Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I'm A Janitor at the WEIRDEST School in the World. We have TERRIFYING Rules | Scary Stories

Episode Date: March 23, 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'm A Janitor at the WEIRDEST School in the World. We have TERRIFYING 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 - 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!

My name's Noah, but around here they call me Mr. No. The kid started at a few summers back, then it stuck. First, I didn't care much for it, but after a while, I figured it fit. I've been working at Hartwell Academy for close to 10 years now. It's not a bad gig, all things considered, pays the bills, keeps me busy. I'm in my 40s now, though I feel older most days. Life's been a long road of hard choices. And not all of them have led me any more good. I grew up in the city. One of those places where the buildings never end,

and the streets never sleep. It was too fast for me. Too loud. I'd wake up every morning, already feeling behind, like the city was five steps ahead of me and didn't care if I caught up. That kind of living wears you down. So I left.

Packed my things one night, threw them into an old pickup, up and just drove. Didn't know where I was going, but I figured I'd know when I got there. And I did. Heartwell's about as far from the city as you can get. Trees for miles. Rolling hills, a big blue sky that stretches so wide, it almost makes you feel small. It was quiet, and for the first time in my life, that felt like exactly what I needed. I found the school by accident, driving down a winding road that looked like it hadn't seen a car in years. There it was, tucked between iron gates and tall hedges.

Hartwell Academy. They were hiring. Janitor, groundskeeper, handy, man. Basically, whatever the hell needs doing kind of job. I took it, and I've been here ever since. Now, the school's old, real old. Some say it's been standing for over 200 years. Looks like it, too.

Stone walls, towering spires, and these narrow hallways that twist around like a maze. The kind of place that smells like history. And dust. Lots of dust. I do a bit of everything here. Fix broken pipes, clean the halls, cut the grass, patch up the roof when it leaks. Summers are the busiest. That's when the kids come for the summer program. Rich families send their brats here to get cultured or whatever it is they think happens at a place like this.

Most of the kids aren't so bad, though. They call me Mr. No, because of the rules. I've got plenty of them, and I stick to them. Kids like to push boundaries. It's what they do. But here. It's different. The rules aren't just to keep them out of trouble.

They're to keep them safe. They don't know that part, though. Mr. No, can we go in the woods? No. Mr. No, can we go to the cellar? What? Absolutely not. Okay, but Mr. No, can we go to the old mansion?

No. It's always no. And they laugh about it, joke around, but I can see it in their eyes. After a while, they start to wonder why I'm so strict. The thing is, Hartwell's got history. Not the kind they print in brochures or talk about on tours. It's the kind that lingers in the corners, where the gas lamps don't shine so bright. The kind that makes the hairs on your neck stand up when you're walking the halls alone.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. You're new, right? First summer here. Well, you are lucky you ran into May. I'll show you around. But listen, really listen. Because if you want to do well here, if you want to make it through the summer without any incidents, you need to follow the rules, all of them.

And don't ask why. Some things are better left alone. Now Hartwell Academy, isn't the kind of place you get used to? Even after nearly a decade here, it still feels heavy. like the building itself is watching, waiting, the kind of feeling that crawls into your bones and stays there. And before you ask, no, it's not the same as the Hartwell Mansion a few miles down the road. That's the one they do the ghost tourism, the big crumbling estate with the yellow flowers,

an actor's dressed up as spirit, trying to scare tourists for a quick buck. I've been there once, met the gardener Tom, good guy. knows how to keep the grounds neat, even with all the chaos around. But that place, it's kind of goofy, you know, it's all for show. Hartwell Academy. It's different. This place doesn't need jump scares or staged hauntings. It has its own weight, its own rules. No tour guides, no actors.

Just the real thing. The walls are lined with paintings. Hundreds of them. Some are dull with age. The colors faded until they're barely more than ghost of what they used to be. But others, older ones, hold on to their color in a way that doesn't make sense. Deep reds, dark greens, black that seems too dark even in the lampline. Faces stare out from the frames, stiff and formal, dressed in styles that haven't been worn for centuries. eyes painted to follow you, even if you know it's just a trick of the light.

Or at least that's what you tell yourself. The walls themselves aren't in great shape. Brick work cracks in places, some of it crumbling if you push too hard. Dampness clings to the stone, especially down in the lower halls, where mold grows in dark green streaks. I scrub it sometimes, but it keeps coming back, like the place doesn't want to be cleaned, But there's a charm to Hartwell, a strange kind of beauty and how it stands apart from everything else, locked in its own pocket of time. Out here, you're cut off from the world.

No cars, no buzzing of power lines, no city noise. Technology barely works. The academy runs on old gas lamps that flicker no matter how often I clean them. Electricity is patchy at best. And phones. You can forget it. You might catch a bar or two if you climb all the way up to the astronomy tower, but even then calls drop fast.

It's like the world outside doesn't exist. The library is one of the few places I like. Big, two stories. With those rolling ladders you only see in movies. Rows of bookshelves stretch in every direction. Some so high up you need a ladder just to reach the second shelf. The smell of old paper hangs thick in the air, a dry musty scent that sticks to your clothes if you stay too long. The ceiling is painted, some kind of mural. I've never figured out exactly what it's supposed to be.

Twisting shapes, people, things that might have been animals or something else entirely. Some parts have faded away, leaving blank patches, but the rest is still sharp. I catch myself staring at it sometimes, wondering about the artist. I read when I have time, not often, but enough. There are books in there, older than the country itself. Heavy things, with cracked leather covers and pages that threaten to crumble if you're not careful. A lot of them are in a language I can't read. But I stick to what I can.

Old stories, history, things that, you know, keep your mind busy. The mess hall is better than you'd expect. Long tables, the kind you'd picture in an old castle, with heavy wooden benches. The food's good. Really good, actually. The market in town, about ten miles away, sends fresh stuff every week. None of that processed junk, you know, fruits, vegetables, meats from local farms. I haven't eaten a donut in five years, and I have kept it that way.

This isn't about my health, but I used to have trouble with blood sugar, and it's gotten better since I came here. One of the only upsides to living so far off the grid. Outside, the grounds stretch wide. Courtyards with stone paths. Grass growing wild in some spots, but neat in others. It's easy to picture what the space looked like a couple hundred years ago. One of the courtyards has this wide-open space surrounded by stone pillars. Looks like the kind of place where they held tournaments. Real medieval stuff, you know.

Knights charging at each other on horseback, lances raised, trying to knock the other guy off. The place is beautiful in its own way. Old but proud. But Hartwell has its secrets. Some of them, I noticed right away. Small things that felt off. A door that didn't open no matter how much you worked at it. even though there was nothing blocking it. A room that stayed cold even in the middle of summer. Paintings that I swore looked different from one day to the next.

Other secrets, well, you only find those out if you stay long enough. That's why I have rules. Lots of them. I tell every kid, every summer, follow the rules. It's not about keeping them in line. It's about keeping them safe. This place has ways of pulling people in, leading them where they're not supposed to go. And when that happens, there are consequences.

The kind no one comes back from. The first rule is simple. It's the easiest one to follow, and it's the only thing you absolutely have to do every single day. No exceptions. When you first arrive at Hartwell Academy, the place they bring you to is the adjudice. building. That's where it all starts. Students call it the landing pad. It's where the buses drop you off, where the parents say their goodbyes, and where the staff start pretending they care. But the building's more than just an office. It's the heart of the place. The main room is massive.

Stone walls stretch up to a high ceiling, with wooden beams so thick. They look like they've been holding up the sky for centuries. Light from the gas lamps, pools against the walls, flickering just enough to make everything feel a little off balance. A grand staircase sits in the middle of the room, splitting halfway up into two curling stairways that lead to the upper floors. At the foot of the staircase, right in the center where you can't miss it, is a painting. It's huge, almost as tall as I am. A man stares out from the frame, stiff and proud, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, a dark coat with gold buttons, high collar, one of those frilly cravats, whatever you call him

at his neck. His hair slicked back, and there's something sharp about his face. Thin lips, long nose. A jaw clenched so tight you'd think the artist caught him mid-argument. His eyes are the worst, though. pale gray, almost silver. And they follow you wherever you go. I have walked past that painting more times than I can count, and I still feel them on me.

Watching. That's the old master of Hartwell Mansion. Or at least that's what people say. No one knows his real name anymore. The records are long gone, maybe lost in the fire, maybe hidden somewhere deeper in the academy. What people do know is that he owned this land, built the mansion, and eventually founded the school. But there's more to it than that. They say he was brilliant.

An inventor? The kind of man who could take apart the world piece by piece and put it back together again in ways no one else could. But genius doesn't come without a price. Stories say he was obsessed with his work, obsessed to the point where he stopped caring about the people around him, his staff, his family, even his fiancé. That's where things get muddy. The fire that burned down the west wing of the original mansion, some say he caused it himself, locked away in one of his workshops, lost in his experiments. Others say his fiancé set the blaze. Maybe on purpose, maybe by accident. Nobody knows. Both of them were never

found, no bodies, nothing but ash and stone. That's the version of the story I got. There are others, if you care to look. But here's where the rule comes in. The old master never really left. You hear stories, passed around by staff and students about seeing him. Late at night, when the halls are empty. Some people say they catch glimpses of a figure walking through the corridors. A man in old clothes. Head high, hands folded behind his back like he's still inspecting his home. Other times, it's footsteps. Slow, heavy, pacing the upper floors where no one's supposed to be.

So out of respect or fear, the rule was made. Every time you walk through the admin building, you stop in front of the painting and say hello. And when evening comes, you say good evening. Doesn't matter if you're alone or with friends, if it's your first day or your last. You do it. I've seen kids forget. It happens. They're new, excited, or they just think the whole thing's a joke. They walk right past the painting without so much as a glance. But Hartwell doesn't forget. It starts small. A kid who forgets to greet the painting might trip on the stairs, even though there's nothing there, or their books go missing, showing up days later in places they swear they never left them. Sometimes it's worse.

A gas lamp explodes right as they walk under it, glass raining down just inches from their head. Bad luck, maybe, but not here. I've been around long enough to know this place is alive, The academy breathes. It remembers. And it pays attention. You're not the only one living here. There are others. It's why I follow the rules. Even after all these years. I never pass the painting without stopping. I stand there, eyes on his and I nod. A simple greeting, nothing more. And when the sun starts to dip below the hills and the gas lamps flickered a lot, I make sure to say good evening. Because I know he's still here, and I know he's listening. So here's your first rule. Always say hello to the inventor. The second rule, it's just as simple as the first.

Never leave your room before the hours of 9 p.m. and 3 a.m. That's it? At first it sounds easy. You figure you'll be tired after a long time. day. Classes, running around the grounds, maybe sneaking in a few games with the other kids before lights out. Staying in your room doesn't seem like much of a challenge. But I know better. I've seen how this place works, how it gets inside your head. Hartwell has a way of making even the best-behaved kids curious, especially at night. But you need to remember this. After 9 p.m., the Academy doesn't belong to

anymore. That's when it belongs to the others. You might be wondering what I mean by other residents, as I call them. I wish I had a simple explanation, but I don't. No one does. I've been here nearly ten years, and I've placed together what I can. But the truth? The Hartwell doesn't like giving away its secrets. If I had to guess, I'd say it as something to do with the old ideas things people used to believe before science made them feel safe. You've heard of the witching hour, right?

Been around forever. Christians passed it down through generations. The idea that certain hours of the night are thinner, like the wall between the world we live in and something else gets worn down. And things on the other side, they slip through.

At Hartwell, that veil lifts between 9 p.m. and 3 a.m. I tell the kids this every summer, and I can always see it. The flicker of interest behind their eyes. Curiosity. They want to know what really happens here when the lights go out. Some of them follow the rule without question, but others. They test it. They think they can outsmart the academy.

They're wrong. If you step out of your room during those hours, two things might happen. First, there's the ballroom. It's on the first floor, far east end of the building. A grand room, big enough to fit hundreds. I've only been inside once during the day. High ceilings, chandeliers, marble floors cracked with age, the kind of place that was made for royalty. But at night, the doors stay long. Locked. Heavy wooden doors with iron handles that won't budge, no matter how hard you pull. Still, some kids can't help themselves. They find their way there in the middle of the night,

creeping through the halls thinking they're clever. They stand in front of those massive doors and press their ears to the wood. That's when they hear it. Music. Old-fashioned, like the kind you'd imagine, at a royal ball, strings in soft piano. Laughter, too, voices faint but clear, floating through the door. The clink of glasses, the hum of people dancing, shoes sliding across the marble. It sounds alive, like there's a party going on just beyond the door, even though they know it's been locked for decades. Some kids get scared and run back to their rooms.

Smart ones. But others, they try the handle, pound on the door, even attempt to pry it open with whatever they can find. But no matter how hard they try, the doors won't open. And if they're dumb enough to look through the keyhole, they'll find nothing. Just darkness, a hollow, empty room. But by morning, there is always a mess waiting.

I come down to the ballroom every day before breakfast. Like clockwork, there's a spill on the stone floor just outside the doors. Deep red soaking into the cracks. Wine. Thick, almost syrupy. I mop it up in silence every single morning, even though I know I'll be back again the next day doing the same thing. That's just one of the things that happens after 9 p.m. The second is worse.

Sometimes, doors appear where they shouldn't. You'll know when you see them, tall, narrow doors painted deep red, the kind of red that looks wet, like it hasn't finished drying. They show up in places that never had doors before, at the end of a hallway, against a blank wall,

next to a supply closet that's always been empty, even right outside a student's room, room. If you see one, don't open it. That's the rule. They tempt you. I know they do. I've seen them myself standing out like a wound against the academy's old stone. Kids always think the same thing. What's behind it? It's human nature. You want to know. You want to see. But nothing good ever comes out of those doors. I've caught students with red paint on their hands before. It stains deep into the skin, and it does not wash off easily. Days later, they'll still be a smear across their palm, a mark that tells me exactly what they did. And I know what they saw. They'll never talk about it,

not directly, but they come back changed. Quieter. I sunk in like they haven't slated. I've sunk in like they haven't slated. in days. Some refuse to leave their rooms afterward, locking their doors even during the day. A few transfer out before the summer's even over. Others, well, they stay, but they're not really here anymore. The Academy sees everything. It knows when you break the rules, and it punishes curiosity. So when 9 p.m. rolls around, stay in your room. Lock the door, close the curtains, and do not even think about stepping into that hall. Because once the academy stops being yours for the night, it becomes theirs. And they don't like to be disturbed.

There's something else you should know. If you ever break the second rule, if you step out of your room during the witching hour, hour. You might run into her. They call her lady, or sometimes just the woman. Like she doesn't need a real name anymore. Everyone here knows who you're talking about when you say it. She stays mostly on the fifth floor. That part of the academy has been off limits for as long as I've worked here. It's barricaded, doors nailed shut, furniture stacked in front of them. Even the staff don't go up there. It's the kind of place you avoid without having to be told twice. But lady doesn't stay put.

Sometimes late at night. She comes down. I've seen it once from a distance. I was making my rounds, one of the rare nights I actually stepped out after 9 p.m., and I saw her standing there at the landing. Right in front of the paintings of the old master. She didn't move. didn't make a sound, just stood there staring up at the portrait,

like she was waiting for something. Maybe she was remembering. And then she was gone. Everyone says lady is the old master's fiancé, the one who died with him in the fire that burned down the original mansion. But there are other stories. Some say she didn't die in the fire at all. that she escaped, ran off, married someone else, started a new life somewhere far away.

But when it was time for her to cross over, when death finally caught up, she got stuck here, trapped inside the walls of Hartwell, paying for whatever it was she did all those years ago. And depending on who you ask, what she did changes. One version of the story says she betrayed the old master, that she had a secret lover, someone she passed his blueprints to, those strange inventions he spent his life working on. When the master found out, it broke him, sent him spiraling into madness,

which ended with a fire that destroyed the mansion. Another version, paints her as something worse. They say she was into the occult. that while the master worked on his inventions, she was performing rituals in hidden rooms throughout the academy. Dark things. Things that blurred the line between life and death. It's why the mansion still feels the way it does, why it holds on to the past, why the academy is alive in a way it shouldn't be. No one knows which version is true. Maybe none of them are.

Maybe all of them are. It doesn't really matter. The rule stays the same. Never look at her face. If you ever see her, and God help you if you do. Keep your eyes down. Look at her feet.

That's the only way to stay safe. People say she was beautiful once. The kind of beauty that made people just stop and stare. made men trip over themselves just to be nearer. But the fire stripped that away, burned through her skin, took away what had made her so lovely on the outside, leaving only what had always been there beneath it.

Ugliness. Cruelty. Now, whatever's left of her. It's something twisted, something you don't want to see. I've heard stories. Students who snuck out after hours, thinking they could handle whatever Hardwell had to throw at them. They'd wander too far, get too close to places they shouldn't.

And then there she was. Sometimes she appears at the end of a hallway, standing still, waiting. Other times, she's right behind you. So close you can hear the soft sound of water, dripping onto the floor. Her feet are bare. Always wet. That's how you'll know it's her. The footprints. I've cleaned him up before. Damp marks leading down the hallways, even though there's no reason for there to be water there. Sometimes the water's tinged red, a dark smear in the middle of the prince, as if she's been walking through something thicker than water.

If you look at her feet, she might let you go. You'll feel her watching you, waiting for you to make the mistake of lifting your head. But if you keep your eyes down, if you keep staring at those wet footprints, she might pass you by. But if you look at her face... Well, the ones who have... They never come back the same. I've seen the aftermath. have. Burn marks on their arms, raw and angry, like they've been caught in a fire.

Their rooms filled with a stench of smoke, even though nothing had been lit. So remember the rule. If you see her at the end of the hall, standing there watching, don't stop. Don't look. Turn around, walk back to your room, and go to bed. whatever her ending was, it's best not to find out. There's an abandoned wing in the academy. One most people pretend doesn't exist. It's the old servants' quarters, where the school's original staff lived back a few centuries ago.

You'd think after all this time, the place would have crumbled into nothing. But it hasn't. It's still there, tucked behind a locked iron gate on the east side of the academy, sealed off like it's trying to be forgotten. But it isn't forgotten. Not really. The servant's wing is different from the rest of the academy.

The rooms there are simple. Bare wooden beds, rusted wash basins, cracked floors. No gas lamps, no decorations, just rows of small narrow rooms. Every door has a small square window cut in. into it, just big enough to peek through if you're stupid enough to try. You see, all the doors are red, bright, deep red, fresh-looking, like the paint is still wet, though no one's been down there for decades. They stretch down the hall in both directions, a long row of red doors that never seems to end. Sometimes, if you get too close, you'll hear the whole.

You'll hear them. Soft footsteps, moving back and forth behind the closed doors. Slow pacing. Like someone's been trapped in a small room for too long and can't sit still anymore. Other times they're singing. Low broken voices humming old songs no one remembers.

It drifts through the cracks in the wood, echoing faintly in the woods, echoing faintly in the woods. hallway. But there's never anyone there. No living person anyway. The spirits there are different from the others that roam Hartwell. The ones in the ballroom, the hallways, even the chapel. They move around. They haunt, sure, but they still get to walk the halls, to linger in the spaces they once knew. The servants, though, they don't get that. They're stuck in those times four-by-four rooms, trapped behind those red doors, pacing, singing, waiting. And they're angry.

Angry they're still here. Angry that no one helped them. Angry that while others get to move freely, they're still locked away, forgotten. That's why the rule is simple. Never go to the servant's wing. Don't walk down that hallway. Don't go near the red doors. And whatever you do, don't knock.

I know it's tempting. The academy has a way of making people curious, of pulling them toward the places they shouldn't go. You'll think just a quick look. I won't go inside. I just want to see. But that's how Hartwell works. It feeds on curiosity.

And if you knock, they'll knock back. It won't be loud, just a soft hollow tap from the other side. But then another, and another, closer each time. You'll hear the soft scrape of fingernails against the wood, feel the weight of something pressing against the door, desperate to get out. Some doors even have handprints on them, faint smudges in the red paint,

like someone on the inside has been pressing their palms flat against it, waiting for someone to open it. But don't. They're locked for a reason. All the spirits at Hartwell are paying some sort of price. They're trapped here, living out a sentence for whatever it is they did. And so they remain.

Pacing, singing, and waiting for someone foolish enough to set them free. And finally, there's the chapel. It sits behind the academy, half hidden by overgrown ivy, its stone walls cracked and worn by time. It's small, simple, nothing grand or ornate like the rest of the school, but it's been here as long as Hartwell itself,

maybe longer. Inside, the pews are dusty, The altars chipped, and the air feels still like no one sat there in years. The stained glass windows are too dirty to let in much light, but sometimes on certain nights they glow faintly from within. No one knows why. The chapel is one of the few places in Hartwell where the dead and the living almost meet. It's like a middle ground, a place where you can feel them nearby,

but they won't hurt you if you follow the rules. It's simple. If you enter and the candles are lit, leave a coin on the altar before you go. It doesn't matter what kind of coin. A penny, a dime, anything will do. It's a small gesture, a sign of respect. Most of the spirits here don't get much of that.

They're trapped here, some violent light. Others slowly over time, And they never left. They linger because they have nowhere else to go, bound to this place by things none of us fully understand. If you don't leave the coin, if you walk out without giving them something in return, that's when things go wrong.

That's when something will follow you. You'll wake up late one night and see muddy footprints in your bedroom, on the floor, on the walls, even on the ceiling. And whatever you do, don't look under your bed. If you're lucky, you'll get a not-so-bad spirit. If you're unlucky, you'll get something akin to a demon. And for a few nights or a few years, it will live directly under your bed.

Wherever you go, whatever you do, it will find you, and every night you'll hear something moving around right beneath you as you try to sleep. Sometimes they'll sound like a child, telling you they're trapped and asking you to reach out your hand under the bed and help pull them out. Don't. It won't be a child that grabs your hand. If you forget the coin, you won't be sleeping for a long, long time, so do yourself a favor, and remember to follow the rules.

Because Hartwell doesn't like selfishness. You're not the only one living here. You share the space with the living and the dead. And the dead remember how they're treated. So show them respect. pity them for how they ended up. Give them the compassion they never got when they were alive. Well, you've heard the stories, the rules.

Maybe you think they're just that stories. Warnings made up to scare new students. I've seen that look before, the one you're wearing right now. A little doubtful, you know, a little curious. That's normal. Curiosity's fine. It's what you do with it that matters. I'm not telling you all this to scare you. I'm telling you this because you need to know.

Hartwell Academy isn't like other schools. Never has been. This place is old, older than most people think. And with age comes weight. The kind that settles in the walls, seeps into the floors, fills the air, even if you can't see it. You'll feel it soon enough. rules exist for a reason. I didn't make them, but I follow them. So does everyone who's been here long enough to know better. Say good evening to the old master's portrait. It's not about being polite, it's about respect. You're in his house now, whether you like it or not. Stay in your room during the witching hours, no matter what you hear outside. If you ever see her, the one who walks the halls after the lights go out. Keep your eyes down. Don't look at her face. Avoid the red doors. Don't

knock. Don't even get close. And if you find yourself in the chapel and the candles are already lit, leave a coin on the altar. Think of it as rent. A small price to pay for sleeping safe. The hardest part. Hartwell wants you to forget these rules. It makes you feel safe, like the stories were just for fun. You'll start to believe it's all in your head. That's when it gets you, when you let your guard down. But if you listen, if you follow the rules, and you'll be fine. Most kids make it through the summer alive.

Most of them. Anyway, welcome to Hartwell Academy. I hope you have a great... summer.