Lighthouse Horror Podcast - The Seven Rules for Mr. Tweague’s House | Scary Stories

Episode Date: January 10, 2024

I got a new job as a homecare nurse, but it came with a strange set of rules...       Story from NewAgeSolution  Make sure to check out more of their work at u/NewAgeSolution         ��  Original Post: I’m a Homecare Nurse: The Seven Rules for Mr. Tweague’s House : r/nosleep  Original YouTube link: The Seven Rules for Mr. Tweague’s House           For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Merch: lighthousehorror.com  Sound Effects: Freesound Zapsplat  Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

For me, it was about finding the right fit when it came to a job. Eighteen months after leaving a military, where I worked as a field medic, I'd already been through four different jobs and wound up quitting every single one. A few weeks after leaving my last position, a home care agency reached out to me about an opening for a night nurse at the home of a long-time patient. The prospect of working a night shift and simplicity of focusing on a single individual was appealing and unique from my previous jobs. I ultimately accepted the position, and after two weeks of orientation training, was ready to get started. The patient's name was

Rudolph Twig. He was 104 years old and suffered a stroke about 25 years ago that put him in a catatonic state. He couldn't move or speak, and would need to have everything done for him, from nourishment to bathing and transportation. Apparently, he was a very wealthy man and lived in a large house where he wanted to remain in lieu of being transferred to a medical care facility. Aside from my full-time work, I like to write and keep journals. The following entries recount my first night working at Mr. Tweeague's home. 8.41 p.m.

I arrived at the Twig residence at 7.50 p.m. I pulled up in the circular driveway and noticed the lights were on inside the giant brick white house but didn't see any other cars. When I spoke to Mrs. Bo, the care team's head nurse, she clarified I would be alone upon arrival but would have instructions left for me. At the front entrance, I found an envelope with my first name written on it, and it contained the following letter. Greetings, Mr. Burroughs, welcome to the residence of Mr. Rudolph,

We're pleased to have you join our little family. Your shift begins at 8 p.m. sharp. You will be relieved at 5.30 a.m. When you arrive, Mr. Tweig will have already been fed, bathed, and ready for bed. He has a very simple routine. Upon arrival, Mr. Tweig will be in the parlor listening to the radio.

The dial will be set to AM frequency 101.3. Do not change it. He will stay in the parlor until 8.45 p.m. Move Mr. Tweig to his study from 845 to 9.30 p.m. He likes listening to his audio tapes. Follow the instructions on what tape to play for him that night. At 9 p.m. Make sure all windows and doors leading outside are locked. Mr. Tweed goes to bed at 9.30 p.m. Use the service elevator by the stairway to transport him upstairs. Set his hospital bed at a 25-degree angle. While Mr. Tweig is asleep, make sure his bedroom door is shut at all times and check in on him every 30 to 45

minutes. In addition, you must follow these seven important rules. Number one, there are nine mirrors in the house. After you put Mr. Twig to bed, cover every mirror with a white sheet. Number two, you may find Mr. Twig out of his room after you've put him to bed. If this happens, bring him back to his bedroom and lock the door. Number three, if you receive a call on the landline from 1045 to 11.30 p.m., the caller will have a message for Mr. Twig. Write it down on the notepad and follow any specific instructions they may give you. Number four, from 109 to 151 a.m.

Stay in Mr. Tweig's bedroom with a door locked. Otherwise, crawl on all fours if you fail to reach his room before that time. It can't see anything lower than three feet from the ground. If it comes near you, don't look up. Number five, the mannequins in Mr. Tweak's study like to roam the house after midnight. If you ever find both in the same place, disarm the mannequins and cover them with white sheets. 6. Inside the refrigerator is a litted pot. At 2.59 a.m. set the pot on the top stair leading into the basement. Return for the pot at 3.37 a.m. and put it in the sink. Do not enter the basement

under any circumstances. Number 7. If you hear the radio or television turn on, stop what you're doing and move to the second floor immediately. Remain there until it's quiet. downstairs. Help yourself to any food or drinks in the kitchen. You may use the television in the den, radio in the parlor, or computer in the study, and you are free to explore the house. Contact the agency's 24-hour line if you need anything. Signed Mrs. Bowie, head nurse. Mr. Twig was in the parlor, just as the letter said. He was very frail and had a deathly pale, narrow, wrinkled face, with dark circles under his sunken eyes, in a thin arch of scraggly grayish white hair lining the sides of his bald scalp. He was wearing a plaid, wool

robe, and had another blanket tightly wrapped around his legs. His wheelchair was state-of-the-art. It was able to recline, move vertically up and down, and even had smaller gadgets attached that were monitoring his vitals. While Mr. Tweig's appearance, appearance was somewhat unsettling. I did empathize and treated him like any ordinary patient. With a smile, I introduced myself to Mr. Tweig and explained what I would be doing. As expected, Mr. Tweig didn't respond and simply stared straight ahead with his rigid, stony, expressionless look on his face. The radio emitted bursts of static, with gargled voices that were utterly indecipherable words and phrases. I double-checked the dial.

to see if it was indeed set at AM 101, remembering how I was instructed not to change the channel. I just finished my walkthrough of the house and found additional instructions on where the medical supplies were located, how to operate the service elevator, locations of every door, window, and mirror, along with a set of numbered keys and reference for the use of each one. It's time to bring Mr. Tweed to his study. 10.04 p.m. It took some time, but I just finished covering all the mirrors and I'm about to make a final sweep of all the windows and doors to make sure they're locked. I completed the rest of Mr. Tweig's routine without incident. The instructions in his study told me to play an audio tape on his cassette player, labeled AF029. I put headphones on Mr. Twig so I couldn't hear what he was listening to, but could tell by the expression. in his eyes he was fully engaged. The mannequins mentioned in Rule 5 were on either side of the

bookshelf in his study. They were whitish beige and seemed to embody the female form with completely featureless faces. One had its hands placed on its hip, while the other hand's fingers lightly grasped the bottom of its chin as if the mannequin was in a state of thought. The other mannequin's hands were intertwined behind its head, and it stood in a coy, compelling pose. Both stood on their platforms and had the words Edda and Nina written on them, which I guessed were their names. I noticed Edda had a crack running down the center of its face while Nina was missing its left index and pinky fingers. I jokingly introduced myself and even asked them not to sneak up on me since I scared easily. The house's rules are quite peculiar the more I think about it, but I wouldn't be

surprised if some of them are part of an indoctrination joke they pull on newcomers. I'm anxious to learn more when I speak with Mrs. Bowie, who's worked for Mr. Tweig since before he got sick. I'm sure she knows everything there is about his past in this house. 10.49 p.m. I thought I heard giggling or crying. I I didn't tell which it was. It seemed like it was coming from the walls. I heard it in the kitchen, living room, den, an upstairs hallway. It would appear and fade randomly. I may have just been hearing things. It's an old house after all. 12.06 a.m. About an hour ago, I received a strange phone call on the house's landline. I probably shouldn't feel this way since since Rule 3 mentioned this might happen. When I answered, there was a lot of static on the other end, eerily similar to the radio station Mr. Tweig was listening to in the parlor.

After asking who it was, a deep, raspy, male voice with an unidentifiable accent, told me to let Mr. Twig know that everything was going according to plan in somewhat of a sinister-sounding tone. He then told me to open the basement door and relay the same message from the top of the stairs. The most unnerving part about the call was whoever I spoke with addressed me by my first name. This really threw me off guard, but I rationalized that Mrs. Bowie probably told him who I was at some point. Nonetheless, I couldn't shake off how unsettled the conversation left me, and it only got worse when I followed the man's instructions. When I opened the basement door, it revealed a decrepit wooden staircase that seemed to lead into a pit of impenetrable blackness. Intimidated

by the sight, I nervously uttered the message that everything was going according to plan, and wasn't sure if I was supposed to wait for some kind of response. After about 20 seconds, A cold, dry breeze flowed up from the basement, sending chills down my spine, and made the hairs on my armstand. That was more than enough for me to shut the door. 12.19 AM. I keep hearing scratching noises. They're coming from the floor.

I think Mr. Tweig hears them as well. 1241 AM. I can't explain what just happened. to me. I did another check on Mr. Twig, and when I was walking down the stairs, I felt this concentrated burning across my forehead. It was brief, but so sharp and intense I almost tumbled down the stairs. I swiped the area with my fingers, which, to my horror, were covered in blood. I ran to the bathroom and tore off the sheet covering the mirror. I had a cut running diagonally down the left side of my forehead, from where blood.

was streaming down my face. Pressing some tissues over the cut, I opened the mirror and check the medicine cabinet for Band-Aids. I found one, but as I closed the cabinet and glanced in the mirror, I caught the parting trails of someone in a white dress or gown, gliding down the hall. I quickly spun around and remained frozen in place for a good five minutes. After nothing happened. I convinced myself it was just a figment of my imagination. I applied the band-aid to my forehead and put the white sheet back on the mirror. Some of the blood I wiped off my forehead had gotten on the sheet. I was alarmed at first, but remembered reading in the instructions there were extra white sheets in the linen closet on the second floor. When I stepped out of the

bathroom, I screamed at the top of my lungs and almost fell backward when I was greeted by the sight of Mr. Tweig sitting in his wheelchair. The old man was hunched forward, his withered head hanging and arms dangling at his side like he was ashamed of being found. I hastily returned him to bed and locked the bedroom door, remembering the instructions from Rule 2. Maybe it's the solitude, or first-day jitters, but I'm starting to have my doubts about working at this place. I have no idea how I got that cut on my forehead, and after that experience with Mr. Tweed, I'm very tempted to just get up and leave. The thought of leaving Mr. Tweed alone, however, is what's ultimately forcing me to stay.

1.3 a.m. After my spontaneous bleeding episode, I've been in the first of the first of the same. study to try and calm my nerves by listening to some music and checking my social media. I was distracted by one of the desk drawers being partly open and being the compulsive person that I am, I tried shutting it, but realized it was stuck. When I pulled out the drawer to flatten everything inside, a white manila folder caught my eye. I'm normally not an intrusive person, but my curiosity got the best of me when I saw Case B

and a red X written on the label. The folder contained a cluster of papers with the top one being a file on a young girl whose name was blacked out. The file appeared to be some sort of medical record and dated back to 1984. There were some notes jotted under a box labeled symptoms, which made me extremely uneasy as I read through them. Skin discoloration now at 80%, exhibiting extreme human strength, leather restraint starting to give. Screams breaching soundproof barriers, increased tranquilizer dosage proving ineffective. Another box labeled notes read, Approaching 180 days, conditions worsening, is now completely despondent.

Parents are growing impatient and demanding answers. Running out of options, might have to call in friends from this city, but it might be too late. I ease conditions for release are ludicrous and damning, but we might not have any other choice. That was as far as I read. When I realized something in the corner of my eye and froze, the mannequins were gone. 1.57 a.m. I don't know what to do. I'm too afraid to leave Mr. Tweeigs bed.

I went downstairs and got a soda from the fridge. When I turned around, my eyes were inches away from the tip of a kitchen knife held by one of the mannequins. It was Etta, who I recognized from the crack running down its face. It now held a knife in one arm, raised in a stabbing gesture, its plaster fingers tightly clenching the handle. Behind it was Nina, who brandished a meat cleaver in one hand and a bread knife in the other. I thought if I so much as budged, the mannequin would jam the knife through my eye, but it didn't. I remembered Rule 5, after what felt like in eternity, and tiptoed around the mannequins before bolting upstairs to the linen closet. I retrieved two white sheets, but when I returned to the kitchen, they were gone. Was I supposed to disarm

them first? Where are they now?" It was then I realized. I'd broken another rule earlier that night. I forgot to write the caller's message down for Mr. Tweig. I didn't even have time to react to the panic that ensued. All the lights and the house went out. After a few seconds, I started hearing this rhythmic thump immediately followed by a slow, heavy scraping. Whatever was making that noise appeared to be heading towards the kitchen. I was too afraid to budget first until my eyes drifted towards the stove clock's glowing numbers, which read 109 a.m. I instinctively collapsed onto the floor and kept my head down. Trying to repress my wimper's and sniffles, I slowly crawled out of the kitchen towards the stairs. All I had to do was stay low, ascend the stairs,

and make it to Mr. Tweeague's bedroom. The last thought I had was at least Mr. Tweeague's bedroom was locked and he was safe before I heard the continuous thumping and scraping come from behind me. I saw a pair of large, light, bluish-gray feet appear next to me. One foot made a loud thump, while the other, which looked unnaturally distorted and swollen, dragged behind and made that teeth grinding, scraping noise. Why did I look up? 24.m.

Mr. Tweed was sitting upright in bed. His mouth was hanging wide open, like he was frozen mid-scream. He was cold to the touch. When I tried to lay him back down, he was extremely rigid and wouldn't budge. I'm just going to leave him like this. Hopefully he's laying back down when I check on him later. The scratching is coming from the floor again. 3.16 a.m.

It was hard to do without looking up, and I did it for five minutes later than instructed, but I put the litded pot in the refrigerator on the top stair leading down into the basement. I locked myself in Mr. Tweak's study, and don't even know if I want to go back downstairs. I spotted Edda standing by the coffee table in the parlor while leaving the kitchen. Nina is at the end of the hall. I rummaged through Mr. Twiggs' desk and came across a leather-bound journal with Mr. Twig's name inscribed in gold. Most of it was sloppily written in cursive and difficult to read, but I made out one particular

excerpt from an entry dated 9-1, 1993. The journal read as follows. It's funny, when you think you're doing something for the greater good that you know is making people and the world a better place, you take the praise and respect you feel entitled to for granted, until you realize you've become bound to exactly what you're fighting. It's ironic that their intended prison has turned into a nurturing ground to make them stronger. Their confines are getting weaker and they sense it. I don't know what I'm going to do. 4.7 a.m. I don't have the strength to crawl up the stairs. It's hard enough to do without looking up.

All I can do is right. I mustered up the courage to retrieve the pot before the deadline. When I opened the basement door, it was no longer on the top stair. Peering down into the dark abyss, I pondered whether I should go down when the pot flung out of the blackness and hit me directly in the knee. I fell to the floor and started tumbling down the basement stairs. The inside of the pot was coated in a thick red ooze that smelled like smoky rotting meat. Some of it got on me. It was when I started frantically scrambling up the stairs, that the scream started, a symphony of shrieks and bellows containing tones of agony, sadness, terror, and rage.

I reached the top stair when I felt something sharp grab onto my injured leg, like claws digging into my flesh as it tried pulling me down. I used every last ounce of strength to release my leg, too frightened to look down at whatever had grabbed a hold of me. I heard something make its way up the stairs toward me when I slammed the door shut. Whatever it was started pounding on the basement door when it reached the top of the stairs. I heard a few short bursts of hissing and a series of low scratching and scraping noises, which ceased after 10 or 15 seconds. I'm pretty sure my kneecap is shattered and the lower half of my shin is covered in deep slash marks that formed a steady, smeary blood trail behind me.

The pain is unbearable. I'm hoping if I lay here, I can eventually drift off and be discovered by the first arriving member of the daycare team at 5.30 a.m. or not? I just heard a sound in the den. I think the television turned on.