Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I'm a Janitor in the Backrooms. There are 6 STRANGE Rules

Episode Date: April 30, 2026

Join Lighthouse Horror on Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | PatreonNew Merch out! https://hauntedstuff.com/Art & Credits: ninerioartsMusic by Lucas King, Myuu, Kevin MacLeod & Darren CurtisOriginal YouTube link: I’m a Janitor in the Backrooms. There are 6 STRANGE Rules. Copyright © 2025 Lighthouse Horror. All rights reservedThank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

I work in the back of a grocery store in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I'm not going to tell you which one. If you ever find the door yourself, you won't need directions. From the outside, it looks like any other place. Automatic doors, shelf stock too tight, freezers that hum louder than they should. You've probably been in one just like it. Everyone has, and that's kind of the point. The part I work on isn't on the floor.

It's behind it. the swinging double doors where employees go in and out all day without thinking about it. Stockroom area. Pallets stacked unevenly. Boxes labeled wrong. Cleaning supplies shoved into corners. The smell back there is always a mix of cardboard, cold air, and whatever leaked last. There's a hallway at the very back.

Most people don't see it. Even employees don't go down there unless they're told to. It's narrow. Concrete walls. One flickering light overhead. at the end of it, there's a metal door. No label, no handle on the outside, just a keypad mounted to the wall next to it.

And that's where I work. I didn't apply for this job at any normal way. There was no posting, no interview, no paperwork. I got a message through someone I used to work with, guy who handled cleanup contracts, for places that didn't want questions asked. He said there was a job that paid real well, said I'd be working indoors,

said I'd be alone most of the time. I asked what I'd be cleaning. He told me, you don't want to know, but you'll figure it out. The first thing that gave me wasn't a uniform or a badge. It was a list.

Industrial bleach. Not the stuff you buy in stores. Even stronger. Gloves. Thick enough that you don't feel what you're touching. Heavy-duty bags. Sealed at the top. A scraper?

A second scraper. smaller for corners. They were specific about that part. I remember asking why I needed two. They told me, you'll understand after your first shift. And they weren't wrong. The pay is 10,000 per job. Flat rate. Doesn't matter how long it takes, as long as you come back. That's the part they don't say out loud, but it's understood. You only get paid if you come back. They don't know. They don't track hours. They don't check in on you. You go in, you do the job, and you come out. If you don't come out, they replace you. That's the system. The door leads to what they call the back rooms. I don't know who named it. I don't know where it came from. All I know is that

it exists and it shouldn't. People fall into it sometimes. Not often, but enough there's a system in place to deal with it. Wrong step, wrong place, wrong moment. You're walking somewhere normal and suddenly you're not. Most of those people don't come back. Some of them do, but not in a way that helps anyone. And that's where I come in. I don't go down there to explore. I don't go down there to figure anything out. I go down there after something's already happened, after someone made a mistake. After something went wrong. I, um, I clean up what's left. Sometimes it's small.

A section of carpet that won't come clean no matter how much bleach you use. A trail that leads nowhere. Equipment dropped and never picked back up. You bag it up, you wipe it down, and you follow the arrows back out. Other times it's not small. They don't warn you ahead of time, they just say, bring extra. Extra bleach, extra bags, extra gloves. That's how you know.

I don't ask questions anymore. Early on I did try. I asked where the place came from, why the door was there, why it moved. That's another thing. They told me the location changes every six years. Same door, different place. Nobody knows why or how. Right now it's here.

Albuquerque, New Mexico. Back of a grocery store, nobody thinks about twice. Within six years, it won't be. I asked what happens when it moves. They told me, you won't be our problem anymore. That was the end of the conversation. Now, the first time I went through the door, I expected something dramatic. Noise, cold air, pressure.

Something to tell me I was stepping into a different place. There wasn't anything like that. You open the door, you step through, and you're just there. Walls as far as you can see. The space doesn't make sense. Hallways stretch too long. Turns don't line upright. You can walk in a straight line and end up somewhere you shouldn't be.

That's why the arrows matter. You don't question them. You don't try to understand them. You just follow them. Or you don't come back. My first job was simple. That's what they took. I told me at least.

Small cleanup. I didn't know what that meant yet. I brought what they told me to bring, bleach bags, gloves, tools. I found the spot they marked. I did the job. Took less than an hour. And when I came out, I understood why they gave me the list. I also understood why the pay was what it was.

I've been doing this long enough now that I don't think about quitting. Not because I like it, I don't. But once you understand how this place works, you start to realize something. Someone has to do it. Because the jobs don't stop. There's always another one waiting. Before my first real shift, they gave me six rules.

No explanation or discussion, just a list. And they told me to follow them exactly. Rule one. Always follow the yellow arrows. The arrows are the only thing there that don't change. Everything else does. You'll notice them right away in your first run. Bright yellow spray paint, usually at waist height, sometimes lower, sometimes higher,

depending on the wall. They point down hallways around corners, through open spaces that don't look like they should connect to anything. There's no pattern to where they show up, but once you see one, you follow it. That's the job. Nobody told me who put them there. Wasn't part of the briefing, and it wasn't on any of the paperwork I never signed. But you can tell they weren't done all at once.

Different strokes, thickness, some cleaner than others, different cans, different hands. It's been built up over a long time. Every janitor leaves a few behind. That's how the system works. Before my first real job, they walked me through it in the stock room, not inside the back rooms, just standing in front of the door with a keypad. Follow the arrows, the guy said. Only the yellow ones. What about faded ones? I asked.

Don't follow them. What about if they look close? They're not, he said. That was the whole conversation. The first time you're in there long enough, you start to understand why they're so specific about the color. The lighting down there, it's not stable. It buzzes, flickers, shifts just enough

that colors don't always look the same from one hallway to the next. Yellow can look like orange if the light drops. It can look pale if you're too far away. It can look like something else entirely if you're tired. That's how people make mistakes. The job I remember the most was my third week. Not the worst one I've had,

but the first one where I had to make a decision that actually mattered. They sent me in with a standard load. Bleach, two sets of gloves, four bags, scraper. Medium job, they said. That usually means there's more than one spot to deal with, but nothing spread out too far. I went in, picked up the first arrow, and started moving. The path was clean. Straight lines, clear turns, nothing complicated. That's usually a good sign. Means someone came through recently and updated the route. You can tell when a path's been used a lot. The carpet gets worn down along the edges. The walls have marked.

where people brushed past too many times. About 15 minutes in I came to a split. Two hallways, both narrow, both the same color, same lighting, same smell. That's normal. What wasn't normal was that there were arrows pointing down both. One was the usual bright yellow, fresh enough that you could still see where the paint dripped slightly at the bottom. The other one was close. Same shape, same direction, same size, just a little bit off. If you didn't know what you were looking for, you wouldn't catch it. But once you've been down there a few times, you start noticing the difference. The real ones, they're consistent. The color doesn't shift no matter where you stand.

The edges are rough in the same way. There's a kind of confidence to them. The other one didn't have that. It looked right, but it didn't feel right. I stood there for a long time, not because I didn't know what to do, but because I could see how easy it would be to get it wrong. Same direction, placement, close enough that if you were a little tired or a little rushed, were thinking about anything other than that arrow right in front of you, you'd take it without a second thought. I took a step toward it anyway, just one.

And the hallway didn't change right away. You don't cross some clear line where everything suddenly shifts, it's gradual. You walk a few steps, maybe 10 or 20, and things start to feel off in a way you can't point to directly. I turned around and walked back. You don't run unless you have to, and this wasn't one of those times. I stepped back into the intersection, stood there for a second, looking at both arrows again, and the difference was more obvious now.

The real one was solid, bright, didn't shift no matter how much the lights flickered overhead. The other one looked duller, like it was absorbing the light instead of reflecting it. Same shape and direction, but wrong. I went the right way. The job site wasn't far after that. Maybe another five minutes down the correct path. It was what I expected for a medium job. Not small, not spread out, enough that I used most of what I brought with me.

While I was working, I found something near the wall, a bucket. Same kind we have. Same brand, lid cracked open slightly. I walked over and nudged it with my boot before touching it. That's standard. You don't grab anything down there without checking it first, believe me. It didn't move. I crouched down and opened it the rest of the way.

There was dried residue inside, dark and hardened. uneven along the sides, like it'd been sitting there a long time. No tools or gloves or bags? Just the bucket? Someone had made it that far. They just didn't make it back. I closed it and left it where it was. You don't carry extra weight out unless you're told them.

That's another part of the job. You don't fix everything. You do what you're assigned and you leave the rest. On the way back, I passed the intersection again. Both arrows were still there. I didn't look at the wrong one this time, not even for a second. I stayed on the correct path and followed it all the way back to the door. When I got out, I told them about it.

Two arrows, I said. Same split. They didn't react much. Which one did you follow? The bright one, I said. He nodded. That was it? No explanation or follow-up. Just confirmation I may be.

right call. After that, I started noticing it more. Not a free run, but often enough. Arrows that were almost right. Paths that looked usable if you didn't pay close attention. It's not random. It's consistent in the way it shows up. Like something down there is trying to copy the system. Close enough to trick you. Not close enough to save you. Now I don't hesitate. If the color isn't exact, I should. don't touch it. I don't step toward it. I don't test it. I don't try to see where it goes. There's no upside to checking. There's only one outcome if you're wrong. You will never come back. Rule two. Never stay longer than 120 minutes. They give you a timer before every shift. Not optional or a suggestion. You check it before you go in. You start at the second you cross the door and you don't argue with it

once it's running. Two hours. 120 minutes. That's the limit. Nobody explains why. The first few runs, you won't feel anything different. You go in, follow the arrows, do the job, come back out. Forty minutes, maybe an hour.

Plenty of time left on the clock. Feels manageable. And that's how I get you comfortable. The deeper jobs are where it changes. The ones where they tell you ahead of time to bring extra supplies, extra bleach and bags, thicker gloves. That usually means you're going further in, following longer rounds, spending more time in areas that haven't been touched in a long time.

That's when the timer starts to matter. The run where I learned the limit wasn't anything special on paper. Standard assignment, deeper than usual but not flagged as high risk. I brought what they told me to bring and went in like any other shift. The route was longer than most. more turns, fewer straight lines. The arrows were still clear, but they weren't as fresh. Some of them had been painted over older marks.

You could see layers underneath if you looked close enough. That usually means the path's been adjusted more than once. I kept moving. By the time I reached the site, I was already over an hour in. I checked the timer before I started. 58 minutes left. Enough time if I didn't waste it. The job itself.

was spread out. Not one spot, but a series of smaller areas along the same section of hallway. That's worse than a single location. You have to move between them, keep track of what you've already handled, make sure you're not doubling back without realizing it. Well, I work through it steady, no rushing or shortcuts. You don't get sloppy down there, no matter how much time you think you have. That's how you turn a medium job into something else. When I finished, I changed. check the timer again. Twelve minutes left.

And that's where most people make the mistake. They see time on the clock and they think it means they have room to move. Room to adjust. Maybe take a quicker path back. Maybe check something they passed on the way in. I didn't do any of that. I turned and I followed the arrows back exactly the way I came. The first few minutes were normal.

Same hull, same turns, same hum from the lights overhead. And then something started to feel off. Not obvious. Nothing I could point to right away. Just wrong. I reached a corner I clearly remembered, a left turn marked by a double arrow, one above the other. I took it. Walked about 20 steps and stopped.

The whole way in front of me looked familiar. Too familiar. I turned around and looked back. Same corner, same double arrow, same angle on the wall. It shouldn't have been there behind me, not like that. I checked the timer. Seven minutes left. I didn't panic.

Not yet. Panic makes you move faster than you should, and speed doesn't help if you're going the wrong way. I stepped back to the corner, and I looked at the arrows again. They were right. Same color and placement, no difference I could see. I picked one and followed it. Another hallway, another turn.

turn, another stretch that felt like I'd already walked it. The place wasn't changing in front of Maine. It was changing around Maine. Subtle shifts, corners repeating, distances stretching just enough that things didn't line up the way they should. I checked the timer again. Four minutes. And that's when I heard something. It wasn't right behind me.

It was off to the side, somewhere parallel to where I was walking. A steady sound. like something moving at the same pace I was. I didn't look for it. That's another part of a job. You don't go looking for what you hear unless you absolutely have to. And most of the time you don't. I kept moving.

The arrows were still there. Still bright, still consistent. That's the only thing that didn't change. I locked onto them and stopped paying attention to everything else around me. The hallway opened up ahead. into a wider section. I recognized it immediately. Not because of the shape, but because of the floor. I'd been there earlier. I knew it because I'd cleaned it. There was a section of carpet I'd worked on at the start of the job. It had taken longer than it should have. I remember

thinking it didn't come clean the way it was supposed to, not completely. Now I was looking at it again. I checked the timer. Two minutes. The sound off of the side was still. there, closer now. I followed the arrows. One more turn, straight line, another arrow ahead, brighter than the rest. That's something you learn to recognize. The ones closest to the exit are usually the clearest, repainted more often, maintained better. I moved toward it, and the hallway stretched longer than it should have. But the arrows stayed in place. Didn't shift or move, and that's how you know you're on the right path. The sound behind me was getting closer.

I reached the last turn, and I saw the door. Same as always. Metal? No handle on this side? Just the outline against the wall where it doesn't quite fit right. I checked the timer one last time. Thirty seconds. I crossed through when I shut the door behind me, and the sound stopped immediately.

I stood there in the stock room for a moment without moving. When I finally looked back at the door, it was exactly the way it always is. Closed, sealed, nothing coming through. Too close, kid, way too close. That's why we give you the timer, a man said. That was it. Well, after that, I always gave myself 15 minutes breathing room for every job. If you screw up and you stay even one second too long, you do not get extra time ever.

After two hours, the place stops letting you leave. Rule 3. If you enter a room full of mascots, go to a corner and stay completely still. They don't warn you about which rooms you're going to get. There's no map, no list of locations to avoid, no briefing that tells you what kind of space you're walking into. You follow the arrows, you reach the job site, and whatever's there is what you deal with. Some rooms look like everything else. Same walls and carpet and lighting. Others don't. The mascot room is one of the ones that doesn't. The first time I saw it, I wasn't alone. They don't usually

send two people down unless they expect a larger job, something spread out, or heavier than normal. And that's how I met Brian Keller. He'd been working long. than I had. Not by much, but enough that he moved like he knew what he was doing. We didn't talk much. Nobody really does down there. You keep it simple, stick to the path, get to the site, do the job and leave. Before we went in, they told us to bring extra. Bleach, bags, second set of tools. That usually means the job isn't contained to one spot. It is something much bigger. More to deal with. We went through the door and followed the arrows like usual. The path started normal. Straight halls, clean markings, nothing off. After about 20 minutes, the space started to open up. Wider walls, higher ceiling. That happens sometimes. Not often, but enough that you don't question it right away. Then we hit the entrance. It wasn't a door, just an opening in the wall, wider than the hallway, leading into a room that didn't match anything else down there. The carpet inside looked cleaner.

Not new, but not worn down. The lighting was brighter, too. Not flickering or buzzing as much, just steady. There were shapes inside. First, it looked like displays. Big figures, standing in place. Spaced out across the room. Bright colors, familiar outlines.

Brian stepped in first. I followed him two steps in before I saw them clearly. Mascots. Not constantly. costumes or props, full figures, eight, maybe ten feet tall. Oversized versions of things you recognize immediately, even if you haven't seen them in years. Mickey, Donald, Goofy. Others behind them, harder to make out at first. They were standing in different positions around the room. Some facing forward, some turned slightly to the side, all of them still. The proportions

were wrong, limbs too long, heads slightly too large, even for what they were supposed to be. The faces were stretched. Once you saw it, you couldn't unsee it. But the eyes were the worst part. They weren't black or empty. They were glowing. A low, steady red, like something behind them was pushing light through them from the inside. Brian stopped moving. And that's when I remembered the rule. If you enter a room full of mascots, go to a corner and stay completely still. I didn't hesitate. I backed up slowly until the shoulder hit the wall, and then I moved sideways until I reach the nearest corner.

I set my bag down without taking my eyes off the room, and I stood there, perfectly still. Brian didn't move right away. He was still looking at him, trying to figure it out. And that's a common mistake. Trying to understand what you're looking at instead of just following rule. Brian, I said. Move, man. But he didn't listen.

And one of the mascots shifted. It was small at first, a change in posture, like weight moving from one foot to the other. And then another one did it. And another? They weren't completely still anymore. Brian took a step back, and that was enough. One of them moved. It didn't cross the room the way a person would.

It didn't run. Didn't take steps you could track. It was just there, and then it wasn't. And then it was closer. Brian turned to run, and he didn't make it three steps. Something grabbed him from the side. A hand too large to be human, fingers wrapping around his upper body. like it didn't need to try hard.

It lifted him off the ground without slowing down. He didn't scream right away. That came a second later. And the sound cut off fast. You know, everything in you tells you to react. To turn, to step back, to do something. But the rule isn't complicated. Doesn't give you options.

You just go to a corner and you stay perfectly still. So I kept my eyes forward. not locking on to anything for too long. You don't stare directly either. You track movement without focusing on it. That's something you learn without being told. The room changed. They were all moving now.

Not fast, not like the first one. Slow, steady, repositioning. Crossing the space and wide arcs, passing through areas where Brian had been standing seconds before. One of them drag something across the carpet for a short distance, then let go. The mascots moved around the room. Circling, adjusting, stopping, starting again. A few passed close to where I was standing,

close enough that I could see details I hadn't noticed at the entrance. The stitching along the edges of their faces. The way the mouths were shaped behind the outer layer. Teeth where there shouldn't be any. But I didn't react. I didn't even shift my weight. Time stretches in places like that. It could have been a minute.

Could have been ten? You don't track it the same way you do outside. You just wait? Eventually the movement slowed. One by one they returned to positions that look like the ones they started in. Not exactly the same, but close enough that if you hadn't been watching, you'd think nothing had changed. The room went still again. I waited longer.

You always wait longer than you think you need to. When I finally moved, I did it the same way I got there. Slow and controlled, no sudden motion. I picked up my bag and I backed toward the entrance very slowly. The arrows were still visible from where I stood. And that's the only thing I needed. I stepped out, found the path, and kept moving. I didn't go back for Brian.

There wasn't much to go back to. Two days later, they sent me back in. Same round and room. Finish it, they said. I brought extra. When I reached the room again, it was empty this time. Except for what was left, Brian. I did what I did what I was.

What I was there to do and I left the same way I came in. Then I haven't seen that room again since. That doesn't mean it's gone. Just means it's somewhere else now. The rule isn't complicated. You don't run. You don't test it. You don't try to be faster than something that doesn't move the way you do.

You find a corner, you stay still, and you don't move. Brian. Well, he moved. And he is very dead now. Rule 4. If the lights turn red, leave immediately. The lights are the one thing you learn to tune out. They're always there.

After a few runs, they become background noise. It doesn't happen often. Most shifts the lights stay the same from the moment you walk in to the moment you come back out, hopefully. But when they change, they don't do it slowly. You don't get a warning. The run where I learned that was standard cleanup, not deep or shallow, middle distance. They didn't tell me to bring extra, so I didn't.

Just the usual gear, bleach, bags, gloves, and tools. The path then was clean, arrows fresh enough that I didn't have to double check them. The kind of job you expect to finish and under an hour and forget about. The site was a single stretch of hallway, long, straight, nothing branching off it. rare. Most areas down there they twist or they split, but this one ran in one direction with no interruptions. You could see the end of it if you stood in the right spot. The floor wasn't clean. Not in a way I hadn't seen before, just heavier than usual. Spread out instead of contained. That's worse. It means more time in one place, more passes with the same tools, more chances

to lose track of where you are. I set my bag down and started working. I was about halfway through when the lights flickered. That's not unusual. Happened sometimes. A quick drop, then they stabilize. I didn't look up right away. I just kept working.

And then they flickered again longer this time. I stopped, looked up, and the lights weren't white anymore. They were red. Every fixture along the hallway had shifted at the same time. Same color and intensity. No flicker now. Just steady red light stretching the length of the corridor. Everything looked different under it. The walls weren't yellow anymore. They were dark or uneven. Like the color wasn't holding properly. The floor looked wrong, not just the parts I was working on, but everything.

And that's when I dropped what I was doing. You don't finish the job. You don't pack up neatly. You just leave. I grabbed my bag, left the rest where it was, and I moved to the nearest arrow. The path back was the same one I came in on. That's what it looked like. But under that light, it didn't feel the same. The hallway seemed longer, the arrows further apart. The corner's sharper than they should have been. You don't stop the check or verify you just move.

Fast enough to get out, not fast enough to lose your footing. I follow the arrows through the first. first turn, then the second. I heard something behind me. I didn't turn around. You don't turn around unless you have to. That's another thing you learn. Most of the time, looking doesn't help. It just confirmed something you already know you didn't want to see. I kept moving. Another turn, another stretch. The arrows were still there, still the same color, still the only thing that didn't change. I followed the arrows. I stepped into the final stretch, then the door was there, same as always.

I crossed through it and shut it behind me. And nothing followed. Everything stopped the second the door sealed. I stood there for a second, breathing, listening to the normal noises on the other side. When I checked my bag, I realized I'd left half the job unfinished. I didn't get paid. The next day they sent someone else into finish. And they didn't come back.

Rule 5. If you walk into a grocery store room, hide in the cereal aisle and stay low until it passes. You don't expect it when it happens. Most of the back rooms look the same. And then sometimes they don't. The first time I saw the grocery store room, I thought I'd come out somewhere I wasn't supposed to be. Shelds.

Real shelves. stocked, boxes, cans, packaging that looked normal at a glance. Bright colors, brand names you'd recognize. It looked cleaner than anything else down there. Organized. Isles running straight, parallel, space style like an actual store. There were arrows leading in. That's the only reason I stepped inside. The rule wasn't explained. It never is. Just a line on the list. If you walk into a grocery store rum, hide in the cereal aisle, and stay low until it passes. I didn't question it. I moved straight for the nearest aisle marked with cereal boxes. The shelves were fully stocked. Cheerios. Stacks of them. Row after row, all facing forward, like they'd been just set up.

Not dusty, not damaged. Just perfectly there. I dropped down low and I moved a few boxes out of the way, just enough to create space behind him. And then I crouched, keeping my head below the shelf line, and I held still. I didn't peek too high, didn't stand. I just stayed low and waited. At first there was nothing. And then I heard footsteps, fast. Not controlled like a person walking.

They were uneven, heavy, moving fast through the aisles without slowing down. The sound of something brushing against shelves as it passed. I didn't move. The steps got closer, closer than I expected. And then I saw it. Through the gap between the boxes, legs, baggy white pants, kind of like a clown, hanging loose around the legs, moving too fast for the fabric to settle properly.

There was something on them, dark, uneven, that stood out against the white. And then it stopped, right in front of me. I could see it clearly from the knees down. It didn't move, it just stood there. I stayed low. It was listening. It was waiting for something.

I kept my eyes fixed on the same spot, not tracking it or trying to see more than was already there. But it stayed longer than anything else I've dealt with. I didn't move. After a while, the steps started again, fast, same direction it came from, same speed, gone just as quickly. I stayed where I was, counted in my head, gave it more time than I thought I needed, than more. When I finally moved the Cheerios boxes, I did it slow, pushed the boxes back into place, stood up just enough to see over the shelf and check the I'll. Empty. The room looked exactly the way it did when I walked in. I didn't stay. I found the

arrows and I left immediately, and I haven't seen that room again. But I remember exactly where the serial aisle was, and I remember how long it stood there without moving. Rule 6. Everything in the back rooms is trying to kill you. The first five rules give you something to do. Follow, watch, Sleeve, stay still. This one doesn't. It just removes the last bad assumption people bring in with them. Which is that something down there might not be all bad if you understand it well enough. Yeah, that's not how it works.

There are no neutral spaces, no harmless rooms, no entities that can be ignored if you just keep your distance. If it exists down there, it has a function. And that function is to kill you. You start to see it in the work. Not at any one job, but in how the place behaves over time. Areas that were clean don't stay that way. Paths that were stable shift just enough to catch you if you rely on memory instead of arrows.

Equipment left behind gets moved, not randomly, but in ways that put it in front of you again when it shouldn't be. Even the rooms that look like they're doing nothing. Rooms that are empty, hallways that are quiet, still require you to, follow the rules exactly. Because the moment you treat them like you're safe is the moment you stop paying attention. The job exists because people keep going in and not coming back. That never slows down. Doesn't taper off. There isn't a version of this where the place gets figured out and the work stops. I'm always going to have a job. There's always another call, always another section that needs to be handled, always something new that shows up where it wasn't

before. You can clean what's there in front of you, but you're not fixing anything. You're just resetting a small part of it long enough for the other person to make it a little further before they don't. So you follow the rules. Not because they make you safe, exactly, you're not safe down there, but because they keep you from making the obvious mistakes. You don't test anything, you don't improvise and you don't assume that something is harmless just because it hasn't done anything yet. Down there, that's the difference before finishing a shift and becoming the next one someone else has to clean up. If you think something isn't dangerous, well, that's when you die. And that's it, I guess. I mean, you'll probably never need any of this. As far as I know, there's only one active entrance

in the U.S. at a time. Moves every six years. don't know how and we don't know why, but it does. Right now it's here in Albuquerque, New Mexico. In the back of a grocery store, you've probably walked past without noticing if you live here. In a few years, it won't be here. So yeah, you'll hear about the backrooms eventually. Online, stories, videos, people treating it like a joke or some kind of urban legend. That's fine, you know. Believe whatever you want. Most people do. But as far as I know, I am the only janitor on staff that has a long-term survival rate. Meaning, I'm the only one that's not dead yet.

So you might want to listen to me. If you do ever come across it. Whether it's here or somewhere else when it moves again, don't overthink it. Won't look special. Won't feel important. It'll just be a door where there shouldn't be a door. And a place that seems normal. a stock room, a mechanic shop, maybe an airport, maybe somewhere even smaller like a closet.

If that happens, don't try to understand it. Just follow the rules like I've laid them out. And maybe you won't die.