Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I work in the Appalachian Mountains. We have Strange Rules | Scary Stories

Episode Date: May 24, 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 the Appalachian Mountains. We have Strange Rules.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 - 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!

Well, look at you. You made him. Thought maybe the sign was too faded for anyone to find us anymore, but here you are. That's a good start. Names Elijah, by the way. Elijah Whitlock. You'll be stuck with me for the next few hours, so might as well get to know me a bit, huh? Not much for small talk, and I don't like pretending to be someone I'm not. You'll see that real quick.

I've got a way of talking, that some folks call too plain, but planes would be keeps you alive out here. I was born by 10 miles from where we're standing, give a tank, grew up in a two-story farmhouse with a sloped roof that leaked from a sieve by the time I was seven. My dad was a trail guide. His dad too. My mom worked in the local library, sorting books and telling off kids who tried to skip school to read the scary ones in the back. She used to say stories were how the mountain remembered things. My granddad said stories were how the Mountain warned people. I was 12 when I started tagging along on these tours just to carry packs at first. You know, fill water bottles, clean out the charm bins, things like that. I didn't speak to the guest,

didn't want to. I'd watch my dad out front though, telling stories like they mattered, not like they were just for fun. That stuck with me. Now, now I'm 46. Been running Mountain Ridge tours for 22 of those years. Company was started in 74 by my uncle, Uncle Ray. Called it Mountain Ridge, because the name felt honest, not too shiny. But if you hear someone from town call it the Dollar Charm Company, well, that's us too. Not an insult. More like a quiet joke everyone's in on. See, we sell charms, iron bits, salt pouches, little sage bundles tied with twine. Every one of them's a dollar. Just a dollar, no more.

Been that way since day one. Not because we're cheap, but because they work. And if something works, you don't put a price tag on survival. At least that's how my folks raise me. Bored tried to change it. Said we should charge five bucks, then ten. Make them fancy. Luxury protection, they called it.

I told them no. Told them that mountain things don't. like it, when you get greedy. They thought it was being old-fashioned, and hell, maybe I am. But I've seen what happens when people don't listen. Anyway, that's enough about me for now. You'll hear more soon, whether you want to or not. You're not just guessed.

You're part of this now. And there are rules. But first, I want you to breathe in deep. You smell that? That's... That's moss. That's wet stone and cold dirt. Welcome to the mountains.

Now I've been out on this trail, more times than I have been to the grocery store. By now every twist, every root that catches your boot if you're not paying attention. I know where the moss is always damp, even in July. And which rocks never quite dry out? There are places where the light feels different and the trees lean in a little closer. But none of that means much unless you've walked it enough to notice. I notice. That's what happens when something becomes a part of your rhythm.

Mountain Ridge Tours has been running since 1974. We've always been small, and we have kept it that way on purpose. No expansion plans, no merging with anything. Just a couple of folks who know the land, taking small groups into the woods, showing them around, telling the stories that belong to this place. It's a job, sure, but it's also something more settled than that. A quiet responsibility, maybe. Something we grew into.

I come from a line of people who knew these trails before they were even called trails. My grandfather used to say you could walk half the county just by following where the deer stepped. He was one of the first professional guides around here, back when that wasn't. isn't really a job people knew how to describe. He taught me how to read the tree line, how to watch the sky for shifts in weather, and how to keep your voice low when you're past the ridge. I didn't understand that one when I was a kid. I do now. When I was 12, I started coming along on the tours, carried the water packs, cleaned up after the groups, listened more than I spoke. That's how you learn out here. You don't know.

jump in swinging stories around, you stay quiet and you pay attention. Over time, you start to notice what people overlook. You notice would never changes. That's how I ended up leading the thing myself. I have been doing it longer than I thought I would. People still ask the same questions, still forget their jackets, still laugh when I mention the old practices like they're part of the show. And that's fine, I don't mind. What matters? is what we keep doing. And one of those little things is the charms. They're nothing flashing.

Little iron loops, bits of salt, dried herbs wrapped up neat. You'll see them tied onto people's packs or tucked in coat pockets. We don't make a big deal about it. Just something we've always done. I carry one myself. Most of us do.

Now before we start the tour, we have got a few rules to go over. Nothing common. I'll walk you through them. Alright, rule number one. Now, most folks figure they know how to behave on a trail. They see the dirt path, maybe a wooden post or two, and figure it's all just for show. Helpful, sure, but optional if you've got a good sense of direction.

I have seen people start wandering just five minutes and... They see a deer trail cutting off to the right or some flat stone stretch off to the left, left and think, what's the harm and stepping off for a bit? They always say they're just trying to get a better view or check something out real quick. It's never just a quick thing. Out here, even one step in the wrong direction has weight. So I always start with the first rule. Same way every time. Stay unmarked trails. We keep our trails simple and easy to follow. We don't loop them in weird ways or send folks climbing through bramble or creek beds. Everything's marked, and we mark it the same way people have done for generations. Three short lines carved into the trees. You'll see them

along the path as we go. Some are fresh. Some are older. We keep them up to date. Three lines, vertical, space like someone pressing three fingers into soft wood. Back before folks start, started calling it a tour, people marked safe paths like that because they learned where not to walk. That's the real point of it. It's not just about where you should be. It's about where you shouldn't. There are parts of these woods we don't walk through. Not anymore. Maybe not ever, depending who you ask. The stories are older than my family. Older than anyone who's still alive now. They talk about something out past the marked lines, something big that moves real quiet and slow, and doesn't like being stepped over.

The old folks called them giants, though nobody ever really described them like the ones from storybooks. Every so often, a hunter or a hiker, would come across a bone pit. That's what they called them bone pits, not because they would. were deep, not really pits at all. Just circles where the earth had cleared itself out and left behind a pile of gnawed up remains. You'd find bones cracked in strange ways, like they'd been chewed by something with too many teeth in the wrong places. They weren't animal bones either. Sometimes there'd be ribs too wide to belong to deer, or spines that didn't quite match anything we know. And sometimes, if you dug around, which you shouldn't, you'll find old things mixed in.

A rested canteen. A cracked flashlight. Bits of canvas. Zippers. I found one once. Years back. I was with another guide. Harold. He was a much older man with back pains. He'd been around since I was a kid. Said he still did the tours. because it gave him something to do. We were checking the lines after the storm knocked some markers loose. Just maintenance, nothing unusual. And we came across a low clearing, maybe 20 yards from the marked path. The grass there was yellowed and dead,

and in the middle was a scatter of bones. Neat? As if someone had arranged them for a photograph. Well, I asked Harold how long they'd been there. He crouched down, didn't say anything, just looked for a while. Finally, he said, these bones are new. Then he pointed to a bit of cloth half buried in the edge of the clearing. That logo there. Stop printing in 91.

Then he stood up, walked back to the trail, and didn't say another word. That's when I started carrying ash. Older guides carry a little pouch of it. Nothing fancy. Just cold fire dust from cedar or hickory. Something burned all the way through. Some of us sprinkle it along the edges of the trail. Not every time.

Not everywhere. Just the spots where it feels like the path gets too quiet. Too soft under your boots? It's not a warning for what's coming. It's a reminder of what's, already here. You'll feel it if he stepped wrong. Not right away, but the ground, it changes. It gives a little. Like stepping on mulch that's still alive. Warmer too. At a guy once late fall, light was fading early. He wasn't paying attention. Steped about three feet off the trail to get a

picture of a squirrel. Took one step. Maybe two. I called him back. He laughed, said something about not going far. But when he stepped back onto the path, I saw the bottoms of his boots were dark, damp-looking. We got back to the lot before dusk, and while he was brushing off his souls, something small fell out of the tread. Looked like a pebble. He picked it up. It was a tooth.

Too small for an adult. too flat for an animal didn't say anything to him then no point some things aren't going to make sense right away you don't have to know the stories you don't have to believe them you don't have to carry ash or charms

or repeat old sayings but you do have to stay on the marked path that's not just our first rule that is the one every other rule depends on It's easy to follow. Easier than the others, really. You just keep your feet where they're supposed to be. You stay where the lines say stay.

You treat the edges like a fence, not a suggestion. And if you see a gap between the markers that looks like a shortcut, ignore it. Because it's not a shortcut. It's a door you don't want open. So yeah. Rule one is simple. Stay in the marked trails, that's it. You keep your feet where the path says to go and you enjoy the tour. We'll take care of the rest. Rule two. All right, so the first one's about where your feet go. The second one is about what you bring with you. And when I say that, I don't mean water bottles or bug spray. I mean a charm. Something made from the right materials meant to be kept close while you're out here. That's part of how we do things.

You've probably seen them already, even if he didn't realize what they were. Iron nails on string. Bundles of sage wrapped in red thread. Little pouches of salt tied shut with twine. We keep him at the station, laid out in small trays by the window. Every single one cost a dollar, like I said, not because we're trying to turn a profit. The board told us we couldn't give the things away. So he chose the lowest price that would still mean something.

When you pay a dollar for something and choose to carry it, it becomes yours. That's the idea. You took it willingly. You chose to bring it with you instead of walking past it. That choice is the important part. People around here have used charms like these for as long as anyone can remember. The materials were always things they had on hand. iron from a horseshoe, salt from the kitchen, dried herbs from the hillside.

But they didn't just grab random items. They used what their parents had used, and their parents before them. Each one had a meaning and a reason for being carried. Iron's probably the most common. It's steady, solid, simple. Salt was used to keep spaces clean, to keep things out. Sage and Rosemary helped with clarity and protection. Sometimes you'd see cedar or pine in a bundle, tied with hair or thread from clothing.

Some people made their own, passed them down, or gave them away when a neighbor had to travel. I remember my mother, tying a nail to my backpack, before I even stepped foot on the trail alone. Said it wasn't about fear. It was just about being mindful. My grandfather tucked a sprig of rosemary into the lining of his hat, and he never took it out. Didn't talk about it, just did it every day. There wasn't anything mysterious about it. It was part of how they lived.

We've kept that practice going. Even when people started thinking it was old-fashioned. Most of the guides wear one somewhere. I've got a salt pouch stitched under the collar of my jacket and a knot of sage-true. twine in my left boot. Nothing's showy, just part of the uniform. The same way you check your flashlight batteries or lace your boots tight. You prepare the same way every time. Sometimes people ask if the charms really work. I don't try to answer that. It's not my job to convince anyone. What I do know is that these things have lasted for a reason. They came from people who paid

close attention, the kind who understood when the forest felt off, or when a trail went quiet too fast. You don't throw out knowledge like that just because it got old. But more than anything, these charms remind me of two things. First, they remind me of respect. You respect the land, and it tends to respect you back. Most of the charms we use are made from things that come from the forest itself. Wood, stone, herbs, ash. That is not a coincidence. That's part of it. Old folks used to say that when you carry something made from the trail, the trail will recognize it. It'll think of you as part of itself. And when that happens, it's more likely to look out for you. You're not just passing through. You are part of something. Even if it's just for a little while,

Second, they remind me of home. My second charm is a small stone wrapped in red twine. My daughter took the rock when she was six, handed it to me like it was a treasure, said I needed to carry it on every walk so I would always find my way back. I tied the twine around it and slipped it in my pocket, then sewed the pocket shut so it couldn't fall out.

That was 12 years ago. And it has not left my side since. It reminds me that there's someone waiting for me at the end of the trail, that I don't just follow these rules to keep everyone else safe. I follow them to keep myself safe too. I've got no interest in playing the hero out here. I've got people to come home to. I always have.

So when I say carry a charm, not being dramatic, I'm saying be prepared. Walk smart Take care of yourself We're not here to do anything fancy We're not driving into caves or chasing legends We're just here to walk the land the way it's meant to be walked So that's the second rule

Carry a charm, something real And keep it close All right, well we've talked about where your feet go We've talked about what you carry Next talk about what you leave alone. Rule three. Don't collect feathers. That's one most folks don't expect. Sounds harmless. I know. You see a feather on the ground, catches the light a certain way, looks like something worth keeping. You think maybe it'd be nice to bring home, tuck it in a book,

show it to somebody. Take a picture first, then stick it in your bag. But out here, we do not do that. Don't let our guests do it either. We leave feathers where we find them. You'll spot them all over, especially near the water or under low branches, mostly small ones. Gray, brown, white if it's from an owl. And now and then, you'll see a black one. Longer, heavier. Clean like it was just dropped.

Not like it fell off something weeks ago. That's when I usually step in. before someone gets too curious. The reason we don't pick him up, it goes back a long way. Feathers have always meant something, more than just a piece of a bird. Around here, they were seen as messages. Not written in words, just signs that something had passed through or left something behind.

Some feathers, especially the black ones, were believed to carry weight. not physical, not something you could measure, but something tied to spirit or memory. Things that don't sit easy in a backpack. Stories from the older families say that certain feathers don't come from regular birds at all. They belong to animals raised by medicine women, witches, and other people who dealt with the in-between places. if one of their birds died or was punished or offered up. Its feathers weren't just left behind. They were marked, not with paint or carving,

but in ways they can't be cleaned off or seen properly. You touch one, and it stays with you. I don't tell this to scare folks, I just tell them what's been passed down. There's enough repetition in the story. that I have learned to listen. Too many hikers over the years picked one of them up thinking it'd be a great souvenir, only to end up sick within a day or two. Same symptoms every time. Chills, fever, sometimes even shaking, like their body forgot what normal felt like. Hospital visits,

tests that came back inconclusive. Some got told it's pneumonia. Some get tagged with hypothermia. Some get tagged with hypothermia. even if the weather was warm. They're sent home and left wondering why they can't shake the cold. I always ask the same question when someone calls in to report it. Did you take anything off the trail? Most people won't admit it right away. Some never do. But once in a while, someone will call back two days later

and say they found a feather in their suitcase and threw it out. Then the fever breaks? Not always, but enough times that I take it seriously. You don't have to understand it. You just have to leave the feathers where they are. Now there's one more thing you should know about, something little different from the rest. There's a crow that shows up from time to time.

You'll know when you see it, bigger than the others. It doesn't fly off right away. It watches you, tilts its head like it's waiting for you to say something. That one's been around here longer than I've been doing tours. Some of the guides, they say it's the same bird every time. Now, I don't know how that's possible, but I've seen it enough to believe it. It doesn't bother anyone.

Stays just far enough back to not startle you. If you offer it something, it might take it. Bread, crackers, biscuit crumbs, if you got them. but what it really likes, what it always goes for, is mint-flavored tic-tacks, not orange, not cinnamon, just the plain mint ones in the white box. I don't know who figured that out first, but now we keep a few on hand just in case. Sometimes, it walks part of the trail with us, not often, but when it does, I pay attention. Most times, though, it just perches in a tree. tree, hops along behind the group, disappears and comes back again. It never makes noise,

never seems lost, almost like, well, almost like it's checking in on things. And if someone ever does get separated from the group, which, by the way, is rare but not impossible, I tell them one thing before we go looking. If you see the crow, follow it. Doesn't matter what direction at hands. Just stay with it. It has a way of leading people back. Every single person who's followed the crow has made it back to the station before sundown. No phone calls, no GPS. They just show up, walking out of the woods like they never left the path. Some things out here don't need explaining. They just work. All right, well, there's one more rule I want to cover before we get moving.

Doesn't take place at the start of the tour, but it's important you understand it now. Because like everything else we do out here, it's not just habit. It has a reason. Rule four. We end the tour with a ritual. Nothing complicated, nothing, shall we?

Just a few words spoken at the end when we've made it back to the gravel and the trails behind us. Doesn't take long, and it doesn't require anything from you, except you're a time. attention. You don't have to memorize anything or repeat after me. You just stand still, listen, and stay quiet while it's done. Some people think it's a formality, something we do for tradition

sake, or to round things out neatly. That's fine. If that's how they want to think of it, I don't argue. But if you've lived here long enough, and you've walked the same trails over and over, you start to notice how different it feels to leave the forest without saying anything. You carry something with you when you do that, and not always in a good way. The ritual is simple. You stop at the edge of the trail and thank the land. Not loudly. Not to perform.

Just a quiet thank you to the space itself. To the woods, the paths, the weather that held steady, to whatever let you pass through without trouble. You thank the forest for allowing you to walk it and for letting you go home when you're finished. We do that every time, no matter the weather, no matter the size of the group. Sometimes it's just me and one other person, and we still stop. You say the words, you mean them, and then you leave. And that's how you keep things balanced.

The land around here has always belonged to other things first. People forget that. They think because there's a parking lot and a map and a wooden sign that it means the land's been claimed that it's ours now. But it's not. Never has been. We're guessed, plain and simple, short-lived ones, passing through someone else's home.

The old folks used to say, the land keeps its own time, that there are spirits in the trees and under the soil who were here before people show up and who will be here long after we're gone. And not just spirits, there were stories of actual folk who lived out here. Ferrys by the old trees that curve like doorways, goblins near the water, in little dips where the fog clings low. Red giants in the cliffs, far enough up the mountain, that you never really get close unless you're not paying attention to where you're walking.

I don't know how literal it all is. Maybe it's more feeling than fact. But I believe the point still stands. These woods don't belong to us. We're just borrowing space. That's what the ritual is for. It's how you let the land know you understand the terms. And when people forget to do it, or worse, decide not to.

I've seen the way things change. One time, somebody let it group without the proper send-off, a new hire who thought the ritual was optional. A few weeks after that, a windstorm hit the ridge, strong enough to snap trees and take down power lines. It tore up three campsites and sent one of the local dogs running off for a week. Same guide never came back after that. We don't say the ritual stops bad things from happening,

but we know enough to keep doing it anyway, just in case, just to stay in good standing. So when we wrap up today's walk, we'll stop. I'll say the words, you will stand still. That's all. A simple ending, done the same way it always is. It closes the gate behind us. So rule four, end the tour with a ritual. Thank the land for letting you through. leave it behind. Well, you've heard the rules now. Keep your feet where they belong. Carry something that means something.

Don't take what isn't yours, even if it looks harmless. And when the time comes to leave, do it the right way. I know some of this might sound strange, especially if it's your first time out here. Maybe you're still thinking about how the rules feel more like suggestions. Maybe you're wondering, if all this talk of charms and old trails and fairies, by trees, is just for effect. That's fine. You don't have to believe everything right away. I have walked this route more times than I can count, and it's never quite the same twice. Sometimes you see something new just off the ridge, or hear a bird call you swear you've never

heard before. Sometimes the crow shows up. Sometimes it doesn't. That's part of the experience. We don't control the forest. We just move through it. But now, if everybody's ready, we'll get started. Stick together, mind the markers, and take your time. It's not a race. Welcome to Mountain Ridge Tours. We hope you enjoy the experience.