Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I worked as an Elevator Repairman. This is my SCARIEST story

Episode Date: October 4, 2025

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I've been fixing elevators for more than 20 years. Long enough to know that nobody thinks about them until they stop working. That's when the calls come in. Middle of the night, middle of the day, doesn't matter. Someone gets stuck between floors, doors won't open. Car lurches half a foot past the landing. People think it's boring work, it's not. You crawl down black shafts where one wrong step can kill you.

You lean over live power. Motor's big enough to rip your arms off if you're careless. And then there's the people you call out. Drunks, cheaters, panic attacks, once even a dead body. But nothing unexplainable. Not until last month. The call came through dispatch around 10 at night. Old Place, the CP Hotel, right off I-90 in Ohio.

They didn't say much, just elevator stuck, doors opening when they shouldn't. Vague, but, you know, nothing I hadn't heard before. I loaded my kit into the truck and hit the highway. Rolled past the exit sign for Daggerland and kept on going past. You know, I heard some strange stories about that place. Something that happened there a while back. Something about a guy named Winners, I think, and some dog.

Probably made up. You know how urban legends are. Anyway, that's not the story for today. The CP Hotel was easy enough to spot. Fourteen stories of brick and grime, with a neon sign that buzzed and spat sparks. The P and CP was burned out, so it just glowed Sea Hotel into the night. Inside, the carpet smelled like mildew and old cigarettes. A chandelier buzzed overhead, one bulb fighting to the night.

stay alive. At the front desk sat a man who looked like he'd been there for 50 years. Thin, greasy comb over plastered across his scalp. Glass is so thick, they made his eyes swim behind them. He blinked at me, slow and long, like I'd woken him from a nap. Mies? He said, uh, I... I got a call for. repair?" I said, setting my toolbox down. He didn't answer. Just raised one shaky finger and pointed down a long, dim hallway. At the far end waited the elevator.

Its dented steel doors were tarnished. It looked old. The hallway stretched longer than it looked. My boots sank into carpet that had gone soft with age. The sconces along the walls flickered. throwing shadows that lean the wrong way. I kept walking. Toolbox heavy in my hand, and the hum grew louder. A steady mechanical thrum threaded with little pops and clicks, like something chewing. Up close the doors were worse. Rust freckles spotted the steel.

The seams were black with grease. The call button plate was brass, worn to green at the edges. the up arrow glowing with a weak pulsing light. I set the toolbox down and press the button. The click was sluggish, delayed, like the switch didn't want to admit I'd touched it. Somewhere above, the motor coughed alive. The cables sang faintly in their housing. The door stuttered open three inches, slammed shut again,

then groaned wide with a jutter that rattled the frame. Inside, the cab waited. Wood paneling, cracked and peeling, carpet curling at the corners, two fluorescent tubes in the ceiling, buzzing like hornets. A fan grill, thick with gray fur, weased. I didn't step in yet. First rule. Make it talk to you before you climb in. I crouched, ran my flashlight along the sill.

Track was packed with grid and gum. Rollers had flat spots worn into them. That explained the stutter. I pressed door close with my knuckle. The panels dragged, coughed, but sealed shut. I pressed door open. Huh. Same stutter.

I stood listening. The motor hummed a low note through the wall, brake pads squealing faintly. I keyed open the service panel. Dust puffed out. carrying the sour smell of old wiring, cloth-wrapped harnesses, brittle insulation, contactors spotted with corrosion, no popped fuses, no scorch. Huh.

I looked it back up. Straightened. All right, let's see how you run, I muttered. I stepped into the cab, and the doors slammed shut on their own. before I touched a thing. The cab jolted hard enough to knock my teeth together. The indicator needle above the door

twitched, hesitated, then began to climb. I hadn't pressed a button. The motor wailed and pulled us higher. At least it works, I thought. The car shuddered to a stop. The brake caught too soft,

like it wasn't sure if it wanted to hold. and the doors creaked open. Balloons drifted lazily into the cab, strings brushing my arm. Beyond, a hotel conference room stretched wide. Streamers drooped from thumbtacks, paper faded and torn. A folding table sagged under the weight of a sheet kick.

The frosting shone under the light. The words, Happy Birthday Tommy, bleeding blue into the white. A circle of children sat waiting in mismatched chairs. Paper hats tilted, dresses and shirts ruffled.

One girl tilted her head. Sit, she said. My knees bent on their own. The chair groaned under me. A boy with freckles, slowly cut into the cake. The knife squeaked through hardened frosting. He served me a slice on a paper plate. I didn't touch it, but they did. At first, small, neat bites, then bigger, louder, cake and frosting stuffed into mouths too wide. Wet chewing filled the rum. Giggles bubbled up

beneath it, light and sweet, but wrong. One boy shoved both hands into a slice and crammed it in, knuckles scraping his teeth. His gums peeled back too far, exposing an extra row of teeth, crowding in pale and sharp. A girl bent her head and lick the icing directly off the plate, her tongue long and forked at the end. The giggles turned to cackling, frosting, spraying, eyes rolling. Their faces stretched, cheeks ballooning, features slipping into something monstrous. Every head snapped toward me all at once, and I bolted. Toolbox smacked against my leg as I staggered back into the cab.

My hand slammed close, close, close, until the doors of it. obeyed. The last glimpse I caught was of the cake, sagging, bubbling, the door shut, and the cab jerked upward. My toolbox banged against the rail with a hollow clang. I clutched the bar, breathing hard. Sweat ran down my temples, even though the cab was cool again. What the hell was that? I said to myself. I'd seen some weird stuff on this job. You know, drunks passed out on the floor. Guy who found an elevator was a good place to shoot up.

Even a dead guy once, sitting propped against the wall like he had just fallen asleep. But this? Kids. A whole room of kids waiting for me like I'd been invited to a birthday party. Eating cake until their jaws cracked and their faces slid into something else. That wasn't a glitch. That wasn't bad wiring or a sticky relay. That was...

No, no. I shook my head hard, trying to rattle the thought out. Elevators don't open undue. Whatever the hell that was. A hotel conference room gone rotten? A memory and a dream? I looked at the control panel. Dead.

Every button dark. My reflection in the middle plate looked washed out, eyes too wide. The motor above groaned. The car kept climbing, like it had a destination in mind. I muttered to myself half out loud. Don't lose it. Don't lose it. Just figure it out. Find the problem. Fix it. That's the job. But deep down, I knew this wasn't something a wrench or a breaker reset.

was going to fix. The indicator needle trembled, skipped past numbers, and froze. The brake caught with a greasy squeal, and the doors shuddered open. Heat slammed into me, the kind that steals your breath

before you can even curse. It rolled into the cab and waves, carrying the stink of scorched metal and something wetter like a butcher's shop fire. The floor beyond was an hotel carpet. It was an industrial cavern. Steel beams towered overhead, rust running in streaks down their sides. The concrete underfoot gleamed black.

Slick was something I didn't know. And lining the walls, furnaces. massive square-mouthed things big enough to swallow cars. Their doors hung open, spewing fire so bright it burned my eyes. Conveyor belts clanked and screeched their way toward those fires, and on them lay shapes, human shapes, piled like trash. The belts dragged them forward. jerking, squealing, until they tipped into the flames, and they screamed.

Not together, not in unison, but in a chorus of panicked, cut short cries, pleading, shrieking, one after another. Figures worked the belt, tall, crooked things, their arms too long. Their bodies stooped. Their hands dragged sparks from the metal as they walked. They bent, picked up the slack bodies when the belts jammed, and tossed them into the fire like broken mannequins. I couldn't move.

The heat blistered my skin and I still couldn't move. Then one of them stopped. Slowly. its head turned toward me. It dropped the body it was holding. The thud echoed across the chamber. And then it started walking. Another stopped, turned, and then walked right toward me.

The furnace behind them roared louder, flames leaping out, like it was reaching for me. I staggered back into the chestered back into the chestnut. cab, toolbox banging against my knee. My hand hammered the close button again and again. One of the things reached the threshold, and one long arm cruelled around the frame. The doors shuddered, groaned, began to push against it. The thing leaned in, and then a sharp break. The arm folded, yanked back. And the door slammed shut. The cab rattled violently, as if something outside had struck it.

The motor screamed, and it dragged me upward again. The cab rattled, shivering like it was about to come loose from the camels. I staggered against the wall, breathing ragged, the stink of scorched steel and burned flesh still choking my nose. I got to get out? I muttered. Ha, I gotta get out of here. I spun on the panel, jabbing every button. Lobby, clothes, open, two, three, four, anything.

Nothing lit. Nothing answered. My thumb jammed the emergency stop so hard it left a dent. Dead. The motor above groaned, dragging me higher anyway. I cursed. Yanking open the service panel with shaking hands. Dust puffed out. Wires twisted in brittle bundles.

I grabbed a breaker switch and slammed it down. Spark spit. But the hum kept on. Come on, I said. But the car didn't even hesitate. I thought about the hatch, climbing out, hauling myself under the roof.

But if it moved while I was up there, No, that was a death wish. I gripped the rail again. Every nerve screamed at me to do something. But there was nothing to do. The cab wasn't mine anymore. The indicator needle trembled, stuttered, then froze.

The brake screeched, and the doors began to open. For the first time since this nightmare started, I saw something that almost looked normal. An exit sign glowed just across the hall, buzzing faintly. Below it, a plain gray metal door with a crash bar. The little running man's stencil pointed down towards safety. Relief surged through me.

Thank God, I muttered, toolbox swinging at my side as I stumbled out. My legs felt weak, knees through. threatening to give, but I kept moving. The bar clicked easily under my hand, and the door pushed open with a heavy groan. Stairs. That's what I expected. The sharp echo of concrete steps, the cold smell of a service stairwell. Instead.

There was nothing. Blackness stretched beyond the frame, not the dark of an unlit stairwell. was thicker. The light from the hallway stopped flat against it, like it hit a wall. I leaned closer, heart hammering. And then I saw them. Eyes, tiny burning red points, thousands of them, pinpricks scattered deep into the dark, so far away they could have been stars. But they weren't stars. They blinked all at once, and then they started moving. The red pinpricks drew closer. Pears began to line up, rising higher than my head, lowering close to the ground, weaving

through each other like predators in a pack. The sound came next. A low, rolling scrape, like claws dragging across stone. and then breathing. Dozens of lungs, sucking air all at once. My whole body locked up. My hand stayed on the crash bar, frozen. The eyes surged forward.

And that broke me. I yanked my hand back. Slam the door shut and bolted. Toolbox banging against my thigh, I sprinted for the elevator like a man running for his life. The cab doors were still open, and I dove inside, hammered the closed button with both fists. The last thing I saw through the narrowing gap was the stairwell door bulging outward, rattling on its hinges, the glow of red eyes pressing outward.

The door sealed. The cab jolted violently, and the motor above screamed. Upward. The cab rattled like it was coming apart. My lungs felt like they'd shrunk to half-size, every breath short and ragged. I clutched the rail, forehead pressed to the cold wood paneling. My whole body shook. I can't do this.

I said. I gotta get out. I have to get out. The button stared back at me. I slammed my fist against them once, twice, until my knuckles burned, but nothing lit. Nothing answered. I yanked at the service panel again, half crazed, jiggle-breakers, flip switches. Spark snapped, bit my fingers, but the motor above only growled louder like it was laughing.

The indicator needle jittered, skipping numbers. The fan in the ceiling weased, then gave a single hiccup. And then the ringing started. At first it was faint, then another, then another, until it wasn't faint at all, until the sound of ringing telephones filled the air, leaking through the cracks of the door. So loud it set my teeth on edge. The cab shuddered to a stop. and the doors creaked open.

The ringing started faint, then swelled into a roar. By the time the cab doors creaked open, it was all I could hear. The hallway stretched forever, and both walls were lined with rotary phones, cord stiff with age. Every four feet, another one, every single receiver, trembled on its cradle as it rang. I stepped out, toolbox dangling from my hand, ears buzzing from the sheer noise. The closest one rang sharp and shrill, louder than the rest.

And against every instinct, I lifted the receiver. Dogs. A pack of them. Snarling, barking, claws skittering against hardwood floors. The sound hit me in the gut, vivid and wrong. I could smell them, could feel the panic of being ten years old again, trapped in a neighbor's yard, hot breath, snapping at my skin. This isn't real, I muttered, and I slammed the receiver back down. The next one rang louder. My hand moved before I could stop it.

Voices, whispering, layered, like a hundred conversations happening at once. I caught fragments all tumbling over each other. I dropped the phone, let it swing wild on its cord until it smacked against the wall. Another ring. I snatched it up like it might save me. Yeah, yeah, police department. The man's voice. Relief hit me so hard, I almost cried.

Oh, thank God. Listen, I'm at the CP Hotel. The elevator's gone crazy. I don't know what floor I'm on. All right, calm down, sir. The officer said. We'll send someone there right away, okay? Just need your information first.

Yeah, yeah. Yeah, anything, yeah. All right, date of birth? Yeah, yeah, sure. March 9th, 1984. I said without thinking. Silence. Then the man chuckled.

Nineteen 84, huh? Very funny, sir. Twenty years went by just like that, huh? I frowned. What are you? But the line clicked. Dead air hissed back at me. I pulled the phone from my ear.

The cord was cracked. Stiff. dust coated the mouthpiece. The receiver slipped from my fingers. I didn't even hang it up. Another phone rang. I froze. And I knew the voice that answered.

My stomach dropped. It was him. The bully? The kid who'd made my life hell in grade school. The one who'd shoved me out of a second floor. window while I screened, left me with a broken leg and a grin on his face. The one who died years later in a car crash. You saw it, didn't you?

The furnace, yeah, you did. That's where you're going. My grip went slick. You're not leaving, you little pansy. You'll stay here with me. I yank the receiver away in your left. through it. Every phone in the hall started ringing louder. The sound built into a teeth rattling, roar, bells slamming against metal, cords twitching like snakes. I thought about the elevator,

about going back in. But another thought warmed in. Maybe I don't have to. The telephones were unbearable, yes, but at least they weren't flames. At least there weren't monsters. At least there weren't Monsters here? If I stayed here, then maybe. And then the phone directly in front of me convulsed. The casing cracked down the middle. The rotary dial warped. With a sickening lurch, the whole unit ripped free of the wall

and hit the floor with a heavy thud. It grew. Metal warped. Chords thickening into vainy, cables. The receiver split in half, jaw-like, opening wide. And in seconds, it loomed taller than me. A giant telephone, its open-mouth dripping spittle, clacking its teeth together with bone-shaking force. The sound rang through the hall. Sparks flew from its jaws. The thing lurched forward, untangled cords, receiver jaws opening wider, wider.

The air quaked with each bite. I screamed and staggered back, toolbox clattering. My eyes darted up and down the hall, searching for a door, a vent, anything. But there was nothing. Just more phones, all of them ringing. The massive jaw lunged. Teeth slammed shut inches from my head. I bolted.

The cab still waited open, like it'd known I was running back. I dove inside, hammering the close button again until my thumb went numb. The giant telephone slammed against the doors as they sealed, the chomp reverberating through the cab. Then silence. The car trembled. The motor above screamed. And it began to. rise. The cab rattled, groaning like the cables above, were grinding through bone. My stomach

swooped. The brake caught with a sound like tearing metal. The doors shuddered open. Cold air poured in. Not the recycle chill of air conditioning. This was raw. A winter bite that sank into my skin and scraped my lungs with every breath. I flinched back, then leaned forward again, because what I was seeing couldn't be real. Snow. It drifted down from the ceiling. Flakes spiraled lazily in the yellow glow of the cab light before vanishing into the endless white beyond.

The floor stretched into an open, barren expanse of snow, rolling in uneven. No walls, no corners, no end. Just white ground under a high gray ceiling that should have belonged outside. My breath plumed, vapor curling in front of me, before fading into the haze. I stepped out. My boots sank into powder with crunch. Behind me, the elevator hummed, its doors staying open like they were daring me to come crawling back. I turned once, my footprints already blurred, half filled

by the falling flakes. A breeze tugged at my sleeves. It was there. Cold, damp, carrying sense I hadn't smelled in decades. And then... Come out! My chest seized. My heart thudded so hard I could feel it in my teeth. It was him, the bully, not just any kid, the kid, the one who'd turned my childhood into a gauntlet, the one who'd cornered me behind the school dumpsters, shoved my face into the dirt until I couldn't breathe, laughed when I was crying, the one who once pushed me out of that second story window just to watch my leg snap like a twig.

He was dead. I knew he was dead. A car crash took him years ago. I'd seen the memorial flowers tied to a telephone pole. But his voice was alive here. The exact tone he'd used when I was hiding and he was circling closer. I dropped low into the snow, pressing myself against a drift. My breath fogged the air.

Crunch. Footsteps. He emerged from the haze, taller now, older, but unmistakable. His shoulders were broader, his face harder, but the grin was the same. An axe swung loose in his hand, blade dulled and notched, but heavy enough to split me into. He trudged across the snow with the slow, easy rhythm. of someone who knows he's already won. He whistled, where are you?

I hated that song. Same damn whistle he used when he stalked me after school, back when I was small enough to fit in lockers, and gullible enough to think hiding behind a teacher's car would save me. The sound slithered through the snowfall, off-key. I clenched my job. He dragged the axe behind him, carving a line through the snow. Boots sank deep, leaving craters that filled slowly as flakes piled in. He paused, tilted his head, listening.

I can hear you. I froze so hard, my knees screamed. I crawled forward, each movement deliberate. my eyes darted across the white emptiness desperate there's got to be a way out but there wasn't no doors no walls not even exit signs or stairwells just the endless white and the bully stalking it with his axe and his whistle then i saw it half buried under snow 30 feet ahead A square iron hatch rusted and warped Set flush into the ground

A bent handle jutted from it I crept faster Boots crunching breath ragged in my ears Hey There you are My blood froze I whipped around He was closer than I'd realized

The axe was already rising Snow sprang off the blade. He looked down at me. Hey, don't worry, okay? It'll be quick. You remember when I pushed you from that window? Quick, right? Well, you know, it'll be like that, except with an axe.

Hey, you're going to like it here. I lunged, slipping, clawing at the hatch handle. My gloves stuck to the frozen metal. But it shrieked open. I dove head first into the dark, just as the axe came down. Metal clanked. Sparks spit across the snow as the blade bit the rim of the hatch. And then I was gone. The chute swallowed me whole. I slid fast, shoulders slamming into dented steel, sparks flaring where the toolbox scraped ahead of me. The walls were slick with something. frost, grease I couldn't tell, and my arms pinwheeled helplessly. It twisted, sharp turns,

impossible angles, as though the chute was folding in on itself. My stomach lurched, my throat locked in a silent scream. Snow clung to me, melting icy trails down my back. My breath whipped past me, sucked away into the dark. I seemed to fall forever, and then I hit something soft. I sank into mountains of fabric, yellowed sheets, scratchy wool blankets, uniform so old their patches appealed. I scrambled to my knees. Dust erupted around me in gray clouds.

My flashlight shook in my trembling hand, beam sliced. through the haze. The basement stretched wide and low. Sealing pipes dripped rust. Every inch of space was filled with sagging piles of linen. I spun in circles, beam cutting across shadows. My heart jackhammered. I expected to see a monster lunge out or a pair of red eyes blink open in the dark. But there was nothing. No movement. No sound but the slow settling of cloth in the rasp of my own breath. The quiet was worse. I forced myself upright, boots crunching through fabric that should have been soft but broke like paper.

Each step sank, left prints that filled back in as the pile slumped, like the linen wanted to bury me alive. I pushed forward, toolbox pumping my file. eyes darting for escape. And then I saw it. A door. Half buried under a collapsed heap of blankets, its outline just visible. I clawed my way through the mound, sending dust spiraling. My hand found the knob, tarnished brass, cold, but solid. I twisted. The latch clicked, And light spilled in, warm, normal light. The hallway stretched before me.

Carpet and wallpaper exactly as when I'd first arrived. Chandeliers glowed overhead. The mildew smell crept back into my nose, sharper now. But it was comforting. I stumbled forward, half-dazed. My boots left damp patches on the carpet. My arm dragged along the wallpaper to steady myself. At the end of the hall was the desk.

The concierge sat there, same slick comb over, same bottle-fit glasses. He hadn't moved an inch. He looked up as I staggered clothes, face calm, lips curling faintly. Wham! My throat locked. I doubled over the counter and vomited, choking, retching until my vision blurred. The man nodded, slow impatient. I understand, he said.

I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, just even. My whole body trembled. I didn't say anything. I turned and staggered through the front doors, and I walked out into the night. My van sat under the flickering sign, C.P. Hotel, the P. Buzzing, faint, threatening to die. I climbed in, peeled off my uniform shirt, and tossed it out of the passenger seat. It slumped there like a body. I grip the wheel, staring at the empty road.

For a moment, thought about going home, calling dispatch, pretending I could file this under malfunction. But then I thought about Amish country. Place without elevators. No cables. No panels that light up on their own. Place where the only thing that rises is the sun. where you climb ladders to haylofts instead of crawling into humming metal boxes at 3 a.m.

I left once. Ha ha. I'm moving to Amish country. And then I turned the key. The van rumbled alive. And I drove.