Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I work in a Strange Church. We have RULES To Survive | Scary Stories

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

I have lived at the church most of my life. It's been here longer than anyone can remember. Sitting up on the hill like it's watching over the town, people call it abandoned, but it's not. The brothers live here. They wear the robes and say the prayers, but they're not like the ones you see on TV. No stiff collars or shiny crosses.

Just plain men, doing what they've done forever. Reading, helping the locals, keeping the place together. I'm not one of them. Not officially. I'm Cal the handyman. The guy with a mop and toolbox. If something breaks, I fix it. If something leaks, well, I stop it. And when something spills, I clean it up. They treat me well, though. The brothers are good people. We eat together, usually in the big kitchen with a warped wooden table. Marty, the cat, always hops up next to me, pawing at my plate. He's a scrappy thing. gray with a torn ear, but he's mine as much as he's anyone's. He showed up one day years ago, and now he's just here. Like me. When the tourists come, I blend in. They ask dumb questions,

like why aren't there any stained glass windows? The brothers always answer politely, but I keep quiet. I'm not much for talking to strangers. It's the nights that are different. During the day, the church looks like any other old place. Crack stone walls, vines climbing up the signs, weeds poking through the courtyard bricks, the kind of place where you take a picture, call it historic, and move on. But when the sun goes down and the last car rolls away, everything changes. The brothers head to their rooms, or sometimes to the library. They're quiet, at night, always have been.

The tourists don't notice that part. They don't see how the brothers avoid the church after dark unless they have to, or the way the big door creaks when it shuts. I don't go to bed early, not like the others. My nights are long. There's always work to do, sweeping out the old hallways, fixing a latch that comes loose, or checking a little storeroom under the stairs. Most of it's busy work, stuff that doesn't really need doing right now,

but I keep moving. It's easier that way. Marty follows me sometimes. He pads along behind me, his tail flicking, his eyes darting to every shadow. When he stops and stares at something, I don't look too closely.

Not at night. The church has its noises. Not the usual creaks and groans of an old building, but softer ones. Faint taps, like fingers drumming on a table. Little clicks, almost like nails tapping against stone. They don't come from the same place twice, and I've learned not to bother chasing them.

There are places I don't go after dark. Not unless I have to. The basement, for one. The door's solid, thick wood with iron hinges, and it locks from the outside. During the day, I'll go down there if I need to. There's an old boiler that likes to act up. and sometimes Marty decides it's the perfect place to hunt mice. At night, though, the basement stays shut.

There's a hallway, too, on the east side of the church. It's nothing special. Just a row of unused rooms, mostly storage. But the area feels different thereafter sunset, like the space is wider than it should be. I stick to my routine. Sweep the main hall, check the windows, make sure the lanterns by the doors are lit,

even though we don't really need them. It's just what's done. Sometimes when I'm working, I hear footsteps that aren't mine, like someone walking across the stone floor barefoot. I've stopped trying to figure out where they're coming from. They don't go anywhere. The brothers don't talk about the knights,

but they don't have to. They know what's out there, same as I do. That's why they lock their doors. after sunset and stick to the newer wing of the church, where the wards hold strongest. They pray, they chant, and they trust me to handle the rest. I know better than to ask them for details. They've seen enough in their time here to understand what's out there, but they don't need to dwell on it.

That's my job. The strangest thing is I'm not scared. Not really. This place isn't friendly, but it's not hateful either. Just old. Older than the brothers? Older than the church itself, maybe. Once the sun goes down, the hill is pitch black.

You can't see your hand in front of your face, let alone the winding path that leads down to the road. The brothers call me cow, but that's not really who I am. Not at night. When the lights are low, and the church, church feels like it's leaning in. I have a different job. That's when I am a church night. I've been called a lot of things over the years. Janitor, handyman, sometimes folks think I'm a monk, which always makes me laugh. I'm not any of those things. Night isn't the right word either, but it's close enough. The name for what I am doesn't exist anymore, at least not in words you can

read. It's buried in books that fell apart long before I was born. But when I think about what I do, what my father did and his father before him, that's the word that fits. When I was a kid, I love those old stories, farm boys finding swords in the dirt, being taken in by wise old men, learning to fight, saving the day. They'd kill a dragon or save a kingdom, then ride off into the sunset with a princess on the back of their horse. They were brave men, with purpose. They had a cause, something worth living for. That's not exactly my story. I've never saved a kingdom, and I've never killed a dragon. I've never even left this hill for longer than a day. My armor as a pair of boots with warm souls and a coat that smells like mothballs. My sword is a hammer, or sometimes a

bag of salt. And the people I protect aren't princesses and towers. No, I get old men in robes. It's not exactly the stuff of legends. But then again, neither am I. I've had this limp since I was 14. It's not bad. Just enough to make my steps uneven and remind me when the weather's turning, but it's there. It happened the way most things like that do. Fast and stupid. A kid from town, slipped into the river just past the old mill. He was younger than May, maybe eight or nine, and the current had him by the time I heard the shouting. I didn't think. I just ran. The water was high from the rain earlier that week, and I could feel the pull of it as soon as I stepped in. I remember seeing his hands flailing, the look on his face when I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him

back toward the bank. We made it out, but not before the current caught my ankle on a rock and twisted it. I knew something was off as soon as I tried to stand, the sharp pain making my vision blur. But the kid was crying and coughing up water, and all I could think about was getting him home. I walked him back to his parents, with my arm slung around his shoulders, trying not to let him see how bad it hurt. By the time I got back to the church, my ankle was swollen to twice its size, and I could barely take my boot off. Should have healed fine if I'd stayed off it like I was told, but I didn't. You can't sit around here. Not for long. There's always something that needs doing, and at 14, I was stubborn and didn't want to feel useless. So I kept working,

limping around the church with a mop in one hand and my weight on the other leg. By the time it finally stopped hurting, it wasn't right anymore. It slows me down, but I've learned to work with it. You adjust. I know which jobs I can take and which ones I need to handle slower. And when something does need to be done fast, well, I've learned to be smarter about how I move. I don't regret it. that kid's alive, and that's worth more than a perfect ankle.

Now about the church, it's not normal. Neither is the town, if I'm being honest. It looks normal, rows of houses, a little main street, a bakery that smells like cinnamon rolls in the morning. People live their lives here like they would anywhere else, but there are things they don't see, things they can't explain. Whenever one goes to bed, That's when my real work starts. I go to the cathedral first. It's not much of a cathedral, really. Just the old part of the church with a vaulted ceiling and the big wooden cross at the far end.

The floor is uneven. The stone worn smooth from centuries of footsteps. I kneel in the same spot every night, near the third pew from the front. I don't pray for much. Never have. Just the same thing over and over. Wisdom. I don't ask for strength or safety, or for things to be easier.

Those aren't things I'm going to get anyway, and I don't need them. Wisdom is enough. When I'm done, I stand and brush the dust off my knees. The brothers keep the place clean, but the old stone always leaves a mark. Then I start my rounds. There are rules here, small rituals that hold everything together. Most aren't for every night. Some only come into play when things go wrong,

but there are a few I follow without fail. The first stop is the windows. Each one has a line of salt running along the sill. Not a lot, just enough to keep anything from crossing over. I run my hand along the salt to make sure it hasn't been disturbed. If it has, I'll pour a little more from the pouch I carry. Next is the kitchen. It's a cozy little room with a big stone hearth and pots hanging from hooks in the ceiling.

I check the mint leaves on the counter. There's always a little bundle of fresh ones tied together with twine. The brothers know exactly why the mint leaves are here. They understand how important my job is, just like theirs, and they respect the things I do, even if they'd rather not talk about them. Now the mint leaves are very important. We put them under our pillows to keep demons out of our dreams.

And in a place like this, that is no small thing. I open the cupboard and make sure there's a fresh bundle waiting to replace the old one when it wilt. I've been growing mint in a little garden behind the church for years. Very easy to grow, actually. It's always there when I need it. The basement door is next. I keep onions hanging above it, tied in the room. pairs with thick string. Most of the time, they just sit there, drying out and collecting dust.

Once a month, I take them down and replace them with fresh ones. You can't touch them with your bare hands, though. That's important. Onions soak up hexes like a sponge. If you touch one that's been hanging for too long, you might as well be ringing the hex out all over yourself. The back entrances get onions too. One above the door to the garden, one above the little side gate. Anywhere someone, or something, might try to come in. The copper spoons come next. There's a drawer full of them in the kitchen, tucked in the back where the brothers won't

grab them by mistake. They know their purpose and wouldn't use them for anything else. I take each spoon out and polish it with a cloth until it's shines. It's a tedious chore, but it has to be done. Copper spoons are good at neutralizing minor curses. You eat soup with one, and whatever was cast on you in the last day or so just fades. It's not perfect, but it helps. The last thing I do is check the bag of mustard seeds. I keep it in the storeroom under the stairs, tied shut with a strip of leather. Mustard seeds are useful for one thing, keeping swamp monsters out. Scatter a handful at the edge of a wet bog and they will

not cross it. Every rule has its purpose, whether I use it every night or only when the moment demands it. When all that's done, I go back to the main hall and sit for a while. Sometimes Marty climbs into my lap and purrs away. Other times he just sits nearby, watching me with a sharp green eyes of his. The church is quiet by then. And so I sit. And I wait. I was sitting in the main hall, running my fingers through Marty's fur, when I heard the creak of footsteps behind me. I looked over my shoulder and saw the glow of an oil lamp moving closer. Brother Jason came into view, holding the lamp in one hand and leaning on his walking stick with the other. He's one of the oldest brothers here, but he carries himself like someone who still got plenty left to do.

His joints might slow him down, but his mind is as sharp as ever. Shouldn't you be asleep? I asked. Shouldn't you be working? He replied. I am working, just taking a break, I said, holding up the rag I'd been using to polish the copper spoons earlier. Jason chuckled as he shuffled over to one of the benches near me. He set the lamp down on the table and eased himself onto the seat with a soft grunt. Marty lifted his head at the sound, but didn't move from my lap.

You've been keeping up with awards? Jason asked. I nodded. Yeah, salt's fine, onions are fresh, minced stocked, everything's ready, I said. Good, good. With a full moon coming up, we'll need it all in place. He replied. I didn't say anything right away. Instead, I scratched behind Marty's ears,

listening to the soft rumble of his purring. The full moon. Most of the time, my job doesn't involve fighting. The wards, the rituals, the little precautions, they're usually enough. But on nights like the ones coming, when the moon is high and full, things are different.

The old stories about full, moon's, while they're not just stories. Jason knew it as well as I did. The full moon is when the lines between humans and monsters are thinnest. It's when things that don't belong in this world can push through. And the wards that normally hold steady begin to waver. You're ready for it then, Jason asked. Always, I replied. Jason gave me a small smile. He'd seen enough full moons in his time to know that no amount of preparation made them easy.

You don't have to stay up with me, I said. Jason picked up the lamp and held it in his lap, his fingers tracing the edge of the glass. For a while, neither of us spoke. Do you ever get tired of it? Tired of what? I replied. "'This life?

"'Staying here. "' Doing what you do. "'night after night, year after year,' "'he said. "'I thought about it for a moment. "'Wasn't the first time someone had asked me that, "'though it was the first time Jason had. "'No, no, and it's not a bad life.

"'Not an easy one, but not bad,' I said. "'Jason stood slowly. grabbing his stick in the lamp. He paused for a moment, looking down at May with an expression I couldn't quite place, somewhere between pride and worry. Then he turned and made his way down the hall, the light of the lamp growing smaller, until it disappeared around a corner.

Marty stirred in my lap, stretching before curling back up. I sat there for a little longer, staring at the worn stone floor and thinking about James. Jason's words, the full moon was coming, and I was ready. Most of the time I don't fight, but on those nights, I do. The days leading up to the full moon passed in a steady rhythm. I kept myself busy, checking the wards, replacing salt lines, and restocking the mint leaves. Everything had to be in place. Knights felt longer, quieter, as though the church was waiting. By the time the moon finally rose, the tension in the air wasn't just in my head.

It was everywhere. The brothers were in the cathedral tonight, gathered around the altar with their hands together and their heads bowed. I could hear the faint hum of their voices, low and steady, carrying through the stone walls as they chanted. They always prayed during the full moon, their way of keeping the ward steady for as long as possible. It wasn't just faith. It worked. For a while, anyway. I didn't follow them. I never do. Instead, I stood in the library, the only source of light, the little lantern I'd left burning on the table.

The revolver sat in front of me. Wasn't much to look at if you didn't know what it was. Old, with a wooden grip worn smooth by countless hands. But if you looked closer, you'd see the details etched into the steel. The snapdragon flower on one side of the barrel, delicate but clear, and the cross on the other. Symbols of protection. Symbols of death. It'd been kept in the church as long as anyone could remember,

passed down through the generations for one reason and one reason only, to kill whatever the wards couldn't hold back. I opened the cylinder. and check the bullets inside. Three. That's all we had left. Three chances. If I missed, there wouldn't be another shot.

I took a deep breath, rolling my bad ankle out of habit. It'd been stiff all day, a dull ache that I knew would get worse as the night went on. I'd had this limp for so long, I hardly noticed it most days. But nights like tonight. Nights when I knew I couldn't afford to move slow. It was always there, you know, like a splinter under my skin.

I slid the revolver into the holster, strapped to my side, and grabbed the lantern. The full moon was rising as I stepped outside, casting a pale light over the garden. The air was cold, sharper than had been the day before, and the grass underfoot was damp with dew. The wards were still holding. I could feel it. the faint hum of protection that settled over the church. I walked the perimeter of the garden slowly,

my eyes scanning the salt lines along the edges of the ground. They looked fine at first, but something felt wrong. The garden had always been the weakest point. It was where the earth had shifted over time, creating tiny cracks in the protection, places where the wards didn't settle as firmly as they shed. Then I saw it. The salt lines were scattered, broken in places, like something heavy had stepped on them. The mint plants I'd carefully planted and replanted over the years were crushed. Their leaves shredded and scattered across the dirt. Deep claw marks gouged into the ground near the edge of the garden, long and jagged like something had been testing the boundary. There was a breach. I moved closer.

The lantern's light caught on something in the distance. The creature stepped into view. It was massive, far bigger than any animal I'd ever seen. Its fur was dark and matted, clinging to its body in clumps, like it crawled out of a grave. The wards were still holding, but barely. I could feel the line between us, the invisible barrier that kept it from crossing. crossing onto the protected ground, but they were fading. I could see the tension in the creature's body.

The way its claws dug into the dirt as it waited for a moment, they would fail completely. Shooting it now wouldn't work. The wards kept things out, sure, but they also dulled any power within the boundary. A bullet fired within the wards wouldn't hit true, not with enough force to matter. I'd learned that the hard way years ago. I reached for the revolver, my hand brushing the smooth grip as I slid it free from the holster. I kept my eyes on the creature as I moved back toward the edge of the garden. I wasn't scared.

I'd been through enough full moons to know what to expect. But I was nervous. I couldn't fight this thing head on. That much was obvious. It was faster, stronger, and far meaner than I'd ever be. That didn't matter. I'd never beat anything like this by charging straight at it. I didn't have to be stronger.

I just had to be smarter. I backed into the main hall, revolver in hand, keeping my step steady. The bees stayed at the edge of the garden, claws flexing in the dirt. Its yellow eyes locked on me. It wasn't moving yet, but the wards wouldn't hold much longer. When they gave out, it would come from Maine. The main hall was my best chance. The pews were old but sturdy, and I dragged a few into place as quickly as I could.

By the time I finished, my arms were burning, and my breathing was heavier than I wanted it to be. I crouched behind the last one. Revolver raised. and waited. The sound of claws scraping stone came first. Then the beast stepped through the doorway. Its massive body lowering as it sniffed the air. The creature continued to search slowly, and I didn't wait.

The revolver bucked in my hand as I fired, the first shot cracking through the hall. The bullet hit the stone wall behind the creature, splintering bits of rock into the air. I cursed under my breath as the beast flinched, then locked eyes with me again. If it had been watching me before, now it was hunting me. It started forward, stepping over the first pew with ease, its claws dragging across the wood as it climbed. I could feel the weight of its presence pressing down on the room. And then Marty darted out from the shadows. The cat lay. leapt out of the beast, his claws out, sinking his teeth into the thick fur of its leg.

The beast let out a low guttural growl and shook violently, flinging Marty into one of the pews. Without thinking, I fired again. The second shot struck its shoulder, the silver burning into flesh, but it wasn't enough to stop it. The beast roared in pain, its body twisting as it turned to face me fully. Marty landed hard but got back up, his torn ear twitching as he let out a sharp yowl. He'd been through worse and wasn't going to back down now. Marty, stay down, I said. He didn't listen, of course.

He never did. The beast's attention snapped back to me. One shot left. My arms were steady, but my breath was shallow. My thoughts were spinning too fast, scattering in a hundred directions at once, until something cut through. The memory hit me all at once, sharp and clear. I was ten, sitting outside the church with my head in my hands, angry at myself for spilling a bucket of water in the main hall. Brother Jason had found me there, sat down beside me, and waited a long time before he said anything. When things feel too big, when they're so big you don't know what to do, just breathe one breath at a time, and the rest will follow.

I looked at him confused. That's it? I'd asked. That's it. Just breathe. Standing there now. Revolver in hand and the beast just. feet away. I could hear his voice clearly. So I breathed, slow, even breaths as I backed up,

one after another. I lined up the shot carefully, my finger brushing the trigger. The weight of the revolver felt lighter now, like it was almost an extension of May. And then I waited. The beast lunged over the last pew, its jaws open wide, snapping so close I could feel the rush of its movement against my face. I pulled the trigger. The revolver roared, the silver bullet punching straight into its chest. For a split second, the creature froze mid-air, a howl tearing out of its throat. Then it crashed to the floor, its body shaking violently. The silver burned through it quickly. Bit by bit.

It fell apart. The thick fur and mangled skin disintegrated into ash, leaving nothing behind, not even a stain on the floor. And it was gone. I lowered the revolver. My arms ached. My legs felt heavy. But I leaned against one of the pews to study myself. And then it hit me, Marty.

I pushed off the pew and limped over to where he'd been thrown. The revolver hung loosely in my hand as I scanned the rum, looking for any sign of him. Marty, I called out. And it didn't take long. He was by the far pew, crouched low, but seemingly unhurt. His green eyes met mine, sharp and steady. And I let out a long breath. He stretched once, shaking himself off, and patted toward me like nothing had happened.

You are so lucky, I began. A werewolf? Really. You thought you could kill a werewolf? I crouched down to meet him. He bumped his head against my hand, and I scratched between his ears, feeling the familiar rumble of his purring. His torn ear twitched, as if he was.

to say, I almost got it, though. I sighed, letting my shoulders relax for the first time all night. For a long moment, there was nothing but silence. The hall felt calm again. I stayed like that, sitting on the cold stone floor with Marty in my lap, until I heard the sound of footsteps approaching. The brothers were coming from the cathedral. Their voices quiet, as they made their way into the hall. Jason was at the front, his walking stick tapping lightly against the floor. When they saw me, pale and still clutching a revolver,

their faces softened. Jason crouched beside me, his joints cracking audibly, and gave me a once-over with those sharp eyes of his. Well, you're alive. Always, I replied. The others moved closer. and two of them helped me to my feet. By the time we reached the kitchen,

the lanterns there were still burning low, casting a soft glow over the room. Marty patted in ahead of us and jumped out of the counter, curling up like he hadn't just been thrown halfway across the main hall. I scratched his head. Jason nodded toward one of the brothers, who immediately started heating water on the old iron stove. The others quiet,

What about gathering the tea leaves? Mint? The good stuff I'd kept stocked for nights like this. It was always mint after a full moon. The revolver still sat on the table in front of me. I stared at it for a while, tracing the etching of the snapdragon flower with my eyes. I wasted all three bullets. Should have been one, maybe two.

I said finally. Jason's eyes flicked to the gun. Then back to May. He tilted his head slightly, a faint smile at his lips. You didn't waste him, Cal, you used him. Doesn't feel like it, I replied. They're meant to be used. Don't get caught up in the numbers.

I'll wire the church in the morning to send us more. I blinked at him. It's that easy, huh? I asked. Jason smile. You'd be surprised what a strongly worded letter can do. The brothers handed me a steaming cup, and the smell of mint filled the room. I wrapped my hands around it and took a small sip.

It was strong and clean, the kind of drink that made you feel like he could breathe again. Marty stretched on the counter, letting out a low yawn. Things always go back to routine eventually. That's the way it is here. The church stands, the brothers pray, and I do the work that needs doing. There's comfort in it, even if it's not glamorous. The morning after the full moon, I was back in the garden. The salt lines needed to be redone, and the mint plants were a mess, trampled and torn from the night before.

I crouched low to clear out the broken stems and dig fresh rows in the soil. Marty sat on the stone wall nearby, watching me with his torn ear twitching now and then. For me, the days always blur together after a full moon. I check the wards, repair what's broken, and prepare for the next time. There's always the next time. I'm not as young as I used to be. I can feel it more with every passing year. The way my knees ache when I'm climbing the stairs,

the way my ankle stiffens when the way my ankle stiffens when the way. weather turns cold. Nights like last night take more out of me than they used to, and the mornings don't bring the same energy than once did. Someday, I'll have to find someone younger to take my place, but not yet. For now, I'm still here, and I have work to do.