Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I'm A Park Ranger. Something Is Killing The Tourists | Scary Stories

Episode Date: September 20, 2023

Don't go out there at night.  Story from DarkNightTales Make sure to check out more of their work at u/DarkNightTales | Dark Night Tales - YouTube                             Original Post: I used to be a park ranger in the Adirondacks. I think we’re all in trouble. : r/nosleep                                     Original YouTube link: I'm A Park Ranger. Something Is Killing The Tourists              For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Merch: lighthousehorror.com  Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech Darren 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 day, 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!

It was close to three in the afternoon when the knock came on the door to the Ranger Station. I was mildly surprised to hear it, given that it was early January in the foothills of the Adirondacks and the temperature was hovering at a balmy 12 degrees, with wind chills driving it into the negatives with frustrating frequency. The wind had been howling against the isolated station since before sunrise that morning, and I wondered if I was going to need to deal with any damage to my little abode after the storm blew through. I'd been monitoring the forecast and weather radar all day, and it looked like I was in for quite the blizzard by the time evening rolled around. It'd been snowing most of the day already, but so far it hadn't been very heavy.

I expected that to change by nightfall, however, which in January was only in another couple hours. I didn't usually keep the front door to the ranger station locked, since it wasn't uncommon for hikers and campers to make a pit stop on their way up the trail to the observation areas, either to log their camping site for the night, or just in hopes of a nice hot cup of coffee before they continued on their hike. The door hadn't been latched correctly lately, though, and had the tendency to swing open when a strong gust caught it just right, so I'd been keeping it locked until I could repair it. The knocking was light, somehow hesitant, and almost polite.

If that makes any sense, it was so quiet that I almost didn't hear it over the whistling of the wind and creaking of the station. I'd been in the middle of composing an email request for a new generator, as mine had been acting up a bit lately, and had to pause my typing and listen intently to ensure I'd even heard it in the first place. When it came back, only a bit louder, I pushed back from, my desk and took another sip from my steaming mug before walking over and opening the door. Outside stood five people, three men and two women, all dressed in what looked like expensive and very new cold weather coats and snow pants, all looking very similar, except for the various bright colors and all bearing the familiar North Face logo. Their anxious faces peeked out from

within their drawn and cinched hoods, and I had to suppress a grin. They looked dressed to climb Everest, not hike the lower trails of the Adirondacks. Tourists, probably European, and probably their first time seeing this sort of weather, I thought. It was a fairly common occurrence. Folks from all over the world came to visit these mountains, looking to experience all the beautiful wilderness we had to offer. I wasn't unsympathetic. If you weren't used to the unpredictable climate here in the winter, it could quickly catch you by surprise and get dangerous very quickly. Hi there, I said cheerfully, stepping back into the doorway and motioning them inside.

Come in out of the snow and warm up by the fire. The man who'd been knocking turned to his companions, said something in Spanish, and then turned back to me with a wide grin and nodded, stepping past me and into the warmth of the station. The rest followed quickly, anxious to get out of the chill wind that was blowing hard outside. As soon as they were all in, I closed the door again and locked it to make sure it didn't blow open. Grazie, sir.

I'm Martin, said the man, pulling back his hood and unzipping his quilted down coat. He gestured to the others in turn. This is Lucas, Diego, Sophia, and Triana. I nodded my greeting to each. Martin continued with a smile. It is very cold. We come to visit USA from Spain to see your beautiful mountains and enjoy the lovely scenery. But it seems a storm is coming, and we fear there'll be too much snow.

Unfortunately, we are not so prepared for that. I nodded, patting him on the shoulder as I moved past him and opened the door leading to the shelter room, reaching in and turning on the lights. That's certainly true, my friend. I'm afraid we're in for a bit of a blizzard this evening. I said, Bad time for a winter stroll through the mountains. Fortunately, we happen to have enough space for you and your friends to make yourself at home

and wait out the storm. My name is Jackson Turner, Ranger. There's coffee over there on the table. There's bunks and a comfortable sitting area in here. When the group just stared at me blankly for a moment, I got the feeling I'd lost most of them somewhere along the way. Instead, I just offered the friendliest smile I had and gestured to the room. At that, they all grinned and nodded their thanks as they quickly shuffled past me,

dropping their packs on various bunks and beginning to remove their cold weather gear. I made sure they all got something hot to drink, and that they understood they were welcome to stay until the weather had cleared before returning to my desk. They all seemed very pleasant and grateful for my assistance, and they drifted from my thoughts as I continued my work. It was another hour before the second knocking wrapped at the door. This one's slow, and oddly arithmetic, almost a staccato beat, somehow unsteady and not as tentative as my other guests had been.

I sighed heavily and straightened, heading around the counter and back over to the door. I hadn't had any visitors to the ranger station in a week or more, and now they were pouring in like this was a holiday inn express or something. I unlocked the door and pulled it open, putting on my official greeting smile once again. In the doorway, shoulders and hooded head covered in a layer of icy snow, was a man of roughly my height, about six foot or so. Unlike the others, he wasn't dressed in fancy, color-coordinated cold weather gear, but instead wore a mismatched combination of clothes,

like he'd raided the bargain bin at a second-hand expedition store. His pants were a blue-quilted nylon and looked more on the expensive side, even though they didn't exactly fit him very well, but his coat was fur-lined and looked like it was made of padded wool, layered over an old fleece jacket. His boots looked newer and not too warm, something more suited to a summer hike than a winter in the mountains, I thought. Hey there.

I said as warmly as I could. waving him inside. Come on in out of the snow. He didn't say anything, but gave the slightest hint of a nod as he walked past me. The strong scent of musky body odor followed him, and I wondered if he was one of those reclusive hermits that I'd heard rumors of, living out here all by himself in some makeshift shack. I closed the door and locked it again, turning back to the man. He'd already taken note of the bunk room to the left, where the Spaniards were getting

settled, and he headed on in and sat on one of the empty bunks in the back corner of the room. He didn't remove his coat or offer any greeting to the others, and I noticed with some curiosity that he didn't have any sort of pack with him, which further made me wonder if he lived nearby in some off-grid cabin. I could see that the others were smiling and making pleasantries toward him, but he just sat there, dark eyes quietly watching the activity, without a single word. There was the slightest hint of a smile upon his lips, incongruous, and somehow unnerving. It only took them a few moments to abandon their attempts at including him in conversation, and turned back to their own group, speaking quietly in Spanish amongst themselves.

For a moment, I wondered if he might be in some sort of shock. The temperature was dropping pretty quickly outside, and it had already been too cold for some of the clothing he wore. I considered giving him a quick once over to make sure he didn't have any frostbite or signs of hypothermia, but something about him told me he might not be so welcoming to my attention. I stood there in the doorway to the bunk room for a moment, looking over the scene. Something about the newcomer seemed off somehow. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. But the way he moved, his lack of communication, the way he was just sitting there perfectly

still on the corner bunk, just seemed strange. There was something else, too, something I couldn't quite put my finger on, something that tickled the back of my consciousness, just out of reach, more out of instinctive unease than coherent thought. I found myself hoping the man would spend a few minutes warming himself and then be on his way again. Turning my attention to the others, I realized that they must have found something odd with him as well, as they'd all subconsciously clustered around the end of the table farthest from him,

and were speaking more quietly than before, more subdued. I noticed them periodically casting quick, uncomfortable glances in his direction, but never for more than the briefest of moments, as if they were just reassuring themselves that he hadn't moved and was still sitting there. I also noticed curiously that none of them sat with their back to the man, likely also subconsciously. I was just about to walk over and talk to him, to shake the odd feeling away. When Martin appeared in front of me, his brow furrowed.

Sir, my friends and I are worried about the other campers, he said. This drew my attention. There weren't any campers registered to be out here today. Was the newcomer one of them? Maybe they were in trouble. What campers? I asked with a frown. He motioned vaguely to the north.

We passed their campsite on our way to the observation point, before the weather turned us back here, maybe a half kilometer up the trail in a clearing beside a small brook, he said. He cast a quick look over his shoulder at the stranger sitting in the corner. There it was again, I thought. That same unease. Martin continued,

There were three of them, two men and a woman. They had some of those cold weather tents set up and seemed to be well prepared for the storm, at least as far as we could tell. We stopped and warmed ourselves by their fire for a bit. They seemed very experienced, and were not concerned about the cold,

but I am no expert. Well, sounds like they should be okay, I said, with the best reassuring smile I can muster. They should have checked in with me, but if they're as prepared as you think, I'm sure they'll be just fine. When the storm passes, I'll head up there and check on him, just to make sure. He flicked his eyes to the man again, and then locked them with mine with a surprising intensity, like he was trying to tell me something with his gaze alone.

He lowered his voice and said, The campers, they were all wearing very good clothing. Sophia's brother is a climber in some very cold regions, and she recognized the campers' gear as similar to what he uses. Even better news then, I started, but Martin cut me off. Exactly like the pants that man is wearing now, he said quietly. I looked over at the man again, once again taking note of his hodgepodge combination. of clothing. The gloves he still wore looked to be thin and ill-suited to the winter weather,

but looked well-made and would have been fine for a mild autumn outing. He still hadn't moved or said anything, and his emotionless eyes drifted slowly across the Spaniards. With what seemed to my growing paranoia, like a hungry interest, it was almost like he was inventorying them, evaluating them somehow. Once again, that tickle in the back of my brain, telling me something was not quite right with a man. Something was just a little out of place, but I still couldn't figure it out.

It set my teeth on edge. I looked back at Martin. Are you sure? I said. He shrugged. As sure as I can be. Sophia says she is certain, but the rest of us do not have the experience to recognize these details as well as her.

Was this man with them? I asked, but I already knew the answer. Martin shook his head. No, no, I've never seen him before now. He leaned in a little closer and lowered his voice again. This man. There, there's something, he said trailing off. Unable to find the right words. I nodded. I know. I feel it too.

I walked back to my desk and opened a drawer, retrieving the holstered handgun and attaching it to my belt. The spare magazine went into my pocket, and I grabbed my heavy jacket from a nearby hook and pulled my fur-lined hat out over my ears. Martin followed me, watching with interest. I looked over my shoulder, making sure we were out of sight and earshot of the bunk rum.

I'm going to check on my camp. You ever handle the shotgun? I asked. He nodded. I hunt pheasant with my cousins every year. I'm a very good shot. Good, I said. That doorway beside my desk is my room.

Right inside you'll find a 12-gauge pump, loaded but not chambered. If you need it, I trailed off. He just gave a silent duck of his head. I should be back within the hour, okay? I know the place you're talking about. Keep him here until I return, but don't do anything if you don't have to, I said, closing my coat and making sure the zippered slit covering my holster was open and accessible. Be careful, Jackson Turner, he said.

I feel some darkness in the air. I gave him a tight-lipped nod before opening the door and stepping out into the wind. The icy chill hit me immediately, cutting through my heavy pants and finding its way through every little opening in my clothing. The wind out here was constant and howled in my ears. The snow along the trail was only a little over ankle deep, but tugged at my boots with every step, slowing my progress. The area that Martin had described, was one of the few marked campsites along this area of the trail, and though it wasn't strictly required for campers to check in before setting up,

it was highly encouraged. This deep in the woods, 20 miles away from the nearest town, the only real lifeline that anyone had were the Rangers. If anything went wrong out here, the fact that you registered with a local ranger station may very well mean the difference between life and death. That didn't mean that everyone followed that rule, though. Most of the time, it was new campers,

those folks lacking some of the wisdom of experience that didn't know or didn't think it necessary to check in before setting camp. Sometimes it was the opposite. Some highly experienced outdoors folks felt that there was no need, that they could handle anything that came their way. Either way, as I followed that northern trail, A growing unease began to color my steps. I felt the tight grip of anxiousness, tickling my every breath.

I didn't know what I was going to find. If I was lucky, I'd find three cold weather, double wall, silicone nylon tents, with their occupants snuggled warmly and safely within. If that was the case, I'd just check on them and turn back to my station, hopefully before the worst of the storm began. If not, well, I'd have to figure that out when it came. A half hour later, I reached the campsite, or at least what was left of it. The remains of what were obviously three high-quality winter tents were positioned

compactly around a central fire pit, their bright red material shredded and torn and flapping violently in the fierce wind, looking very much like a lunatic array of flags in the heart of a hurricane. I pulled the ears of my hat lower, adjusting the chin chin strap tighter. Hello? I shouted, straining to make my voice carry above the wind. Even with all my force, it still sounded pathetically impotent in the roar of the coming storm. Is anyone here? I waited a long moment, but could hear nothing but the rush of wind and the whip-like snapping of the nylon fabric. The campsite had all the hallmarks of a bear attack, except I hadn't seen a bear in months, and we've never had a bear attack in this area that I'd ever heard of. It wasn't like

the forest out west. We didn't have brown bears here. Black bears, yeah, but they were smaller and nowhere near as aggressive as big browns. Sure, they could be dangerous, especially if startled or threatened, but they didn't actively hunt humans. I took a few more steps forward into the campsite, drawing my gun and holding it at low ready as I performed a quick visual of the tents. Nothing. No signs of bodies, blood, a struggle, anything at all. Just destroyed tents they could have been abandoned by the campers

when the wind started getting bad, and the fabric started to fail. And then it caught my eye, a flash of dark gray partially hidden by the snow between two tents. Another ten minutes of snowfall, and I never have seen it. Moving closer, I towed the frozen bundle of cloth overturning it, before picking it up with my free hand, keeping my gun at the ready. It was a pair of thick winter pants. old and torn and covered in dark red-brown stains that looked too fresh for my comfort. They were fur-lined and looked to be woollen.

As soon as I lifted them free of the snow, the wind blew a familiar musky smell into my face, and I dropped them in revulsion. Another two feet beyond, the hint of blue and the white drift drew my attention, and I cautiously approached. I recognized the puffy material of a cold weather jacket, and when I reached out to expose more of it, I staggered backwards in shock, realizing suddenly that I was looking at a crudely dismembered arm, still wrapped snugly in its warm jacket sleeve. I cursed aloud and stumbled backwards, tripping over the stone surrounding the fire pit and falling hard on my ass, eyes wide and not even registering the pain of my tailbone meeting the frozen ground.

I sat there, hyperventilating, for what felt like minutes. It was only when my arms began to shake that I realized I was gripping the handgun as tightly as I could, aimed insanely at the gray mass of frozen trousers on the ground, as if they were going to suddenly spring to life and attack. Shit was all I could think to say, as rationality suddenly returned, clearing the pulsating red spots from my vision and slamming my thoughts back to present jarringly. The pounding in my ears began to lesson, replaced once again with the unrelenting wail of the wind.

I leapt to my feet and started running back along the trail back to my station, where the five of them were waiting. With what? Was he some sort of psycho-serial killer stalking the lonely hiking trails of upstate New York? That didn't make any sense. I'd been here for three years, and I'd never heard of anything like this. As I ran clumsily through the snow, which was now halfway up to my shin, I thought back to those gray pants, discarded in the campsite. They'd been shredded, not just torn and ripped from age and wear.

it had been something violent that caused the damage, and the bloodstained seemed to lend credence to that theory. So whatever it happened, the stranger had decided to replace his damaged and stained pants with what? Those of his victims? And then I thought about how none of his clothes matched, and how his boots and gloves weren't even suitable for winter weather. How long had this been going on?

Twenty minutes later, the dim yellow lights from the windows of my station appeared suddenly from the nearly white-out conditions that had overtaken me with a full coming of the storm. The temperature had dropped even more, and I was amazed I'd been able to keep up my pace long enough to make it back, driven by adrenaline and fear. I slowed to a halt before my station, noticing immediately how the front door hung open. My mind urged me forward, but I had to take a few moments to catch my breath before I entered. I couldn't understand why the door was only open a few finger with. If it hadn't been locked, the first strong gust of wind would have blown it fully open.

But what occupied my thoughts far more was the implication of that open door. There's no way it could have been missed by anyone within, and nobody in their right mind would have sat in the stone. station while the freezing wind and snow blew through the door. I pushed that thought aside and crept as quietly as possible to the door, pushing it gently at first, then with greater force as I felt some resistance holding it closed. I gripped my sidearm tightly, muzzle directly forward, finger resting along the frame of the pistol. The door gradually gave way and pushed inward far enough that I was able to slide through the gap. As soon as I stepped inside,

I found myself in the center of a nightmare. A body lay behind the door and had served as a barricade. I could only tell that it was one of the women by the delicate shape of the body as the head and upper torso had been savagely mutilated, the skin and scalp torn away from the red-white of the skull. Blood slicked nearly every surface around me, hot and stinking of copper, and I became aware of a wet tearing sound emanating from the bunk rum. The lights in that room were flickering chaotically, the hanging bulb in the center of the room swinging maniacly, as if it had been recently struck. As quietly as I could, I ducked around the doorway into the room, fresh shock coursing through my body. And I found bodies and pieces of bodies, all strewn

around the room haphazardly, most still enshrouded in bits of clothing, now tacked in place by sticky crimson. I could feel the heat in the room from whatever horrifying act of violence had occurred. At my feet, I noted a handgun of empty shotgun shells. The shotgun lay nearby, chamber open, and magazine tube empty, only inches from the barely recognizable remains of the man I'd known as Martin. Terrible slashes and wounds covered his corpse, looking as if he'd been thrown into a shredder. My eyes were drawn at that moment to the source of the sounds I'd heard before, and I saw the crouched form of the stranger above one of the bodies, Lucas, I think, by the bright

yellow of his north face jacket. I watched in horror as the stranger dipped his head again and again, jerking it savagely each time it came away, as if tearing away more bits of meat. I noticed then that the stranger's hands had somehow grown, elongated, and taken on a shiny appearance that left the fingers as jagged and gore-encrusted claws. After only a moment's shocked hesitation, my reflexes took over, and I snapped the muzzle of my hand gun up and squeezed the trigger. It threw its head back, and what I can only hope was pain, and cried out in a shrew. shrieking screech that drowned out everything. I squeezed the trigger again, and another bullet punched its way through the horrifying thing. Suddenly, almost faster than I could track, the stranger

exploded up from where it had been feasting and lit upon the wall, its terrible claws sinking into the wood and holding it in place as it turned its head 180 degrees to face me. The eyes had turned completely black and grown to the size of golf balls, and the jaw looked almost to have disjointed from its skull, the skin at the corners of its mouth drawn back in a hideous grin. It tensed. In an instant later it had leapt to the next wall, gripping the exposed wood like some monstrous insect, eyes still fixed on me.

Before it could make another move, I fired again and again. And my panic-induced attack, miraculously finding purchase more often than not, as empty brass cases ejected across the door frame next to me. Then there was a long moment of silent stillness. I waited for the thing to pounce towards me, but it was clear I'd heard it. I don't know how badly, but black drip from the half-dozen wounds, and I thought I heard the sickly rattling in its slow, deep breaths. With a final ear-splitting shriek, it leapt again, but this time away from me and through the window at the rear of the room, the glass shattered

outward, and then it was over. I stood alone, left only with the remains of the five Spanish tourist and the disconcerting awareness that the slide of my handgun was locked back and the magazine was now empty. That was almost a year ago, and I've since transferred from field operations to an administrative position within the park service. My office is located in the middle of a city, surrounded by people and without a lonely forest or dark wilderness in sight. After the investigation died down, and the deaths were ruled as animal predation, I tried to return to my posting, but I just couldn't do it. They tore down the old station and built a new one closer to the trailhead, and I thought I could get past it. But I kept seeing that stranger, that creature. Every time I closed my eyes, a few times in the dark stillness of the night.

I thought I could hear that whale echoing in the distance. Once or twice. I think I heard more than that. I slept with my handgun on my nightstand, and the shotgun propped next to my bed, and I kept the doors locked at all times. I couldn't shake the feeling that it was still out there, maybe searching for me. Maybe it needed to make sure that I wasn't able to tell any. one about it.

You see, in the time since that horrible night, I've scoured the internet for any possible explanation for what I saw. I consulted any self-proclaimed cryptozoologist or paranormal investigator that would speak to me. But nobody had any rational explanations beyond fairy tales and urban legends. And invariably, I was left with as many questions as I started with. And then I tripped across an article one day that changed everything for me. It was a piece written about something called the Uncanny Valley.

At first, I almost passed it over, since it seemed mostly to relate to robots and computer graphics and how people feel increasingly uncomfortable, the more realistically human they appear. But then I read a theory about why people may react this way, and how it may be an evolutionary artifact left over in the dark corners of our reptilian brains, about how? At some point in our distant shared racial history, there may have actually been predators that almost looked human. They may have appeared so close to our ancestors that they were able to blend in with us almost perfectly. According to the theory, primitive humans may have developed a keen sense of facial recognition as a survival mechanism.

This may have been passed down through genetic memories, fading just a little with each generation until today, where it existed as little more than an instinctive warning when we looked at someone who wasn't quite right, someone who seemed almost normal. Perhaps with the slightest of imperfections that made them seem just a little wrong, someone that our instincts told us didn't belong, someone who wasn't really one of us at all. I wondered if these things have been with us all along, hiding among us. Yesterday, on my commute to the office,

I noticed a young woman sitting by herself in the back of a subway car, Even though it was crowded, the seats beside her were empty, and I noticed that the other commuters almost seemed to be avoiding her. I don't think anyone really realized it, but people kept glancing uneasily at her. There was nothing overtly out of place with her, and it could have been just happenstance that nobody had sat down next to her. But I just couldn't shake the feeling that something just felt... Oth