Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I'm a MONSTER Hunter. These are My Stories

Episode Date: August 10, 2025

Story written by 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'm a MONSTER Hunter. 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's Abel. I'm a vampire hunter. It's not a job you apply for. No diploma, no orientation videos. It's something you're either born into, where you die figuring out. Me, I was born into it. Born and raised in rural Kansas. Not near any city people think of when they picture the state. Just fields and fence post. Dirt roads.

A few houses spread out like dots on an old map. one diner, two churches, three families that stayed put for four generations. Ours was one of them. My folks were honest about why they had me. It wasn't love or planning or a miracle. They had me because the line needed to keep going. The way other families hand down farmland or debt, mine handed down sharpened stakes and books with handwritten notes in the margins. They told me when I was five that I had.

I was the next in line. I didn't go to college, never even filled down an application. My school counselor tried to talk to me once about scholarships and careers. She had this brochure in her hand, something with a smiling kid holding a laptop on a campus lawn. I told her it wasn't going to happen. She thought I meant we couldn't afford it. I didn't bother correcting her.

Let her think it was about the money. The truth would have made her very uncomfortable, and I'd have made her very uncomfortable, and I've never been the type to talk more than I have to. I wasn't raised like other kids. I didn't have baseball practice or summer camps. I had morning drills with dad. Every Saturday at dawn, rain or shine. He'd wake me up, hand me a wooden dowel the size of a sword handle, and we'd practice.

Not flashy, movie-style stuff, just stance, grip, movement. He taught me how to move my. feet so I wouldn't trip in gravel, taught me how to read signs in dirt, taught me how to tell when a smile is too wide, or when someone's voice is a little too smooth. That's one of the first things you learn. Vampires don't all act the same. They don't all wear black or slink around like they've got something to hide. They adapt.

They learn fast. Down south, they sing a lot. got these syrupy voices, like honey poured over warm cornbread. Sweet and slow. Folks let their guard down really easy down there. In Boston, they're a little different. Rude, even. Talk fast, move faster. Can't waste time when the city doesn't sleep. In Asia, they're more connected, networked, less individual predators, and more like cells in a bigger thing. That part scares me more than anything. Cities, that's where the worst ones hide.

They've been there longer. They've learned how to blend some run companies. Others work late night shifts. The longer they're around people, the more natural they seem. You might be wondering if I resented it. The training, the pressure, the strange lifestyle. I didn't. I still don't.

I never had that weird teenage crisis of who am I or what do I want to be. I knew. I always knew. When my friends were flipping through career books, I was memorizing bloodlines. When they went to prom, I was practicing how to disable someone without killing them. I didn't envy them. I didn't even think they were wrong. Just different.

It's not a glamorous life. No awards, no recognition. Nobody throws you a parade when you stop something very bad from spreading. You just pack up and drive to the next place. But there's something clean about it, something honest. When I hunt, I know exactly who I am. There's no guesswork, no pretending. I don't lie to myself about the world being fair,

or are people always being good way deep down? I see things as they are. My mom taught me that part. She wasn't a hunter like my dad. She was the researcher. She tracked patterns, kept logs, wrote down everything they learned. What worked? What didn't?

What changed from place to place. She'd sit at the kitchen table late into the night, pouring over old cases. Her handwriting sharp and neat. Like every letter mattered, she'd say things like, They get smarter every year. Or, you have to listen more than you talk. Dad handled the fighting. Mom handled the thinking.

And I learned both. Some people think hunting's all about strength. It's not. It's about patience. About listening. About knowing when not to act. Sometimes you wait three weeks in a town without doing a damn thing. Just watching, listening, following a trail that might not lead anywhere.

But if you're lucky and quiet and careful, you'll find something. And if you're not careful, it'll find you first. I've been at it on my own for, well, seven years now, since I was a teen. Dad passed away before I finished my training, but he left enough behind for me to keep going. Notes, letters, tips on places to avoid. People to trust. There's a woman in Ohio who makes custom weapons. A trucker who runs supplies across state lines.

No questions asked. A preacher in Louisiana who can tell when someone's not quite human. These aren't friends, their contacts. That's another thing you learn. You don't get too close to anyone. Sooner or later, you'll have to leave or bury them. I'm writing this down now because, well, someone has to. Mom kept records.

She said memory fades, but ink lasts. It's my turn now. Every little thing matters. Patterns, words, faces. Someday, someone else will need this, like I did. So I write it all down. My name is Abel. I'm a vampire hunter. And these are my stories. I was 18, the first time I killed the vampire. That age where you don't feel like a kid anymore, but you still think like one.

You're out of school, no longer told where to go or when to wake up, and yet you haven't really lived anything. There's a strange confidence that comes with that in between. You believe you're ready for the world, mostly because you don't know what the world is capable of. My father used to say that 18 was a dangerous age. You have energy and instinct, but your judgment hasn't caught up yet. He called it the edge and said everyone has to fall off at once. For me, it happened in rural Kansas, inside a church basement that had gone sour without anyone noticing.

I was staying in town to help one of the same. my dad's old friends fix a roof and look into some local rumors. Nothing official. Just quiet work watching from a distance. But trouble never follows your calendar. It shows up when it wants to. After service one Sunday morning at St. Luke's, the local priest pulled me aside near the gravel parking lot. His shirt collar was loose and his hands shook when he spoke. He didn't ask questions or explain himself, just passed me a folded piece of paper and told me to read it later. Alone. I waited until I was a few blocks away before I opened it.

The handwriting was messy. It read, I believe something is hiding in the basement. Please come after dark, and do not bring anything that looks like a weapon. That last part told me the priest had a gut feeling about what he was. was dealing with. He didn't know the rules, not in full, but he understood enough to keep quiet and not make a scene. I returned to the church the next evening, just after sundown. The main doors were locked, but the priest met me at the side entrance near the rectory garden. He didn't

say much. We walked through the narrow back hallway, past classrooms and storage closets, and eventually came to the stairs behind the altar that led to the basement. Then he laughed, telling me he couldn't bear to find out what devil had been haunting the basement. He offered a prayer, and back up he went. As soon as I stepped down the first few steps, I could feel the shift in the air. The wood underfoot creaked more than it should have, and the temperature dropped with each level. I stopped in a narrow door marked storage. I opened it with a brass key the priest had given me.

and stopped. There were empty blood bags, medical grade, scattered nearby, torn apart with sharp teeth and carelessness. The light overhead was dim and flickering, but I could make out a figure crouched in the corner, partially hidden by an old wire rack. He was humming. Not a melody I recognized, just a soft, slow sound, like he was keeping rhythm with his breath. As I stepped closer, I saw him more clearly. A man in a tailored vest with his sleeves

rolled to the elbow, kneeling over a half-torn blood bag. He didn't see me. That's something they do. When they feed, they lose their awareness. It's a moment of weakness, kind of like being drunk. They forget their predators, forget the world outside is their prey. My father taught me that if you ever catch one in that state, you don't hesitate, and you don't wait for it to turn and recognize you. You act? I stepped forward fast and drove the sharpened chair leg I'd been carrying into the upper back, aiming low between the shoulder blades.

The man jerked violently. His body collapsed onto the floor in a heavy sprawl. I pulled the stake out and struck again. this time straight through the middle. He twitched once, then stopped moving. The vampire didn't look special in death. No claws, no monstrous transformation. Just a man in clean clothes with a little blood on his collar,

until his body began to break down. Within seconds, the skin cracked, the muscle caved in, and he disintegrated into a pile of fine abs. The smell hit me next, sharp and bitter, like coffee grounds soaked in cheap alcohol. It stung the nose, clean and unnatural. I left the room and locked the door behind me. The priest was waiting upstairs, pacing in the hallway. When he saw my face, he stopped.

It's done. You don't have to worry about him anymore, I said. He opened his mouth like he wanted to ask a question, but nothing came out. And I gave him a warning before I left. Don't open your doors to strangers anymore. If someone stops outside and asks to come in, even if they sound friendly, even if they look like they belong, do not let them pass the threshold. If they were human, they wouldn't have to ask, I said.

My father came into town the following day. I didn't go into detail. He could read the aftermath without being told. It wasn't a hard case to solve. Just a simple stray vampire with no backup and no real plan, the kind that slips into a place unnoticed and feeds quietly until someone gets wise. It was more like taking out a nest of bugs than anything else. No mess.

no moral knots to untangle. We spent the day reinforcing the church, replacing logs, spreading salt in the corners and fixing the window frames. When it was done, he dusted off his hands and looked at me. Then he gave me a single pat on the back. And that was the moment I knew that I wasn't on the edge anymore. I'd gone over. There wasn't any going back to before,

Not mentally, not spiritually, not in any way that counted. I'd cross the line. The next one happened when I was up north in Chicago. I was there on business, but I'll admit something. I like the city. The lights made everything glow like it was on fire, and the building stretched so tall. They looked like they were leaning over you. I love the buzz of it.

The mess, the noise, the... The way everyone always seemed just a little pissed off, but never surprised. The people don't hide who they are, and that went a long way with me. They'd curse you out, cut in front of you in line, and maybe even shoulder you without an apology. But they meant what they said. You didn't have to waste time figuring them out. And the food?

The best I ever had came out of a kitchen that could barely fit the chef himself. I ate standing up in an alley behind the place, because the shone. shop had no seating. Didn't matter. The bread was still warm, and the meat had this spice that stayed on your tongue like it was making a case for itself. Even now, I remember the taste better than most of the faces. But I wasn't there for a vacation. I'd been tracking a vampire that had slipped out from Oak Brook. Mid-level parasite, smart enough to relocate before people caught on. I followed its trail to a nightclub on the west side, the kind that did bother with signage or security. You only got in if someone thought you were cool enough or dangerous

enough. I wasn't either, but I knew how to look like I belonged. The place was packed, people sweating under pulsing lights, music thudding loud enough to blur your thoughts. I was on the second level walkway, keeping eyes on the far corner where my mark had disappeared half an hour earlier. He was the type that moved slow in crowds, like it was walking through fog. Real vampires do that sometimes. They never rush anymore. Not like us humans living on borrowed time. And then, just as the bass dropped into another song, I heard a gunshot from the alley outside. It cracked against the back wall like a whip, sharp and unmistakable. Some people turned. Most didn't. I didn't wait.

I slipped out the back entrance. In the alley, I saw two figures. One of them was already running, fast and crooked, stumbling down the narrow lane toward the street. The other was standing still, silver gun raised, smoke still curling from the barrel. I moved in quickly and looked down at the pavement near the doorway. The blood on the ground wasn't pooling.

It was sizzling, word. it hit the concrete. And that was all I needed to see. Only one kind of blood does that. You shot a vampire, I said. The kid turned to me, probably around 17 or 18, wearing a jacket with too many pockets and a patch on the sleeve I didn't recognize. His hands were slightly shaking, not from fear it looked like, but from adrenaline. He was riding the high of it. Damn right I did. I clipped him, I think, he said. I stepped closer.

Yeah, you don't shoot in a crowd. You don't fire in a nightclub alley where they're still feeding, and you have no clue how many are inside. You shoot, it runs, and now it's hungry and pissed off with no leash, I said. He raised an eyebrow like I just insulted his mother. You a hunter? Vampire hunter, yeah, you? I replied. He gave a half smile, then pointed to the patch on his sleeve. Institute. Monster Division.

Names Milo. And that was when it all made sense. Vampire hunters and monster hunters, we don't mix well. We're cousins, not brothers. Same family tree, but on branches that don't speak unless they have to. I was homeschooled, in a way, trained by my father, who was trained by his father, tested by small-town cases and long drives. These institute cans, they go to training camps and sleep in bunkhouses, write field reports, and do test on werewolves and glass cages. I mean, come on.

I've never liked the way they walk into a place with their heads already full of theory. Dad said they'd increased their efforts in recruitment the last seven years. In my opinion, that just meant the newer ones were more full of shit. Milo looked at me and shrugged. Whatever, man, it's handled. No, dude, it's not. It got away, I began. That's not handled.

You left a live one with no plan, no tail, no scent trail, and a wound to run. and a wound to remind it who burned it, I said. He made some smart-ass comment I don't remember word for word, something about how I sounded like a dad who used to walk uphill both ways. I didn't respond. There wasn't any point. I spent the next four days tracking the one he'd let slip. I followed a missing person's report that matched the profile.

The vampire had holed up in a shuttered apartment complex near the edge of Little Village, a place scheduled for demolition that never quite got there. No one checked it anymore. The door was chained shut from the outside, but the inside told me everything I needed to know. The smell of decay was thick. There were drag marks on the floor, dry blood trails leading down into the basement. I marked the door frames, set the garlic smoke canister near the stairwell, and laid sage at each window. When the time came, I lit the fuse and waited.

The smoke went down first, thick and sharp, designed to disorient and sting. I followed right after, stake in hand, ears tuned to movement. He came out of the dark fast, but not fast enough. His face was half burned from the herbs, eyes watering, body uncoordinated. The stake hit home on the second try. He made a gurgling sound and collapsed without ceremony. I stayed for a long while after that, just to make sure no one else was hiding. I never saw Milo again in Chicago.

He probably got sent to some other city, or back to whatever institute dorm they were keeping him in. Now most of my tips come from people, regular ones. A bartender who noticed a regular stopped drinking. A janitor who found weird stains in a school basement. A pawn shop owner who swore a guy pawned a Rolex soaked in something that wasn't water. But when I'm in a city, I have one guy I go to first. Zazzo.

He's a goblin. Lives in the sewer systems under the city. Says he likes the smell. And I don't question it. Zazzo's not exactly. friendly, but he's reliable. You give him what he wants, and he tells you everything. He doesn't take cash, and he doesn't care about favors. He only wants two things, fresh apple beer, and full-size Snickers bars. Has to be both. One without the other, and he'll throw it back at you. He's done it to me

a couple times. This time, I brought two six packs on a plastic bag with six bars, still cold from the cooler. He sniffed him both before he even looked me in the eye. You finally bring me the real kind, or did you get that light crap again? He said. Yeah, it's regular apple beer, and six whole snickers full size. You counted last time, I said. Zazzo let out a wheezing sound that might have been a laugh. He took the bag and popped one of the beers open using his sharp little teeth. He drank half of it in one go, foam sticking to his chin like shaving cream. All right, all right. You brought what I like. What do you want? He asked. I told them about a small suburban neighborhood on the edge of the city. Quiet place. Nothing

remarkable. But lately, the police blotter had started filling up with low-level crimes. break-ins, missing pants, theft, minor arson. More troubling was the spike in homeless disappearances. People thought it was a coincidence or maybe a serial killer. I knew better. When the most vulnerable start disappearing first, it usually means something is feeding. Zazzo nodded slowly as I spoke, his eyes narrowing with each word. Yeah, you're right.

Something's in the water. Word is, a coven's been growing fast. Got too big for their old holes. So they've been spreading out. City to city. Tasting what's new. Trying to get smarter. He said.

He licked chocolate off his fingers before continuing. Mmm. Well, they're not all together. The coven. It's like a big tree. You've got the root, but a hundred branches. You're looking at one of those small branches, a side group. Greedy little freaks.

Didn't wait for orders. Just marched in and started feeding. Where? I asked. He grinned. He abandoned laundromat. He sighed. It's a frant. No one washes clothes there, not even the rats.

It's the entrance to their nest. And your problem is only going to get worse. They're sloppy. They're high. And they think no one's watching. I nodded and stood up. He watched me gather my things. You know, other hunters come to the city,

but none of them respect the value of the informant. They think they can all do it themselves. Kick doors, swing swords, shoot monsters in the middle of the street, bunch of amateurs, he said. I handed him in other Snickers. Well, that's why I come to you first. He tucked the candy into a pouch on his hip and looked proud, like a king getting tribute. He didn't say goodbye.

He never does. I spent the next three days planning. the bust. These things can't be rushed. Monsters in groups are more dangerous than alone. They get confident. They start organizing. If you take them head on without prep, someone dies, and I've buried too many someone's already. I scouted the building first. It looked dead from the outside. Half the windows boarded. Signage faded to the point of invisibility. The door was changed shut, but I could see movement inside at night. Not much, just enough to confirm they weren't keeping normal hours.

I called in a few people I trusted. One of them was a gear tech who specialized in detection equipment. Old Institute dropout who preferred freelancing. Another was a field medic who'd patched me up more than once. I reached out to an Institute hunter for backup. I try to avoid working with them unless I have to, but a good hunter is a good hunter, even if he files reports after. We met twice before the operation.

We had garlic canisters, UV flash units, steaks, blades, and enough salt to make the whole place unfriendly for anything with fangs. I went over every escape route, every possible complication, and what to do if the place turned out to be deeper than expected. When the day came, it was God's good Sunday. Morning fell clean, bright sun. Families out walking. A perfect day to pretend nothing was wrong.

We rolled out quiet. Three vehicles spaced out over six blocks. The laundromat was in a pocket of old buildings and empty storefronts. The kind of spot people pass without noticing. As we approached, I felt that shift again. That sense that something lived behind the walls that didn't belong to our world. I felt it before. Never gets easier.

I stood across the street for a moment, looking at the chipped paint and rusted siding. The windows were dark. No sound came from inside. No movement either. But I knew better. I could feel it in my teeth. The whole place was tense. You ready?

The institute guy asked. Tightening his vest straps. I didn't answer. right away. I was looking at the cracked sign above the door, spin-city laundry and faded red letters. Probably hadn't run a washer in ten years. I adjusted the strap on my pack, check the stake at my side, and gave a single nod. We surrounded the place just afternoon. Streets were mostly empty. The kind of quiet that makes you second-guess how loud your boots are. There were five of us.

I took point on the front door with the Institute guy watching my six. Two others circled around back to seal off the alley. The last stayed posted on the side in case anything tried to slip out through the basement windows. We laid garlic along the back wall and window cells. It burns their lungs and eyes, but that's not always enough. Silver is better. Some say real silver is God's medal. That no matter what kind of monster you're dealing with, it burns them the same.

Vampire, ghoul, siren, even the nice ones that just want to be left alone, doesn't matter. Silver makes them bleed and scream. It's like we were given one thing, just one, to defend ourselves with. Something they can't undo or outgrow. Their speed, their teeth, their unnatural power doesn't mean much when silver touches them. I loaded my gun with silver rounds and gave the signal. A sharp wave of my hand down and a short nod. Then we moved.

The front door led straight into the laundromat, cracked tile floor, three dead machines, a broken vending unit, and fluorescent lights that blinked. We cleared the front quickly. Nothing there but mildew and bad wiring. The real action was behind the false wall, through a busted outdoor frame, where the plaster had been torn off and a narrow hall led into the attached house. It was hotter in there, thick with smoke.

Someone had been burning incense non-stop, a heavy mix of dried herbs that clung to your skin and made your head swim. The air stung my eyes. I pulled up a cloth mask over my nose and motioned for the others to do the same, and then I saw them. People, at least ten, maybe more, scattered through the living room and into the hallway. All of them were unconscious or close to it. Some curled into cushions like they'd passed out mid-conversation. Most were women and unhoused men.

All of them had pale skin and dark skin. stains at the neck, not fresh wounds, just slow, steady feeding. They were being kept in a fog, breathing in sedatives while their blood was taken little by little. I gave the signal, sharp and short. We moved in silently, each of us grabbing one person at a time and carrying them out. I watched every exit as my team moved back and forth like clockwork, one by one. The bodies were hauled out and laid onto tarps in the lot out front, where the medic could check vitals and prep IV drips. Most of them would live,

though I'd bet a few wouldn't remember much beyond a blur of heat and sleep. Once the last victim was out, I motioned for two men to follow me. We cleared the hallway and turned the corner, where a stairwell climbed to a second floor. The carpet was matted with dirt and dark spots. I stepped lightly, gun-raised. At the top of the stairs was the master bedroom. The door was halfway open, and something inside moved.

I stepped in first. The room was dim, thick curtains blocked out the sun. In the corner, crouched low over a figure slumped on a stained mattress. Was a vampire. It didn't turn when we entered. Its face was buried against a vanguard. victim's neck, body hunched, back rising and falling as it drank. The victim was still twitching, a young man, probably homeless, dragged off the street like the others. We didn't speak. I fired first.

The silver round caught the vampire in the shoulder. The second man fired a moment after me, catching it in the hip. The creature howled and turned towards us, blood still dripping. from its mouth. Its eyes were wide, more animal than human. It lunged. The third bullet missed. It knocked my partner down with a blow across the head and leapt from me. I didn't wait. I pulled the trigger again. The fourth bullet hit straight through the heart. It froze mid-motion. Mouth still parted. Then it dropped. We stood still for a moment, guns still raised, My teammate on the ground cursed under his breath and sat up slowly. I pulled him back toward the wall and told him to sit still until the medic arrived.

He nodded, eyes glassy. I was about to call it in when I heard something small from across the room. A faint thump. I turned and followed the sound to the bedroom closet. Inside curled up on a pile of old towels was a girl. Twelve maybe. Thin arms, scraped knees, dirt on her face. She wore a UCLA T-shirt that was much too big for her,

the kind of shirt you might find in a donation bin or on a sale rack for 50 cents. She didn't scream. She just looked at me with wide eyes and didn't move. You're safe, I said. She didn't answer right away. Her eyes went wide, and her hands gripped the head. of the oversized shirt I kept my voice low and steady what's your name I asked

Maya hi Maya I'm able she nodded still not blinking can you tell me how you got here I asked I I don't know a man said I could wait inside for my mom he said it was warm and then I I woke up in the closet. You did good, Maya. You stayed quiet. I held up my arms. Is it okay if I carry you? She nodded again, slower this time.

When I lifted her, she wrapped one arm around my neck, weak, but sure. You're going to be all right. We're taking you to someplace safe, I said. Outside, the team cleared a space. We later gently onto a stretcher. She was breathing steady. The medic looked over her and nodded. I stayed long enough to ride with her to the Hunter-sacioned hospital on the edge of town.

The staff knew what to do, discreet, fast, trained to handle situations like this without asking questions they didn't want answers to. I stayed until she was stable, then slipped out before press or family could show up. The case was closed, victims rescued, threat eliminated. Everyone would sleep a little easier, at least for a while. But I made a note in my journal that night. There was only one vampire in the house. One. That didn't sit right with me.

A whole coven doesn't move in and only leave one behind. That's not how they operate. After the job, I stuck around for a few extra days. worked with the Institute guys to access their older reports, cross-check missing persons cases, feeding patterns, relocation logs. Then I called my mom. She still keeps tabs on movement trends, even in retirement. Between her notes and what I saw, the pattern was clear.

Covens have been moving more, not just growing, but spreading out, shifting territory, faster and more coordinated than before. That means one thing. There's more work ahead. Well, I'm 30 now. My friends, the few I've kept, like to joke that I'm going gray around the sideburns. They say I'm aging like a war veteran,

10 years ahead of schedule. I tell them it's just the lighting. Truth is, they're right, and I don't mind. You don't do this job expecting to look young for ever. You do it knowing every year you get is earned. Zazzo's still around, same as always. Still in the sewer. Still picky about his apple beer.

Still counting the Snickers bars before he talks. He says I'm the only one who brings the good kind, the kind with crunchy peanuts and no funny labels. I bring him what he asked for, and he keeps me in the loop. There are worse arrangements. As for me, I'm still a little. out there. Still chasing things that most people don't want to know exist. Still watching alleyways,

checking basements, taking quiet calls from voices that are too afraid to go to the police. The cities change, the names, the faces, the news cycles, they move fast. But the monsters don't. They're patient. They wait. And as long as they're out there, I'll be hunting.