them in a drawer under the register. The same drawer where I kept the item,

the faceless man had handed me on the first night. The one I still hadn't dared to look at. But even with the pictures, even with the little red shoes and the candy birds, nothing ever felt immediately. dangerous. After a few nights, I got into a rhythm. Show up just before midnight. Check the rules. Feed Ripley, clean a little, watch the clock. Sometimes I read or looked through the old magazines in the rack. Nobody ever came in. The gas pump outside never beat. The register never rang.

Ripley sat with me most nights. He didn't beg for food after the first. feeding. Just kept close. One time, he hopped up onto the register and pressed a paw onto the keypad. I laughed, scratched his head, and told him he was not getting my paycheck. It was easy. It was weird, but it was my routine. Until the fourth night. At 2 a.m., I saw headlights through the glass. It was quiet. I'd just finish sweeping up the chip aisle. I looked up and saw a red Ford sitting under the one working street lamp out front. It hadn't been there when I looked up ten minutes ago. I stepped closer to the window. The car was clean, shiny even, like someone had just washed it. The street lamp lit the whole front of it.

Really. And inside the car, sitting still as stone, was a man. He didn't move. Just sat in the driver's seat, hands on the wheel. He wore a deep velvet suit, dark purple or maroon. I couldn't tell from where I stood. He had a green cane leaning against his shoulder. It was chipped and crooked.

face. He didn't have a face. No eyes, no nose, no mouth, just skin, smooth and blank, like a wax doll that never got finished. I didn't know what to do. He didn't look at me. He couldn't. But I felt like he was. I ran. back to the counter and looked at the paper again. Scan down past the rules I already checked off. And there it was. Rule number four, lock the doors when you see a red Ford outside. It read. There's a man with no face that sits in the lot in his red car under the street lamp at exactly 2 a.m. to 3 a.m. He never comes inside. But sometimes. he watches from outside the glass windows.

He wears a velvet suit with a green cane that has seen better days. But he wears no face. Keep the doors locked until he leaves. My heart dropped. I hadn't locked the doors. I spun around to grab the key and then I saw him again. Not outside. Inside, he was standing in the snack aisle.

I hadn't even heard the door open. Not even a sound. One minute, the man in the red ford was sitting under the street lamp outside, still as a statue. The next, he was standing in the snack aisle, like he'd always been there, like I'd forgotten he was supposed to be outside at all. I had no idea how long he'd been standing there before I noticed. He wasn't moving, not even a twitch. His velvet suit clung to him like it'd been tailored yesterday.

It was a deep, dark red, almost the same color as dried berries, and there was not one wrinkle on it. Over one arm he carried a long green cane. thin and bent at the top, like someone had used it too many times or dropped it too hard. The cane touched the floor beside him, but didn't help him walk. At least not that I could say. But his face? Just a smooth blank space.

Like an artist had started making a person, but got tired halfway through and just left his face unfinished. The skin was pale. and slightly stretched, like it had been pulled too tight over something underneath. And then I remember the rule. My eyes darted across the typed lines until I found what I was looking for. Rule number five. In case of emergency. It read,

If you happen to not lock the doors in time and the man comes in, keep your head down and don't look at him. allow him to roam the aisles. You'll know where he is by the tapping of his cane. Answer his questions if he needs help finding something and accept whatever he gives you when he pays. It's not always cash. You'll know he's left when the cane fades away.

I didn't know what to do besides follow the rule. The whole shift so far had gone fine because I followed the rules exactly. I wasn't about to stop now. So I sat down on the stool behind the counter, rested my arms on my knees, and dropped my head until I was staring at the gum under the counterlanch.

I didn't lift my gaze. I didn't breathe too loud. I didn't move. And then I heard it. A tap. It was soft, measured, slow, not like a cane someone needed to walk, more like a metronome. It echoed lightly off the tile floor, getting louder as he got closer. I kept my eyes down.

I didn't want to see where he was. I didn't want to see what his body looked like up close or what it felt like to have someone with no face just a few feet away. The tapping stopped for a second. I heard the sound of plastic crinkling. Then paper rustling. It was faint, but I knew it. Someone checking prices.

Flipping labels. Digging through shelves he was browsing. Then they came to. tapped again. He was getting closer. The taps grew louder until they weren't far away anymore. They were right across from May. I could feel him standing there at the register waiting. Something about the silence told me he wasn't just browsing anymore. He was ready to interact. Then, without any kind of warning or shift in the air, There he spoke.

His voice was smooth and careful. It didn't sound like a whisper or a threat. It sounded like someone asking a question out of habit. Do you sell lighters here? Something about hearing him talk made it worse. I wasn't sure where the sound was coming from. It wasn't muffled. It wasn't echoing.

It was just there. A voice floating in front of me like someone had turned on a recording. Still staring at the floor where I answered. Yeah, right in front of you. Small rack next to the candy. There was a pause. I heard the sound of something small and metal being picked up. That nothing?

Just silence. I didn't move. He didn't ask anything else. Didn't say thank you. Didn't comment. Then after a few more seconds, I heard a soft sound. A small object placed on the counter. Not heavy.

Something about the size of a wallet or a phone, maybe. With a flat surface and a faint scrape as it touched down. I didn't look. I reached up blindly, slid the object off the counter, and tucked it into the drawer under the register. It felt cold, a little too smooth. I didn't take a closer luck. The tapping began again. He was leaving.

Every step felt like a weight being lifted. The taps grew softer as he was leaving. he walked away from the register, past the drinks, back down the aisles. Then they became faint, and then they vanished. No beep from the door, no sound of a car starting, but I knew he was gone. I looked back at the paper on the counter, and my eyes drifted to the next line. Rule number six, if you happen to look straight at him, pray. There was nothing else written after that. No instructions, no details.

Just that one line. I sat back, my hands gripping the edge of the counter, and tried not to think too hard about what would have happened if I hadn't looked away in time. And what might still happen? if I ever look straight at him. By the end of my first week, I had the routine down cold. Ripley got his sardines before the clock hit twelve. The floors were clean enough to eat off of.

And the red ford showed up every single night at exactly 2 a.m., just like the rule said. But now I was ready. I watched the clock like it owed me money. The moment it ticked to 1.59. I lock the doors and I turned the key hard. Every night, the man with no face sat quietly in the lot for an hour under the flickering light. He never moved, never got out, just sat there in the driver's seat. I didn't look too long.

I didn't want to get curious about things I shouldn't. By Friday, I was starting to feel like a professional. Nothing had gone wrong, no accidents, no surprises. Ripley and I had our rhythm, and I even started organizing the magazine rack just to kill time. The rules were weird, yeah, but they worked. You follow them, you're fine. That Friday night, about an hour into my shift, the front door slid open. I jumped a little at the sound.

No one had come in all week. The place was supposed to be mine alone, except for the occasional red Ford and my one-eyed cat coworker. A man stepped inside. Tall, thin. Mid-40s, maybe older. He wore a navy jacket, jeans, and boots scuffed at the toes like he'd had him for years. His hair was dark, but streaked with silver at the sides. He looked around the store like.

he'd been here a thousand times when his eyes landed on me. He gave a nod. You Charlie? He said. Yeah, yeah, you, you Mason? He walked over to the counter and held out of hand. His grip was dry and firm, but not too strong. Yeah, it's good to finally meet you in person. I usually don't come by unless I need to. figured I'd check in. First week, you know, it's always the hardest. Mason smirked a little and looked around the place. Ah, it's clean, huh? Cats fed, rules followed, not bad.

He moved behind the counter like it was his own house and reached for the coffee machine. He poured two cups from the burned old pot I'd made earlier. It tasted like it had been done. brewed through a dirty sock, but I didn't complain. We sat down on the stools, each with a cup, and for a minute we just sipped in silence. I said after a few sips, so is that guy in the red ford, uh, normal? Mason glanced to me over his coffee.

Define normal. I, uh, I mean, he's here every night. Doesn't do anything. Just sits. I read the rules I followed him, but... I mean, who is he? Why does he come here? Mason leaned back, resting one arm on the counter.

His eyes narrowed just a little. Not like he was mad. More like he was deciding what to say. Well, there's a story. Goes back a long time before this station. before most of what you see around here. There used to be a man who owned half the town. Some say more.

Real estate, banks, businesses, apartments, churches, and even schools. If it was built, chances are he had a hand in it. He didn't build it all out of kindness, though. It was greed. He lived in a mansion up the hill. You can't see it from me. the road anymore. Trees grew in too thick, but it is still there. Falling apart now, but solid stone, high ceilings, windows big enough to drive through. Back then it was a palace. What happened?

I asked. Mason didn't answer right away. He just looked down at his coffee, like it had something written inside it. One night, something snapped. Nobody knows why. Some say his wife left. Some say his fortune got drained in a deal gone wrong. Others say he just woke up and lost his mind. Whatever the reason, he locked the doors to that mansion and he killed everyone.

Servants, family, everything. After that, he disappeared. Cops searched the whole county. Never found him. But the locals. Well, they believe he never left. You mean the guy in the car? I asked.

He nodded? Well, they say he's stuck here. Not just in town, but really stuck. Like part of the land now. part of the places he used to own shows up where he used to walk where he used to rule the gas stations one of those spots

he helped build it long before it was anything more than a dusty plot and a promise I stared into my coffee a minute before asking what's behind the red door Mason didn't react right away

He kept sipping, eyes distant, like I hadn't spoken, but I knew he heard me. I continued. And the screaming, I mean, it's not just once. Some nights it goes on for hours. Same tone, same rhythm. And the photos, I keep finding them. People with no heads, parades, diners, fountains. Always the same, always the heads gone.

Mason finally looked at me. His expression wasn't angry, just tired. Some things aren't meant to make sense, Charlie. I waited, but he didn't say more. He took another drink of his coffee and looked around the store. The lights buzzed faintly. Ripley lay crulled down the counter, like none of it mattered. This place, you know, doesn't follow the same rules as the rest of the world. You try to pin it down, try to fit it into what you already know. It'll break something in you. But worse, it won't. And you will just keep on asking, Mason said.

I looked down at the counter, at the rule sheet with its stained corners. Some doors aren't meant to open, son. Some questions don't have answers. Or maybe they do, but the answers change, depending on who's asking. Either way, it's best not to chase him. I nodded slowly at that. I didn't like it, but I understood.

We sat there for a while, longer, drinking bad coffee, and a quiet store under buzzing lines. Ripley hopped up on the corner and curled next to the cash register, purring soft. And I didn't say it out loud, but for the first time since I got here, I felt like I understood the kind of job I'd taken. So I kept the job. Wasn't hard. Shifts were quiet. The money came in at the end of each night.

And the rules, strange as they were, worked. You follow them, you stay safe. That's the deal. It's more honest than most places I've worked. A month passed, then two. The red ford showed up every night like clockwork. 2 a.m. sharp, packed under the broken street light that buzzed just enough to cast his car at a half glow. I lock the doors every time.

I used to think I'd only do this for the same. summer, save up some cash, pay off tuition, move on. That was the plan. But something about this place held me longer than I expected. The strange rules stopped bothering me. I kept the station clean. I fed Ripley as sardines. I stopped asking why the doors had to stay locked, or why the chains on the red door never moved. Still, in my downtime, I started digging. I couldn't stop thinking about the man in the red ford. I started small, local history blogs, library archives, quiet questions at the diner on my days off. Most people didn't want to talk about it.

A few got that look, like they knew what I was asking but didn't want to say the words. Eventually I found a name, Samson Field. He was a wealthy developer who lived in this area around. 80 years ago. Built up neighborhoods, funded churches, made himself a centerpiece of every town council meeting. Some records praised him for creating jobs. Others hinted at shady deals, missing people, family matters that were quietly swept away. But one night, after hours of flipping through digitized newspaper clippings at the campus library, I found a photo. It was small, grainy, probably taken at a party or a ribbon-cutting ceremony.

The man in the center wore a velvet suit. A thin cane rested at his side. His face was turned slightly toward the camera. The photo had aged poorly, but you could still make out the faint shape of his smile. It was the same suit, same cut, same green cane. No doubt in my mind. I started that photo for a long time. I wasn't the type to believe in the paranormal, not before this job.

There are rules to this place. Not just written ones, but ones beneath the surface. Old stories baked into the dirt. Names no one says out loud anymore. Some of those rules keep things out. Some keep them in. And some, some are just there to remind you that not everything in the world is meant to be understood. As for me, I like the job.

I like the quiet. I like the feeling of knowing what to expect, even if what I expect is a man without a face showing up. But most of all, I like Ripley. He's the only one who really feels like a co-worker. He meets me at the door every night. He purrs when I pop up. open the sardines. He curls up on the counter when I sit down for my midnight break. I still think his missing eye makes him look like a pirate. A tired, lazy, one-eyed pirate who's seen more of this

world than I ever will. I don't know how long I'll stay here. Maybe just through the next semester, maybe longer. There's always something else to learn. Another rule, another name. Another thing hiding just outside the light. I've stopped asking questions. The night shift runs smoother that way.