Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Worked as a Nightguard at a Mall. These are My Stories | Scary Stories

Episode Date: June 15, 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 Worked as a Nightguard at a Mall. These are My Stories.  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!

My name is James Carter. I'm 38 years old and I work nights. I wasn't always working nights. For the last few years, I've had a steady logistics job, office stuff mostly, paperwork, spreadsheets, scheduling routes for deliveries that never show up on time. It is not exciting, but it pays the basics, or it used to. And then a few things came up, unexpected bills, changes at home, and the regular paycheck didn't stretch far enough. I started looking for something extra to fill the gap. Night shift guard needed, it said. Reliable, calm, discreet. No experience required. It sounded weird, sure, but I was broke. I had a gas station hot dog in one hand and a cracked phone in the other. I clicked apply without even reading the full post. A man called me the next day. His name was Mr.

Harrow. He didn't ask many questions, just my name, my driving record, and if I could start on Monday. I said yes. And that was two weeks ago. Now, every night, I drive 20 minutes out of town to an old shopping mall on the edge of nowhere. It's got that look. Half the stores are empty. The parking lot has weeds poking through the cracks, and only one wing still has working lights. Most people don't even know it's still open. During the day, a few stores stay running. A shoe place, a cell phone repair booth, some kind of church that rents out an old nail salon. At night? Well, it's just me. And the mall. Now, I've never minded being alone. Even as a kid, I was the quiet one. I liked puzzles and books more than most people. I was never the guy to go out drinking or post photos of his lunch.

guess that's part of why this job fits me. Well, I get in around 10 p.m. clock in with a key card that gave me. They didn't give me a uniform, just said to dress dark and wear comfortable shoes. I park in the back lot near the loading docks. The mall's main entrance is locked at night, but I use the side door near the dumpsters. Smells bad over there like old meat, but I try not to breathe through my nose is when I go in. I have a little office near the food court. There's a desk, a chair, a monitor with grainy camera feeds, and a locker where I keep snacks and a hoodie. I don't sit in there much, though. My job isn't to watch screens. My job is to walk. Every hour I do a round. Check each open store. Make sure the security gates are down. Look inside the bigger ones, especially IKEA.

People try to sneak in there sometimes, hoping to sleep in the motel rooms. I don't know why. One guy even tried to live in the fake kitchen. He lasted three days before anyone noticed. I didn't find him, though. That was before my time. My time. It's just starting.

And the thing is, nobody warned me what this place really was. My first stop is always the cowboy shop. That's not the real name, but I've never seen the actual sign. Half the letters fell off years ago. Nobody's put them back. It's on the north end of the mall near the old Sears. One of those themed stores that sold guns, knives, and camouflage gear. Fake deer heads on the wall, wooden floor, red bandanas on the racks.

Inside behind the counter is Jesse. Jesse wears a dead. A real wide-brimmed hat and boots with spurs that still jingle when he walks. He has a handlebar mustache and a crooked smile. His eyes are pale, almost colorless. They never blink. He always leans on the glass counter like he's been waiting a hundred years for a drink that never came. Evenin-law, man, he says as I step inside.

I'm not a lawman, I reply. He tips his hat. Could have fooled me. You walk like one. I walk like someone who hasn't slept in three days. Same difference. We have this routine. Every night he calls me a new name.

Sheriff, deputy, tracker. Once he called me Marshall. I asked him what he thought I was Marcian. And he said, What ain't you? I walk up to the counter, tapping my flashlight once against my belt just to stay awake.

I glance at the shelves, rifles on the walls, pistols in the glass case. Most of them look real. Some of them don't. One looks like it's made from melted bone. Well, how's business, I ask. Jesse shrugs.

Oh, so. same as always. Ain't had a customer in 30 years. Not a real one anyway. Had a ghoul come in here last week, but he just lick the shotgun rack and wandered off. Sounds about right. He squinted me. What brings you in tonight, James? I do my rounds. Yeah, but you always start with me. I don't answer right away. Instead, I look at the wall behind him, at a painting of a buffalo with glowing red eyes. I don't know if it's always looked like that, or if the painting changes when I'm not looking. Jesse taps the counter.

You still want to know how I died. I sigh. If you're ready to tell me the truth this time. I'm always telling the truth, he replies. No, you're not. Last week you said you got eaten by coyotes. The time before that, you said your wife poisoned your whiskey. Both true, technically.

He counters. You don't even remember your real name. I remember guns. He grins like that explains everything. I lean against the counter and look him in the eye. All right. Why are you really here, Jesse? Why are any of you here?

He shrugs, his old duster creaking. Well, your place don't let go easy. Some die and keep walking. Some die and forget they did. Me, well, I stuck around, because they're still bull. to polish and stories to tell. You, though, you ain't dead. Not yet.

No, I am not. So why are you working this graveyard shift in a mall full of ghouls and things with too many teeth? I pause at that. I don't usually tell anyone, but Jesse isn't really a person. anymore. And he has a way of making you talk.

Well, my daughter's in the hospital. His face goes still. Not surprised, just still. She's got a rare condition. Something genetic. I don't know. Doctors say it's manageable, but, you know, the treatments, they're not covered. My logistics job during the day, you know, it pays okay, but it's not enough. This place, it offers me more money than I thought I'd see in one paycheck. So I said yes. Figured I could handle it.

Nights are quiet. Quiet, huh? Quiet like a loaded rifle sitting on a windowsill. Yeah, yeah, something like that. He nods slowly. A kid, huh? I didn't know you had one. Yeah, she's six.

Loves puzzles. Has this blue backpack shaped like a fox. She takes everywhere. What's her name? Chloe. Chloe's her name. He repeats at once, just a whisper. Chloe.

Then he leans down behind the counter, rummages around, and comes back with a wooden box. He opens them. and inside are six bullets. They glow faintly, but not like light bulbs or flashlights. More like moonlight through water. These ain't for people, Jesse says. What are they?

They're ghost shells. They're for the kind of things that don't bleed, right? Ghost shells, huh? You're giving me haunted bullets now? Not haunted. Just... Specialized. I pick one up.

It's cold, not metal cold. More like the cold of a place where no one breathes. Will they even work in my gun? They'll fit, and they'll work. Just don't use them on the wrong thing. These don't stop people. They stop the things that can't be stopped. Why give them to me?

I ask. He stares at me. His eyes still in strange. Because you've got something worth coming back for. Most people here, they forget what they were holding on to. That makes them dangerous. But you still remember, that makes you dangerous too. but in a different way.

I slide the bullets into my pocket. Well, um, thanks. He tips his hat again. Oh, it ain't nothing. Just a little insurance. You ever find yourself facing something that don't care what you are? You'll be glad you have them. I slide the ghost shells into the pouch on my belt, where I keep the extras. They clink against the regular rounds.

lighter, but not by much. Cold, but not in a way that matters right now. Jesse's not the worst to deal with. He is strange, but at least he's consistent. Always at the counter, always half smiling, always talking like a man half stuck in an old Western that only he remembers. He doesn't lie.

Not exactly. He just forgets which of version of the truth, he's already told. I don't fully trust him, but I don't need to. He's never tried to hurt me, and that puts them ahead of half the things in this place. The gun shop door creaks when I push it open. Same sound every time. Next up is the ice cream stand. Always colder there than it should be. I find her crouched behind the ice cream cart. She is a in crying or calling for help. Just sitting there on the floor with her knees hugged to her chest, face half buried in her arms. I wouldn't have noticed her if it weren't for the cone sitting on the

counter. Mint chocolate chip, her favorite. The swirl hasn't melted a bit, which means she hasn't been gone long. I lean over the side of the cart and peeked down behind it. Hey, I say, She flinches but doesn't run. She looks up slowly. Her cheeks are pale and her eyes are wide. The kind of wide that comes from thinking too much and not blinking. Why are you hiding? She tucks her chin back into her arms.

I'm scared. I lower myself into a crouch beside the cart. Of what? She doesn't answer right away. She glances past me toward the escalators. Her fingers twist in the hem of her shirt. There's a scary man in the boiler room. I study her.

You saw him. She nods. Well, what does he look like? She shakes her head, and I don't push. All right, that's okay. We stay like that for a minute. Me crouched next to the stand. Her curled into herself.

Both of us watching the far hallway. Eventually, I shift and sit with my back against the cart. You know, if there's a scary man in the boiler room, then I better go take care of him, huh? She looks up at me again. You're not scared? I'm a little scared, I say. Then why would you go?

Because I have ghost shells. She gives me a confused look. Yeah, look, I don't know about the ghost shells either, but I do actually have secret powers. She frowns. Like what? Well, I can scoop the perfect ice cream cone, blindfolded. That's not a power, she says. It is in the mall. You want to see?

She hesitates, then nods. I stand and walk behind the counter. The scoopers already in the bin, waiting like it knows I'll need it. The container of mint chocolate chip is cold, but not frozen stiff. I scoop a clean, round ball into a cone and pass it down to her over the counter. She takes it with both hands, and licks the side before it can drip. It's perfect, right?

She grins. Pretty good. Pretty good, I ask. She nods again. I lean against the cart and watch her eat. Slower now, more relaxed. Her legs dangle under her, and she kicks him gently against the floor.

No more hugging her knees. And she's not shaking anymore. Sometimes she's talkative and sometimes she's quiet like tonight. When she's quiet, I don't press. Lily's been here longer than I have, and the only thing I know for sure is she never talks about her family or how she ended up stuck in this place. I stopped asking a long time ago.

I know she died here. I saw the incident report one night when I was digging through, old files in the back office. She's been sitting behind this stand ever since, never leaving the second floor. Talking to her as part of my route now. The way I see it, someone should be. Every night I ask her how she's doing, and most nights she answers with a shrug or a half smile.

I don't think she knows how much I watch over her. I always swing by this level twice each show. Not once. Always walk past the fountain, even if I don't hear anything, even if she's not out front. Because some things in this place are dangerous, even to the dead. The boiler room is down past the loading docks. Behind a door marked maintenance, authorized personnel only. The paint on the sign is faded, but the letters are still clear. You'd miss it if you weren't looking. It's tucked away between two service halls where the lights flicker more often than they stay on. I keep a flashlight in my belt, but I don't use it here.

The bulbs overhead buzz sometimes, but they don't go out. Before I open the boiler room door, I check the line of salt. It runs straight across the threshold like a thin white rope, poured fresh every two nights. There's a little bag of Morton's course in the closet down the hall. Hall, one of the only things in this job that came with written instructions. Keep the salt line unbroken. Replace it every other shift. Don't sweep it with your foot.

Use the flat edge of a clipboard or your hand. I kneel to check it. Still solid. I dragged the back of my finger across the floor, just above it to feel for gaps. None. Good. I unlock the door. door and push it open. The heat hits first. It's not unbearable, but it is close. Smells like

metal and old bricks and something beneath that I've never been able to name. The room itself is long, with high ceilings, and a network of pipes running in all directions like veins. The boiler in the center breathes slow and deep. The pilot light, a dull red glow behind its grates. The room is always quiet. Machines hum, but the noise doesn't carry. He's here tonight. He always is. I don't see him right away, but I never do. He waits. I step forward and walk the usual path. Three steps in, turn right past the water tanks, keep left around the big vent pipe. The floor is stained with dark smudging. I've never been able to clean.

They don't smell and they don't fade. I stopped worrying about them. And then there he is. Mr. Longneck. His head peeks out from behind a rusted pillar near the far wall. Just the top half of his face at first. Eyes wide open. Skin smooth and gray like poured wax.

He smiles when he sees me. Same smile every time. Lips curled back just a little too far. Teeth too clean. I don't speak anymore when I come in. I used to. My first week, I greeted him like you would anyone else. Hi.

Hello there. He never responded. I kept talking for a while after that, just to fill the space. jokes, short sentences, even questions. He never said anything. Just watched? The second time I saw him, I thought he was standing in front of the pillar. I took a few steps closer and the rest of his body didn't follow.

Just his head, slowly snaking out, turning the corner. His neck came into view first. thin, long, stretching out like a hose around the concrete column. Too long, no visible end. Just kept curving behind the boiler, his body never revealing itself. Still hasn't. I stopped trying to understand after that. Now, I come in, do what I need to do and get out.

Tonight, he shifts a little when I get closer to the boiler. His neck twitches like a cat adjusting its posture. I don't stop. I just keep walking. The clipboard in my hand has a checklist. Temperature, pressure, valves. I mark them all without looking directly at him. And he watches the whole time.

The other dead avoid this room. They never come down here. Even the things that aren't ghost, the ones that crawl or move through walls, steer clear of this place. He's not one of them. I don't know what he is. I've asked before, but no one ever tells me. All I know is he stays in the boiler room, and it's my job to make sure he keeps staying there.

I moved to the gauges. Everything's within normal range. Pressure steady. The dials shift now and then, but nothing jumps. That happened once, sharp spike, burst of heat. The sound of something scraping deep inside the tank. I was alone that night. I stayed two feet from the exit the whole time.

Tonight it's quiet. I double-checked the seals on the main line. No leaks. Mr. Long Neck hasn't blinked? I don't think he has eye-lint. His smile doesn't move, but I feel like he's pleased I showed up. Maybe he likes visits, or maybe he's just waiting for me. To forget the salt.

I tighten the last valve and step back, clipboard under my arm. I nod in his direction once, not out of politeness, but because I want him to see I'm not scared. It's not exactly true, but... but it's part of the routine. I walk back the way I came in, retracing my steps. I don't look behind me, I never do. When I reach the doorway, I step over the salt line carefully and close the door. It latches with a heavy click.

The salt is still there, white, clean, unbroken. I sprinkle a thin layer across the line again, just to be safe. I've never seen him cross it. I don't plan to find out if he can. There's another round to make before the night's over, down by the back rooms. That one's always strange. Now the back rooms aren't on any blueprint I've seen. They're not part of the regular mall layout. Not even the old floor plans the maintenance guy left in a box near the freight elevator. No doors labeled back rooms. No signage. But there there. Hidden behind locked access points, storage closets, and sometimes behind walls that shouldn't open. The one I use is near the service

corridor behind IKEA. You press your palm against a blank metal panel and wait six seconds. Then the wall unlocks with a soft click and opens inward like a heavy freezer door. Inside, everything smells faintly like dust and soap. The lights buzz overhead, but they stay on. The floor is the same beige tile you see in the employee-only sections, except some tiles are mismatched. Too clean, too new. Like they were replaced by someone who didn't care about pattern.

The hall's loop. They branch off. You can lose your way if you don't. pay attention, but I've learned the path to Ben. He's not far. Four turns in, three doors on the left. No number on the door. No label. Just an old brass handle that sticks when it's humid. I always knock once before entering. I bring him a coffee tonight, like I always do. Red ceramic mug, black brew, no sugar. He never asked for anything fancy. Doesn't even drink it most of the time.

Just holds it like it means something. He's already in the room when I step inside. Sitting on the floor back against the wall, legs stretched out. Same uniform every time. Gray shirt, black cargo pants, laminated badge clipped to his front pocket. The names worn off the badge,

but I know what it says. Bennett. Night security. Hey, brought you something, I say, holding out the cup. He doesn't move at first, just looks up at me with a slow blink. His hair's finning at the top, buzzed short on the sides. His eyes are dark and always a little too tired. I take a few steps in and crouch beside him.

He finally reaches out, wraps both hands around the mud. and holds it near his chest. He doesn't drink it. He rarely does. The first time I met Ben, he didn't speak for a full week. Thought maybe he couldn't. His mouth would open a little, but no words came out. Just gestures, nods, blinks.

He paced sometimes, moved chairs from one side of the room to the other. Then back again. It took three weeks before I got his name. Now, he talks in short burst, low voice, like someone half-waking from a long nap. He forgets things easily, but not the coffee. Never the coffee. He holding up, I ask. He nods, still looking at the mug.

It's hot. Yeah, yeah, it's fresh. He seems to like that. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Fresh coffee. The room he stays in isn't much. Plain walls, no windows. A folding chair in the corner.

A supply card with broken wheels. A cork board with no pins. No clocks. No exits, but the one I came through. Ben's stuck here. same as the others. But he's different. He used to be like me.

He walked these halls, did the rounds, check the gates, clocked in and out. And then something happened. Nobody tells me what. Records are thin. Most of them are redacted or missing completely, but I've heard enough pieces from Jesse and hints from Lily. To know Ben had a run-in,

with a boiler room. I've seen the way he twitches when I mention it. His eyes flick toward the walls. His shoulders tense. He won't say what happened. He's touchy. He doesn't like surprises. If you approach too fast, he grabs your arm.

If he asks too many questions, he shuts down. And if you try to leave without saying goodbye, he locks the door behind you. I learned that lesson early. Took me 20 minutes to talk him down the first time. He only opened the door after I slid the mug under the table and promised to bring another one the next night. Coffee calms him, says it's the only thing he really remembers about being alive.

The smell? The heat of the cup in his hands. The routine of it. Like it's proof that something real still exists. I sit on the floor across from him. We don't talk for a while and just sit there. Same as always. You want me to stay?

I ask. He shakes his head slowly. Rounds. Yeah, yeah, rounds. I stand up. Stretch and move to the door. I don't rush. You don't rush around Ben.

I turn the handle slith. slowly, open the door, and step back into the beige hallway. The back rooms are quiet. They usually are. I keep walking until I reach the access door again. The metal panel is cool under my hand. I press my palm flat and wait. After six seconds, the lock releases with a click. The door opens slow, heavy on its hinges. I step out into the service corridor and shut it behind me. It seals tight. I run a finger down the seam, checking for any give. Still solid.

I keep the red mug with me. Ben never finishes the coffee. He just holds it until it cools, then sets it down by the wall like he's saving it for later. I always pick it up on the way out, wipe it clean in the bathroom's sink, make a new cup the next night. Sometimes he calls me by a name that isn't mine.

Once, he asked if I still parked behind the old payless. That store has been boarded up for a decade. I think he remembers parts of his life like old photographs, flashes of routine, things that mattered once. But I can work with that. You pick your way through the place however you can. Some people hold on to hate. Some forget everything.

Ben's holding on to a mug of black coffee, like it's the only thing keeping him from falling through. And maybe it is. The sun is low behind the trees when I step out the side entrance. Pale light touches the pavement. The parking lot's mostly empty. Only a few cars are parked near the south wing where the shoe place opens early.

At the main doors, a woman stands by herself. She wears a gray coat, zipped to the top, and dark jeans tucked into boots. Her hair's tied back. She keeps her eyes on the glass, like she's trying to see something inside.

I keep walking, make it past the trash bins and halfway to my car before I stop. My keys are in my hand. I turn them over once, then slide them back into my pocket. I walk back toward the front entrance. She doesn't notice me and tell them a few feet away.

Her face is calm, but her jaw is tight. She doesn't step back, doesn't shift her weight, just glances at my badge. I'm not trying to go in. I know it's early. You're fine. It's mostly closed anyway. Just a few shops open during the day. I reply.

I figured, she says. She looks back at the glass doors. One of the bulbs and the overhead sign has burned out. The mall's name is missing a letter. I used to come here with my daughter. She begins. We had a routine. Friday afternoons.

She'd get ice cream upstairs. Same flavor every time. She smiles a little. Then looks down at her hands. You work nights? I nod. Yeah, yeah, security. Long hours?

Yeah, I reply. I meet her eyes. She has the same kind of look Lily gets when she's thinking about something she doesn't want to say yet. My daughter's six. I begin. She's in the hospital right now. The woman nods once. I'm sorry.

Ah, it's okay, you know, it's manageable, just expensive. She tucks her hands into her coat pockets. Her nails are short and unpainted. There's a little rip in the fabric near her wrist. She died here. She begins. It was an accident. She was nine.

I... I haven't come back in years. Didn't even mean to stop. I was just driving by. I nod. Fridays used to be our thing. We'd get ice cream by the stand near the fountain. Mint chocolate chip.

I interrupt. She smiles back at me. Yeah, yeah, that's right. She used to say it tasted like brushing your teeth. but fun. I smile back. She narrows her eyes. How'd you know it was mint?

Lucky guess, I say. We stand there for a bit. A mall employee pulls into the lot and walks past us without looking up. The woman follows him with her eyes, then turns back to the doors. Neither of us speak for a minute. Then she looks over at me. I hope your daughter gets better. Thank you.

She takes a small step back, glancing toward the lot. Well, as you get going, I didn't mean to take up your time. You didn't, I say. She pulls her coat tighter. Thanks for talking. Yeah, yeah, anytime, I reply. She starts walking. Her boots make small small.

sounds on the pavement. When she reaches the car, she opens the door, looks back once, and gives a short wave. I wave back. She gets in and drives off. The car is clean, but it's got a crack in the corner of the windshield. I watch her go for a little while. The glass doors reflect the morning sky behind me. The lights and the entryway buzz back to live. Inside, the floor can, and the floor cleaner, hums near the food court. Then, I turned towards my car, and I head home. The check comes in the mail on a Thursday, plain white envelope, no logo, just my name and address and block type. I open it over the sink, standing with my coat still on, and the front door half shut behind me. It's more than I expected. That night I called the hospital. Pay off every, every.

free last bill. Room charges, test, medication. I read off the numbers slow, just to hear the woman on the other end say, paid in full. I sleep better that night than I have in months. The next day, I drive to the hospital, and I sit with my daughter Chloe. She's eating dry cereal out of a paper cup and watching cartoons with a sound off. She holds my handle. all time. Doesn't ask me anything. Just smiles like she knows something has shifted. I could have walked away from the job after that, but I don't. The mall's still the same, still quiet, still strange in all the familiar ways. Jesse greets me like usual, polishing a revolver and arguing with no one in particular.

Lily offers me a cone. Ben nods when I hand in the coffee, holds the cup with both hands, like it's the only thing keeping him anchored. The salt line is intact. I lay down a fresh one anyway. I see Amanda sometimes. She stands outside near the doors around opening time.

Never comes in. We don't say much. Just nod. Sometimes she would. waves. I keep clocking in long after the bills are paid. There isn't a reason to stay, not really. The bills are handled. My daughter's getting better. I've got no debt left except sleep. But I stay for a few reasons. Part of it is the quiet. Part of it's the routine. Part of it is knowing that things in this place still need watching.

But mostly, I stay because I have a feeling there are more stories waiting. Not all of them good. Not all of them easy. But they're there. In the holes, in the rooms no one else visits. And until someone else is ready to take my place, I'll keep collecting them. One day when a rookie shows up, fresh uniform, fresh clipboard, I'll sit them down and tell them everything they need to know. Which doors to avoid? Who to talk to? Who not to. And I'll have a few

stories ready for him, just in case. Oh, by the way, the ghost shells are still on my belt pouch. I check them sometimes. Roll one between my fingers. Make sure they haven't cracked or crumbled. And they haven't. They feel the same as the day Jesse handed him over. Cold, soft. just a little lighter than the others. I keep them separate from the standard rounds, labeled and lined up. I haven't had to use them. Most nights pass without trouble. Whatever this place is, it has its own rhythm, its own rules. The things that roam stay where they're meant to, and the ones who linger don't cross their lines. But still, I carry them. I've learned it's better to be prepared. In this job, you don't always get a warning, and when something does come,

it won't ask if you're ready. So the shelf stay close, one pocket over from my penlight and notebook, a little weight I don't mind carrying. If I ever need them, they'll be there, and I will know exactly what they're for.