Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - They Say The Lighthouse Hasn't Worked In Years, But I Saw Its Light Last Night | Part 2

Episode Date: May 7, 2025

A reclusive writer returns to his ancestral coastal home seeking inspiration—only to find himself entangled in a chilling ritual that has waited generations for his blood. Author: Jake Bible * * * EXPLICIT CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and graphic depictions of violence intended for adults 18 years of age or older. These stories are NOT intended for children under the age of 18. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised. #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #truescarystories #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

to nice sleep. Morris stands in my den, dressed in some crimson colored robe. He looks like a monk, or a cultist, or cultist monk. Morris? I growl, eyeing the blade he holds. What are you doing in my house? I'm definitely still a little drunk, so I stay on the couch. I don't want him to see me on wobbly legs and think I'm weak.

The side of the knife makes me think showing weakness would be a very bad thing. You saw the light, Gordon, Morris says. It means it is time. Time? Time for what? I ask. I hiccup a little and some bile fills my mouth. Choking it back down, I try to take a few deep breaths, but a wave of nausea makes me stop still. I close my eyes, then reopen them quickly, remembering I have some psycho in my house. You're confused, Morris states.

A little, yeah, I reply. Uh, can you come back tomorrow, Morris? I'm a little tired, and I think I'll go to bed. Oh, no, no, no, Morris says. You have a long night ahead of you, Gordon. Much to do. I realize he's holding his free hand behind his back. This is for you. Morris pulls his hand out, showing me a bundle of crimson cloth.

Your very own robe. Um, great. I searched the den for something I can use as a weapon. There are plenty of dangerous items, but they are all on my desk across the room. Now, how about you put this on so we can fulfill your destiny? Boris shakes the folded robe at me. Hurry, hurry, time is ticking away. We don't want to be caught short when dawn breaks now, do we?

No? No. He nods. Then he throws the robe at me, hitting me in the face. Get dressed, Gordon. She waits for your call. Holding the robe in my hands, I sit still, my eyes on Morris, well, on Morris's knife. What's that for? He looks down at the knife and smiles at it, like he's looking at a child.

Destiny always needs a sacrifice. He holds up the knife. Don't you think, Gordon? Sacrifice isn't a subject I usually dwell on, I say. Put on the robe, Gordon. Morris points the tip of the knife right at me before adding... Please. Uh, sure, yeah.

Um, just over my clothes? Over your clothes? I stand up on shaky, drunken legs, and somehow manage to get the robe up over my head and settled on my body without falling back onto the couch. Excellent, Morris turns and walks out of the den. Come along, Gordon. We have an appointment to keep. Several things go through my mind at once,

then flee as Morris sticks his head back into the den. Would you like to see Jordy alive again? He asks, and the implication is right in my face. Jordy? What did you do with Jordy? I raised my voice. It's not quite a shout because I'm not that brave, but it's close. Would you like to see him alive again?

Yeah, I'd fucking like to see him alive again. I snap. Then come along. Then he's gone. And a second later I hear the front door open. Come on, Gordon. He shouts, his voice getting farther away. He's left the house.

I should go lock the door. Then make sure all the doors are locked. Then call the police, then... I screech as someone behind me clears their throat. Spinning around, I see two more robed figures lurking in the shadows by the windows. Their crimson robes blending in nicely with the drapes. I'd never really noticed the color before. Morris!

I shout and race to the front door. Who the fuck are those people? Your faithful servants, Gordon. Morris says as he stands in the driveway, waiting for me. Just like me. Footsteps behind make me hurry out down the porch steps, so I can whirl around and face the two extra intruders.

Except now, there are four of them. What the fuck? I mutter, then cocked my head. Hold on. Miss Drummond? Hello, Gordon. Our local postmaster says. A lovely night tonight, don't you think?

The other faces are familiar too. Locals who I have seen summer after summer. There's Mr. Troy. who owns the auto shop in town, Mrs. Carlisle, the librarian, and Joe Bobbitt, the handyman everyone uses when they need minor repairs done around the house. Tick-tock, Gordon, Morris says. Tick-tok. I back away from the house and then realize I'm backing up to Morris.

Turning quickly, I change my trajectory and angle my very slow, backward retreat, so that I'm cutting diagonally across the driveway. Tick-tok! I say a nod. Yep, Tick-tok. Then I spin and prepare to bolt, except the most beautiful thing I've ever seen freezes me in my tracks. The lighthouse! It's all lit up, and the beam is pointing straight out into the ocean.

It's not spinning around and around like lighthouses usually do. No, it has its sights set on something specific. What does it see? I ask, then shake my head. I hadn't meant to speak. It sees her. Morris places his hand on my shoulder. I flinch, but don't shake it off. See who?

I ask, transfixed by the lighthouse. Hur, of course, Morris says. Her. The others in town together. A shiver runs up and down my spine. Shall we? Morris guides me forward with his hand still on my shoulder. Shall we what?

Go call her to us. Morris says in a voice like I'm the silliest person he's ever spoken to because, duh, we're going to call her to us. Yeah, cool, I say, and my feet start moving. I'd be lying if I said I was consciously walking. I try to talk myself out of walking, except that message doesn't go from my brain to my legs, so I walk. We leave the driveway and move onto the overgrown grass. I feel the cold summer dampness wet my shoes and socks. My pant legs would probably get one. What, too, if I wasn't wearing the robe?

Do you feel it, Gordon? Morris asks me. Feel what? I reply without slowing my stride. My feet are soaked, and I shiver in the cold but never stop walking. Hur. Morris says. Her.

The others echo. Uh, no, I admit. I hear some seagulls and maybe crickets. That is not her. Morris sounds disappointed. Try harder. How? Concentrate, he says, still guiding me toward the lighthouse.

His hand like a gentle vice on my shoulder. Block out the distractions. Focus. That's a little hard right now, Morris. There's a lot of distractions. You know, this robe is one. And us walking in the wet grass at night toward a lighthouse that isn't exactly doing its job.

And there are the folks following us. Kind of makes me wonder if I'll ever feel good about mailing a letter ever again. All are welcome equally in my post office, Miss Drummond says. Thank you for that. I reply, then clear my throat. So, Morris, you can get why I'm distracted. Try. He repeats. His breath right in my ear. I smell old coffee and something else. A salty, meaty smell. Canadian bacon. How about you tell me what's going to happen when we get to the lighthouse? conscious effort to stop walking. But again, the message doesn't reach my legs.

A pain forms behind my eyes. You're fighting it. Morris's lips almost brush my right ear. There's no need to fight anything anymore, Gordon. You have come home at last. We have been waiting for a DuPont to finally arrive ready. To finally see the light. To finally see the light.

The others echo. Um, great. I say, For a man of words, I'm running out of them. Focus and listen, Morris says. Close your eyes. Hard to walk with my eyes closed. Is it?

He has a point. I close my eyes. Now, listen for her. Morris whispers in my ear. She is out there. She is ready for you to reply. She is ready for your invitation. My invitation?

Morris chuckles. Focus. So I focus. At first, I hear nothing, which is what I expect. Then slowly, like a volume knob is being turned up, bit by bit. A sound floats to my ears. It's like singing but not. A voice from down deep, deep below the ocean's surface bubbles up to me.

Words are not formed, yet I can understand every sentence. I have no idea what is being said to me, because I somehow already know what it all means and conscious understanding only gets in the way. My eyes fly open. You hear her, Morris says. Good, Gordon. That is good. You may survive this night after all. I what now? I exclaim as my eyes widened and I try to look at Morris. But he has his cheek firmly pressed against my ear and keeps me from turning my head. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to checkout, only to realize you don't

have your wallet. But then you see it, that purple shop pay button. And just like that, you're done in seconds. That's the power of Shopify. It supports millions of businesses and drives 10% of all e-commerce in the U.S., from major brands like Mattel and Jimshark to entrepreneurs just getting started. With Shopify, everything you need is in one place, from customizable store templates to built-in AI tools that help write product descriptions and enhance your images. It also makes marketing easy

with integrated email and social campaigns. And if you get stuck, Shopify's award-winning customer support is there for you 24-7. See less carts go abandoned and more sales go with Shopify and their shop pay button. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com slash dns. Go to Shopify.com slash dns. That's shopify.com slash dns. We'll be fine, Gordon. We're here.

And we are. How we got to the lighthouse so fast, I don't know. But I guess you can say there's a lot I don't know right now. Now what? I ask as we reach the base of the lighthouse. Now we climb, of course, Morris says. Mrs. Carlisle passes us and pulls out an enormous set of keys. She hunts through them, sliding one after the other to the side, until she finds the one she's looking for.

Unlocking the door, she opens it wide for us. I expect a loud creaking from the hinges, but they stay silent and the door eases open like it's made of air. In and up, Gordon, in and up, Morris says. In and up, the others echo. Dear Lord, I mumble, which elicits giggles from a... everyone. Then I'm guided inside the lighthouse and directed to the long, winding flight of stairs that hug the wall of the structure. In and up we go. At first, in order to keep from going mad, I count the steps as I take them. But after I hit 100, then the counting becomes its own

type of madness, and I stop. As we pass the halfway point, I consider just lurching to the side and sending myself tumbling over the thin railing. A piece of me thinks that death will be better than what I am going to see once we reach the top. Again, I am betrayed by my body as not a single muscle twitches and obedience. But it was only a half-hearted thought. I'm not really a self-sacrifice kind of guy.

Up we go, around and around and around, until we finally reach a small landing and a door. Morris reaches by me and opens the door, then guides me inside. There is the great lamp, lit up so bright that I have to squint even though it's aimed away from me. The rest of the space holds just a chair and a desk and a couple of crates pushed up by the thick windows

made of centuries-old glass. Out we go! Morris steers me to a side door I hadn't noticed. He opens it, and we move out onto an iron catwalk that encircles the entire. lighthouse. Instead of heading toward the light, Morris directs me around the back to the darkest part of the top. I gasp when I see what waits for me. Her? You mean her? I ask, seeing one of the

old bitches from the cafe, the croissant ripper. No, she is not her, Morris says, but she is for her. The woman is tied up to a chair, her hands bound behind her, each leg secured to a chair leg, with her mouth shut by duct tape. She has a nasty cut across her left eyebrow, and an ostrich egg of a bruise has swollen up on her forehead. Her eyes plead for help as she moans behind the duct tape. The one who offends, Morris says, and I feel something cold slip into my right hand.

I look down and see the knife, the one Morris had pointed at me earlier. He guides me closer to the woman, his hand on my wrist. The first sacrifice is the first sacrifice is the knife. the one who offends. Morris lifts my arm up, so I am the one pointing the knife now. And we make it quick, because we are not monsters. Before I can even struggle or stop what is happening, Morris moves my arm and makes my hand whip out at the woman. Her pleading eyes go so wide, I'm afraid they'll pop from her head. Then she makes gagging noises behind the duct tape.

That's when I see the huge red smile that has been cut into her throat. I didn't do that, I stammer. But you did, Morris says. You did. The others echo because, of course, they are out here too. Frozen there at the top of the lighthouse, I watch as the woman's life bleeds out of the wound in her neck and pours down her chest and into her lap.

There's nothing I can do to stop it. So I simply watch and wait as she bleeds out. When her eyes lose focus and turn to glass, I know she's gone. This way, Morris directs me to the left. We go a quarter turn around the lighthouse, and I see the other woman from the cafe,

the one who hates Canada. So much offense, Morris says. The woman is kicking and fighting and struggling against her ropes, her mouth moving constantly as she tries to get the duct tape free from her lips. Do you need my help? Morris asks me. For what? I cry, knowing the answer.

You know for what? but instead of forcing me to slice the woman's throat like he did with the other one, Morris, let's go of my wrist and gives me a gentle push forward. I think you can handle this alone, Morris says. No way. I look down at the knife I hold. I can't do. My hand slashes out, and a woman screams and screams and screams behind her duct tape.

I gasp as I see what I've done. I haven't slashed her throat. I've slashed her eyes. Blood pours from the corners of her eyes where I split the flesh. A weird, semi-clear goo oozes from the eyeballs and slides down, mixing with the blood. I didn't. I mumbled. I didn't do that.

Don't be modest, Morris says. And don't let her suffer too long. Finish the task. Before I can object, my hand whips out again, and this time a bloody smile to match her friends opens up in the Canadian hating woman's throat. I gasp and stumble back a little as my knees go weak. Morris is there to prop me up. Oh, you're doing wonderfully, Gordon, he says.

Halfway done. Then we get to meet her in all her glory. Halfway? I ask, as I'm guided another quarter of the way around the catwalk, to an empty chair. Those who have offended have been sacrificed, Morris says. Now we sacrifice one who we love. What?

I exclaim. What does that mean? It's all good, Gordon. Joe says and pushes past me in Morris, so he can take a seat in the empty chair. I've been prepared for this my whole life. Did you know my grandfather was a loving sacrifice, too? I shake my head.

Well, he was. Joe says and settles into the seat. He places his hands on his knees and smiles up at me. I'm ready. Let my loving sacrifice bring her to us all. To us all. The others echo. Although they are one less now.

Joe, I can't kill you, I say. You, uh, you fixed my ice maker last summer. How is it working? Still good? Um, yeah, sure. It makes great ice. That's wonderful to hear, Gordon. I am glad I could be as much service in life as I will be in death.

Morris? No fucking way! I turn and look at my what, captor, guide, homicidal guru? You already have, Morris says and nods. I look back to see Joe's throat wide open. His face filled with a peaceful bliss, as blood flows from the slash I hadn't even realized I'd made. He locks his eyes with me and tries to say something.

What? I ask. He thanks you, Morris says. The others echo. And then he's gone. The guy who not only fixed my ice maker, but also stained the back porch and fixed the leaky window and the salerer.

is dead and I killed him. I spin around, ready to plunge the knife into Morris's chest. He stands there, ready to die. My hand pauses in mid-stab. Then I let my arm fall to my side. Not because I don't want to kill him. I do. I really, really do. No, my arm falls to my side because it's hard to focus on anything except for the song coming from the ocean. It is a song built of many voices, millions of them. Yet, it is also a singular voice, a voice intended for me, for me alone. The song comes in like the wind, gusting against my head, my body, my soul. I sway, enraptured by its power, by its essence, by its love.

She waits, Gordon, Morris says from a million miles away, right in front of me. Yes, I smile at Morris. She does, doesn't she? Her song fills me. My smile widens. I turn away from Morris, no longer needing his guidance. I know where to go. Walking that last quarter of the walkway,

I am now directly in front of the light. Its brilliance blinds me, and even through the glass I can feel its heat. It is like a warm sun on a lazy afternoon, out on the water. There is someone sitting in the chair in front of me. I know this person. This person has been a part of my life for some of my life for some of the water. of my life for so many years. Yet this person isn't a friend. No, this person is someone who has wronged me, not offended, but wronged.

Jordy, I say as I crouch down in front of my former agent. You didn't make your flight, I see. He fights against the ropes and yells what I think is my name over and over behind his duct tape. I pat his knee and stand up. Do you know what to say? Morris asks from off to the side, well out of the lighthouse. I do. He does. The others add. Thanks guys, but I've got this, I say.

And it's true, I do have this. I clear my throat and lift my arms, my shadow swallowing Jordi's terrified form. I shout at the top of my lungs. I have come to bring you home. Hydra, I give you this betrayer. Mother Hydra, I give you this enemy. me. Mother Hydra, I spill his blood so you may come to us, and we may live in your grace and power and be whole once more. I slash, Jordi screams.

Mother Hydra, he bleeds for you and you alone. Mother Hydra, his sacrifice is my gift. Our gift, Morris says, and I hear the uncertainty in his voice. I ignore him. Mother Hydra, I am the split lamb. Mother Hydra, I am the only one who truly honors you. Uh, that's enough, Gordon, Morris says, and I hear grumbling from the others. You've gone a little off script. Mother Hydra, I give you all and accept your gifts as mine. Now hold on, Gordon, Morris protests.

He moves into the light as I expected he would. I slash, he cries out. What have you done? He gasps as he falls to a knee. Gordon, what have you done? I watch him collapse at my feet, his life spilling out of the grin in his throat, his blood dripping through the grating of the catwalk

and down onto the side of the lighthouse. The others tried to escape, but they can't. They never could. With the bodies caught, killed and collected at my feet. I stand once again in the light, in her light, Mother Hydra's light. I place the blade to my own throat, but I do not slash. Since the dawn of time, my blood has been entwined with yours. I cry out as the waters at the edge of the lighthouse is being churned wildly. Come to me, Mother Hydra. Come to your family. The water churns, churns, churns.

out from the surface and shoot toward me. They freeze only a fraction of an inch from my body. They wave in the air, not like appendages, but like wisps of gossum or silk. I feel their breeze, and I breathe deeply. Thank you, I kneel. A tentacle touches the crown of my head, and when I look back up, the beam of light is off, and she is gone. Return to the deep where she lives and watches, and will wait for another.

of my blood to restrainthen the bond in a hundred years or so. I have no clue how I know all of this. I simply do. Then I look at all the bodies and sigh. I have some housekeeping to do. By the time I am home, after having taken care of business and dumped the bodies out to sea, my own body is exhausted in a way I have never experienced. Except that my mind is not. I feel wide awake and buzzing with ideas. So I sit down in the den, open up that document, and reread the words. Before I even saw her, I knew we would be together forever. Then I add, because family knows family, and who are we without that bond?

Who are we without that link that transcends the past, the future, all of existence? I smile at the words and keep typing. and typing. For six days I type non-stop. No one calls. No one comes knocking on my door. No one interrupts me to ask if I've seen Morris or Joe or Miss Drummond or Mrs. Carlyle. No police ask if I've seen two missing tourists. And no one from Jordy's office calls wondering where he is. I am left completely alone until my work is done. And after six days of writing, I have my new manuscript finished. And on the seventh day, he rested, I say as I stagger away from my desk and collapse onto the couch. Then as I drift off, I realize I'll need a new agent.

I'll save that for tomorrow. Today, the split lamb sleeps, having finally been made whole again.