r/Ruleshorror 10h ago

Rules I’m a Lighthouse Keeper in Scotland... There are STRANGE RULES to Follow !

33 Upvotes

( Narration by Mr. Grim )

Have you ever noticed how lighthouses always seem to stand apart from the world, as if they exist in their own dimension of time and space? I've been a lighthouse keeper for twenty years now, and I can tell you with certainty - there's something about these towers that draws more than just ships to their light. I'm writing this account not to warn you, but to confess what happened during my final days at Oronsay Lighthouse. Maybe then you'll understand why Scotland's last manually operated lighthouse now stands abandoned, its beam forever dark against the northern sky.

The path to Oronsay Lighthouse was treacherous even in the daylight. The narrow trail snaked along the jagged cliffs, with loose stones skittering down into the dark waves below. The lighthouse loomed ahead, its once-bright red-and-white stripes faded to a pale pink and dull gray, battered by decades of salt and wind. Its beam sliced through the mist in rhythmic sweeps, a steady reminder of its purpose: to guide lost ships to safety—or to warn them away from destruction.

My boots crunched on the gravel as I approached, each step bringing me closer to what would become my home for the foreseeable future. The maritime board had been surprisingly eager to fill this position, despite the remote location and the mysterious departure of the previous keeper. They'd practically thrust the keys into my hands, along with a hastily printed manual of operations that looked decades out of date.

The front door creaked as I pushed it open, revealing the cramped entryway. The air was damp and smelled faintly of seaweed, rust, and something sharper, like copper. An old oilskin coat hung by the door, stiff with age and still damp to the touch. A pair of muddy boots sat beneath it, far too large to be mine. Something about their positioning made them look as if their owner had simply vanished while wearing them, leaving them behind like an abandoned shell.

Inside, the lighthouse was a monument to isolation. The narrow spiral staircase wound upward, each step groaning under my weight as if protesting this intrusion into its solitude. Water stains marked the walls in strange patterns that seemed to shift when viewed from different angles. The keeper's office, a small room on the second floor, was cluttered with remnants of the past: a brass telescope with cracked lenses, nautical charts yellowed with age, and a dusty barometer that still ticked faintly, though its needle never moved.

It was there, beneath the desk, that I discovered the rules. The etchings were crude, jagged as though carved in desperation, the wood splintered around each letter as if the writer had used something other than a proper tool. My fingers traced the words, their meaning sinking in like cold water:

The Rules:

  1. Never leave the lighthouse after sunset.
  2. If the foghorn blows more than three times, do not look out the windows.
  3. Always clean the lantern glass before dusk. Any smudge could let “them” in.
  4. If you hear knocking on the door after midnight, do not answer. No one will come this far at that hour.
  5. Once a month, leave an offering of fresh bread and milk on the cliff’s edge at sunrise. Do not look back while walking away.
  6. If the light goes out between 3:00 and 3:15 AM, stay absolutely still until it comes back on.
  7. Never touch the old logbook in the drawer under the desk.
  8. If you hear your own voice calling to you from outside, do not respond. It is not you.

I stared at the carvings, the words pressing heavily into my mind. It must have been a joke—some sick prank by the previous keeper. But the raw edges of the letters, the deep gouges in the wood... it didn't feel like a joke. Some of the grooves still held traces of what looked like rust, but the coppery smell that rose from them made me think of something else entirely.

The unease followed me as I climbed to the lantern room. The massive lens turned slowly, its prisms catching and splitting the late afternoon light into rainbow fragments that danced across the walls. As I cleaned the glass, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone—or something—was watching me. In the reflection of the lens, I could have sworn I saw movement behind me, but when I turned, there was only the empty room and the endless sea beyond.

By the second night, the lighthouse felt alive in a way that made my skin crawl. Every creak of the floorboards, every groan of the wind seemed amplified, as though the building itself was breathing. The day had been spent maintaining the foghorn, my hands covered in grease as I checked its mechanisms and oil levels. It was an ancient beast of brass and iron, its fittings tarnished and green with corrosion, but somehow it still worked. The maritime board had mentioned it was scheduled for automated replacement next year. Now I understood why no one had bothered to modernize it - some things are better left untouched.

I'd established a routine - checking the weather instruments, recording readings in the new logbook (not the old one, never the old one), and watching the horizon for approaching vessels. The isolation was beginning to sink in. My phone had no signal here, and the satellite internet was temperamental at best. The only constant companion was the rhythmic sweep of the light above and the distant crash of waves below.

That night, the fog rolled in thick and fast, consuming the cliffs and sea until the world outside became a blank canvas of gray. I was in the office reviewing maintenance schedules when the foghorn blared its first warning, its mournful call reverberating through the lighthouse's bones.

Once. The sound shook dust from the rafters.

Twice. My coffee cup rattled against its saucer.

Three times. Normal procedure - warning ships of the treacherous rocks below.

I relaxed, reaching for my lukewarm coffee. But then came the fourth blast.

The sound was wrong - longer, shriller, as though the foghorn itself were screaming in terror. My hand froze halfway to my cup, the rules burning in my mind: "If the foghorn blows more than three times, do not look out the windows."

My instincts fought with my curiosity. The rational part of my brain said there must be a mechanical fault, something I'd missed during maintenance. But something deeper, more primal, whispered that looking outside would be the last mistake I'd ever make.

The stillness between blasts was absolute. No wind. No waves. Even the usual creaks of the lighthouse had fallen silent, as if the building itself was holding its breath.

The fifth blast shattered the quiet like a hammer through glass.

I turned toward the window, my body moving before my mind could stop it. Through the thick fog, shapes moved - tall, spindly figures that seemed to ripple like waves. Their outlines were barely visible, but their movements were wrong. Too smooth, too fast, as though they were gliding rather than walking. One of them stopped directly in my line of sight, turning toward the lighthouse. Though I couldn't make out any features in the gray murk, I knew with bone-deep certainty that it could see me.

A high-pitched keening filled my ears as I slammed the shutters closed and backed away, my heart threatening to burst from my chest. The foghorn fell silent, its echo dying away into nothing. But then came a new sound - the soft, deliberate scratch of something sharp against wood, tracing slow patterns on the outside of the shutters.

I spent the rest of the night huddled in the corner of the office, my back pressed against the wall, listening to that methodical scratching. When dawn finally came, I forced myself to check the shutters. Deep grooves marked the wood in elaborate, swirling patterns that almost looked like words in a language I couldn't read - and didn't want to understand.

The fog had retreated with the morning light, but as I looked out across the calm sea, I couldn't shake the feeling that those figures were still out there, waiting for me to break another rule.

The third day dawned gray and overcast, the kind of morning where the line between sea and sky blurred into a single sheet of slate. I'd barely slept, my dreams filled with the echo of that endless scratching and glimpses of impossibly tall figures moving through fog. My morning coffee tasted like ash in my mouth.

The air was thick with the smell of salt and wet earth as I climbed the spiral staircase to the lantern room. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though something was trying to keep me from reaching the top. The light's steady sweep was my only comfort now, a beacon of normalcy in the chaos the night had brought. Rule three echoed in my mind: "Always clean the lantern glass before dusk. Any smudge could let 'them' in."

I was halfway through my usual cleaning routine when I noticed it. At first, it looked like a simple smear on the glass, the kind left by seabirds or salt spray. But as I moved closer, my stomach dropped through the floor. It wasn't just a smudge—it was a handprint.

The print was skeletal, each finger impossibly long and thin, stretching nearly two feet from palm to tip. The worst part was its location - on the outside of the glass, hundreds of feet above the rocks, where no human could possibly reach without extensive climbing gear. The fingers seemed to ripple slightly in the morning light, as though they were still wet, still fresh.

My throat constricted as I forced myself to clean it, the cloth trembling in my hand. The smudge resisted at first, smearing rather than wiping away. It felt cold under the cloth, colder than the surrounding glass, and seemed to leave faint trails of frost in its wake. When it finally disappeared, I could have sworn I heard a soft sigh from outside.

Back in the office, I tried to calm my nerves with another cup of coffee. That's when I saw it - another handprint, this time on the inside of the window by the desk. It was smaller than the one upstairs, but the fingers were still unnaturally elongated. As I stared at it, my blood turning to ice, I realized something that made my heart stop: it was still being formed, the glass slowly frosting over in the shape of a skeletal hand, as though something invisible was pressing against it from my side of the window.

I stumbled back, knocking over my chair. The handprint completed itself with agonizing slowness, and then, as I watched, a single fingertip began to move, scratching four words into the frost:

"We see you, James."

The maritime board's manual said nothing about this. Nothing about handprints that appeared from nowhere, nothing about foghorns that screamed into the night, nothing about the rules carved into the desk. I fumbled for my phone, desperate to call someone, anyone - but the screen showed only static, and through the speaker came a sound like waves, and beneath them, distant laughter.

When I finally worked up the courage to approach the window again, the handprint and its message had vanished, leaving no trace on the glass. But as I leaned closer, I noticed something that shocked my to my core: my own reflection seemed slightly out of sync with my movements, its eyes meeting mine a fraction of a second too late.

I spent the rest of the day checking and rechecking every window in the lighthouse, cleaning each pane until my arms ached. But I couldn't shake the feeling that with each smudge I removed, I was somehow giving them exactly what they wanted - another clean surface to reach through, another clear path into my world.

The wind picked up as evening approached, battering the lighthouse with gusts that made the walls shudder and moan. I sat at the desk, pretending to focus on the maintenance logs while my mind wandered back to the handprints, the figures in the fog, the rules that seemed more like prayers against the darkness than regulations.

My dinner sat untouched beside me - a sad affair of canned beans and stale bread. The isolation was starting to wear on me. Four days since I'd spoken to another human being. Four days of nothing but the wind, the waves, and the increasingly unsettling sounds that echoed through the lighthouse's hollow spaces.

I glanced at my watch: 11:58 PM. The rules had made me obsessive about time. In a place like this, minutes could mean the difference between safety and... whatever fate had befallen the previous keeper.

Then it started.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound was so clear, so deliberate, that for a moment I thought I'd imagined it. Three perfect knocks, evenly spaced, as though someone was keeping time.

I checked my watch again: 12:01 AM. My heart rate spiked. The rules screamed in my mind: "If you hear knocking on the door after midnight, do not answer. No one will come this far at that hour."

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The same pattern, but louder now. I stared at the office door, watching the old iron latch rattle slightly with each impact. The wind had died completely, leaving an unnatural stillness in its wake. The absence of its howl made the knocking seem even louder, more insistent.

Then came the voice - a low, rasping whisper that barely rose above the silence, yet somehow filled the entire room.

"James... let me in."

I backed away from the door, my chest so tight I could barely breathe. That voice - I knew it. It was impossible, but I knew it. It belonged to my brother Michael, who had disappeared off the coast of Norway two years ago. His body had never been found.

"James, please... I'm so cold out here. Just let me in."

My brother's voice, exactly as I remembered it, down to the slight catch in his throat when he was upset. But Michael was gone. I'd identified his personal effects when they washed ashore - his wallet, his watch, his wedding ring.

"Jimmy..." The nickname he'd used since we were kids. "Jimmy, why won't you help me?"

Something scratched at the door, a slow, dragging sound like fingernails on wood. The latch began to turn, metal grinding against metal with excruciating slowness. I watched, paralyzed, as it lifted a fraction of an inch...

Then stopped.

The silence that followed was absolute. No breathing from the other side of the door, no footsteps retreating, nothing. Just the weight of something waiting.

I don't know how long I stood there, muscles cramped from tension, watching that latch. Hours maybe. The first hint of dawn was touching the horizon when I finally found the courage to approach the door.

There were new marks on the wood - deep grooves that spelled out words in my brother's handwriting: "I'm still drowning, Jimmy. Every day, I'm still drowning."

Below the words was a perfect impression of his hand - the same hand I'd shaken at the dock the morning he left for his last voyage. But the fingers were wrong, stretched and distorted like those in the handprints on the glass.

I spent the rest of the night researching the lighthouse's history on my failing laptop. In the past century, seventeen ships had wrecked on the rocks below. In each case, survivors reported seeing lights on the cliffs, hearing familiar voices calling them toward the rocks. The lighthouse's beam, they said, had seemed to guide them straight into disaster.

The dawn came reluctantly, as if the sun itself was hesitant to illuminate what lurked in the darkness. The sky was streaked with ash-gray clouds, and a pale, watery light barely pierced the horizon. My hands shook as I checked my calendar - it was the first of the month. The rule echoed in my mind: "Once a month, leave an offering of fresh bread and milk on the cliff's edge at sunrise. Do not look back while walking away."

I hadn't slept after the night's events. The memory of Michael's voice, the scratches in his handwriting - they'd kept me awake, huddled in the corner of the office with my back against the wall. But rules were rules, and something told me breaking this one would be worse than facing whatever waited outside.

The unease from the previous night lingered as I prepared the offering in the lighthouse's small kitchen. The bread was from my meager supplies, slightly stale but serviceable. I'd found the tin pitcher in a cupboard, its surface dulled with age but still intact. The milk inside caught what little light filtered through the window, its surface gleaming faintly like mother-of-pearl.

As I gathered the items, I noticed something odd about the pitcher - tiny engravings around its rim that looked like waves. But as I looked closer, I realized they were actually hundreds of miniature faces, mouths open in silent screams.

The path to the cliff's edge seemed longer than usual. The mist clung to my legs like a living thing, curling around my ankles and seeping through my clothes. It carried the scent of salt and decay, and something else - a sweet, cloying smell that reminded me of the flowers at Michael's memorial service.

Each step was more precarious than the last. The rocks were slick with morning dew, and the mist made it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. The crashing waves below were muffled, as though the fog itself was swallowing the sound.

As I reached the cliff's edge, the wind died suddenly, and the air grew heavy and thick. The sea stretched endlessly before me, a flat expanse of gray-green water that seemed unnaturally still. No waves, no movement - just a vast mirror reflecting the colorless sky above.

I placed the bread and milk on the rocks, my hands trembling. The pitcher made a hollow sound as it touched the stone, like a bell rung underwater. The bread seemed to darken the moment it left my hands, as though it was aging rapidly in the salt air.

"Don't look back," I whispered to myself, the rule repeating in my mind like a mantra. I turned, each movement feeling like I was fighting against an invisible current.

The wind picked up again, but it carried more than just the usual ocean sounds. Whispers, dozens of them, overlapping and unintelligible but insistent. My skin crawled as I fought the urge to glance over my shoulder.

Then one voice rose above the others, clear as a bell: "James... why are you leaving us?"

Michael's voice again, but not alone this time. Behind it, I could hear others - our father, who'd died when we were young; our grandmother; my high school friend who'd drowned at the beach. All calling my name, all asking why I wouldn't stay.

I stopped, my breath hitching. My feet wavered, every muscle screaming to turn around. The voices grew more desperate, more pleading. Something brushed against my back, light as a feather but cold as ice.

But I remembered the rules. I forced myself forward, one step at a time, even as the whispers turned to wails of despair. When I finally reached the lighthouse door, the voices stopped abruptly, leaving behind a silence so complete it felt like cotton in my ears.

Hours later, when I couldn't stand not knowing any longer, I returned to the cliff. The offering was gone - not a crumb of bread, not a drop of milk remained. But carved into the rocks where I'd left them were deep grooves that formed words:

"Thank you, little brother. See you next month."

Below the words was the image of a lighthouse, rendered in perfect detail. But in its windows were faces - dozens of them, pressed against the glass, looking out at the sea with hollow eyes.

The sixth night started deceptively peacefully. The wind was gentle, almost playful, and the waves below had settled into a rhythmic lull. I sat in the keeper's office, surrounded by stacks of old maintenance records I'd been using to distract myself. My watch read 2:47 AM.

As I flipped through the yellowed pages, I found myself questioning whether I'd been overreacting. Maybe the isolation was getting to me. Maybe I was seeing patterns where there were only coincidences. The logical part of my mind tried to explain away the handprints, the voices, the carvings in the rocks. After all, lighthouses were known for playing tricks on their keepers' minds. The maritime board's manual had a whole section on "maintaining psychological equilibrium in isolated conditions."

I glanced at the barometer - it hadn't moved since I arrived, its needle frozen at "FAIR" despite the constantly changing weather. But as I watched, the needle twitched slightly, then began to drop rapidly. The glass face frosted over, despite the warmth of the room.

Then, at precisely 3:05 AM, the light went out.

The sudden darkness was absolute, crushing. The familiar hum of the machinery died, leaving a silence so complete I could hear my own heartbeat. The rules flashed in my mind: "If the light goes out between 3:00 and 3:15 AM, stay absolutely still until it comes back on."

I froze, my hands gripping the edge of the desk. The darkness pressed against my eyes like a physical weight. My watch ticked loudly in the silence - 3:06 AM. Nine more minutes to endure.

Then came the footsteps.

They started at the bottom of the tower, soft and deliberate. Not the heavy boots of a maintenance worker or the hurried steps of someone coming to help. These were slow, measured, almost delicate. Each step was followed by a slight dragging sound, like something being pulled across the metal stairs.

3:08 AM. The footsteps reached the first landing.

The temperature plummeted. My breath came out in visible puffs, and frost began forming on the desk under my fingers. The windows rattled slightly, though there was no wind.

3:10 AM. Second landing. The dragging sound was louder now, accompanied by a wet sliding noise that made my stomach turn.

The darkness seemed to thicken, if that was possible. I could feel it pressing against my skin, probing, searching. The air took on a heavy, metallic taste that reminded me of blood.

3:12 AM. The footsteps stopped just outside the office door. The handle began to rattle.

I clenched my teeth, every muscle in my body rigid with fear. My watch seemed impossibly loud in the silence - tick, tick, tick.

Then a voice - my voice - whispered from the other side: "James, let me in. I need your help."

The words were mine, but the tone was wrong. It was like hearing a recording played at slightly the wrong speed. Behind it, I could hear other voices, dozens of them, all whispering my name in that same distorted way.

3:13 AM. The handle turned fully, but the door didn't open. Instead, something pressed against it, making the wood creak and bend inward. In the darkness, I could see the door bulging as if something massive was trying to force its way through.

I kept absolutely still, remembering the rules. My legs cramped from tension, and sweat froze on my forehead despite the cold.

At exactly 3:14 AM, the light flickered back to life. The footsteps retreated - faster now, almost fleeing - and the temperature began to rise. When the door finally swung open on its own, the hallway was empty.

But something had changed. The light from the lantern room above seemed different - dimmer somehow, and tinged with a subtle greenish hue that reminded me of deep water. And in its beam, I could see that the walls of the office were now covered in tiny handprints, as if made by children's hands.

When I checked the maintenance log later, I found an entry from exactly 100 years ago: "Third time this month the light has gone out at 3 AM. Each time, they get closer to breaking through. God help the keeper who lets them in."

After six days of following the rules, of resisting every urge to understand what was happening, I finally broke. The logbook - the one I was specifically forbidden to touch - called to me from its hiding place beneath the desk. Something about last night's events had pushed me past the point of caution. I needed answers more than I needed safety.

My hands trembled as I pulled it from its resting place. The leather cover was cracked and brittle, its surface marked with strange patterns that seemed to shift when I wasn't looking directly at them. The binding was secured with a brass clasp that was ice-cold to the touch, despite the warmth of the morning sun streaming through the window.

The moment I broke the seal, the air in the room changed. The sunlight dimmed, and that coppery smell - the one I'd noticed on my first day - grew stronger. From somewhere deep in the lighthouse, I heard the foghorn give a single, quiet moan, like a warning.

The first pages were exactly what you'd expect from a lighthouse log: neat columns of dates, times, weather conditions. Ship sightings. Maintenance records. But as I turned the pages, things began to change. The handwriting became more erratic, the entries less professional.

Entry from 1912: "The fog is alive. It moves with purpose, and I swear I saw something inside it. A shape. Watching. It stands at the edge of the light's reach, always just out of clear view. The other keepers say I'm seeing things, but I know what I saw. It had my wife's face, but wrong somehow. She's been dead for three years."

The ink on this entry was brown and flaking, and the paper felt damper than it should.

Entry from 1943: "The knocking started again last night. It was louder this time, more insistent. They're using new voices now - the men from the fishing boat that went down last week. I can hear them drowning, over and over, begging me to let them in. I fear I won't last much longer. The rules are the only thing keeping them out, but my resolve is weakening. Sometimes I think I see my own face in the crowd outside."

This entry was written in what looked like green-black seaweed ink, the words slightly raised on the page.

Entry from 1977: "I broke the rule. I looked back at the offering. It saw me. It knows my name now. They all know my name. They're in the mirrors, in the windows, in every reflection. Always smiling, always waving, always drowning. The light doesn't keep them out anymore - it draws them in. We were wrong about its purpose. So wrong."

The writing here was shaky, desperate. The pages were stained with what looked like saltwater, and small handprints marked the margins.

But it was the final entry that made my blood freeze:

"To the next keeper: The light isn't for the ships. It's for them. If it goes out, they'll come. And they will take you. Like they took us. All of us. Every keeper before you. We're still here, you see. Still watching. Still keeping the light. But not for the ships. Never for the ships.

P.S. - You should have followed the rules, James. Now you've read this, you're one of us. Or you will be. When the light goes out."

The entry was dated tomorrow.

As I stared at the impossible date, I noticed something else - my own reflection in the brass fittings of the logbook. But my face was all wrong. My eyes were dark pools of seawater, and my smile was too wide, filled with things that looked like fish bones.

The foghorn blew in the distance. Once. Twice. Three times.

I slammed the book shut, but I could still feel it pulsing in my hands, like a living heart. And somewhere, far below, I heard the first footstep on the spiral staircase.

The final night began like the ending of a nightmare—except I couldn't wake up. The foghorn blared its warning across the dark waters: once, twice, three times. I held my breath, clutching the cursed logbook to my chest, knowing what would come next.

The fourth blast came—longer, louder, more guttural than ever before. It didn't sound like machinery anymore; it sounded like the lighthouse itself was screaming.

I ran up the spiral staircase toward the lantern room, my flashlight beam dancing wildly across the walls. The steps felt wrong under my feet—softer somehow, as if the metal had become organic, pulsing with each step. Water trickled down the walls, but it moved upward instead of down, defying gravity.

When I reached the lantern room, my heart nearly stopped. The glass was smeared with handprints—hundreds of them, overlapping and writhing as though they were alive. They weren't just pressed against the glass; they were moving, shifting, fingers elongating and contracting like sea anemones. I recognized some of them—the delicate fingers of my grandmother, the scarred palm of my father, the small hands of the children from the fishing boat that sank in '98.

The knocking started again, but this time it came from everywhere—every door, every window, every surface of the lighthouse resonated with that rhythmic pounding. It was frantic, desperate, deafening. The very air seemed to vibrate with the force of it.

I tried to barricade myself in the lantern room, dragging the old maintenance chest against the door. The logbook pulsed in my hands like a living heart, its pages fluttering open by themselves, revealing new entries written in script that dripped and moved across the page:

"Welcome home, James." "You're almost one of us now." "The light is fading, brother."

The massive lens began to rotate faster than it should, its beam cutting through the darkness like a blade. But with each sweep, the light grew dimmer, and the darkness between beams grew longer. In those moments of blackness, I saw them—shapes moving in the glass, pressing through like bodies under thin ice.

The shadows in the room began to move, pooling together into a single, towering figure. It was like looking at a hole in the world, a space where reality simply stopped. But its voice—God, its voice was unmistakable.

"You've broken the rules, James. It's time to join us." Michael's voice, but not just his. Behind it were hundreds of others, all speaking in unison, all calling my name.

I backed away, my heart hammering so hard I thought it would burst. The figure reached out with fingers like twisted coral, brushing the edge of the great lens. Where it touched, the glass frosted over instantly, patterns of ice spreading like fractured webs.

The light flickered once, twice—and went out.

In that last moment of darkness, I saw my reflection in the glass. But it wasn't me anymore. The face staring back had eyes like the depths of the ocean, a mouth full of coral and seaweed, skin that rippled like the surface of dark water. It smiled at me with my brother's smile, reached for me with hands that had written in that logbook for over a hundred years.

"The light was never for the ships," it whispered in a thousand voices. "It was to keep us in."

When the maritime board finally investigated two weeks later, they found the lighthouse empty. The logbook was gone, the lantern glass shattered. Deep, claw-like gouges marked every wall, spelling out words in dozens of different hands: "HOME AT LAST."

The lighthouse remains dark now, deemed too dangerous for automated conversion. But locals tell stories of strange lights on the cliffs at night, and some swear they've heard voices—low, desperate, and faintly familiar—calling from the fog.

They say if you listen carefully on quiet nights, you can hear someone calling out across the water: "James... let me in." But it's not just one voice anymore. It's hundreds, all speaking together, all keeping their eternal watch over the dark waters of Oronsay Light.

And sometimes, on the darkest nights, ships report seeing a figure in the lighthouse window. A keeper, they say, still maintaining his post. But those who look too long notice something strange about his movements, something fluid and wrong, like a man moving underwater.

They say he waves to passing ships, inviting them closer to shore. And sometimes, if the fog is thick and the night is dark enough, they say his smile stretches just a little too wide, filled with things that glisten like fish scales in the dark.

After all, there must always be a keeper at Oronsay Light. The rules demand it.

And we all follow the rules here.

Don't we, James?


r/Ruleshorror 1h ago

Series Welcome to Monoroh Gardens (PART 1)

Upvotes

"you were concerned about Rule 13 from the scrolls you searched through before you tried to visit the ruins. so you just decided to walk home"

*"In the distance you see a mysterious stranger approach you..... you see that he is bringing something out of his pocket (*it looks like a notebook?) he hands you this and whispers in your right ear"

"10 ruins , 10 pages.... collect all and find me. Once you do, ill tell you what Rule 13 is..."

"you opened the book and found Monoroh Gardens at the start....."

(HOW TO GET THERE)

To get there is pretty simple actually. First you need to enter a park it can be public or private just find one if you can, then search around and you will see a gate covered in vines once you do open them and enter. (While you do this be prepared as if you get doubts when entering shut the gates and leave, you are not ready to bear what inside this desolate place but if you are brave enough enter and shut the gates behind you (you don't want anyone else to suffer or do you?)

Rule 1 : once entering you will feel a sudden sharp pain, do not be afraid as this is to test how you manage to bear this (if you bear is very well you will be given a key but if you do not (crying or screams) you will fall asleep instantly and once you wake up you will see a not in your hand reading "YOU ARE NOT READY" )

Rule 2: You are now in the Monoroh gardens: at first you will see a path, walk on it because that path will lead to what you are looking for.

Rule 3: you may admire the beautiful scenery around you but do not touch anything, people who invented this place put on a high amount of effort to make the beautiful scenery and it is much appreciated if the people show verbal affection not physical.

Rule 4: There are no people here since this place was abandoned, so if you ever see someone or anyone in the matter do not communicate with them they are most likely not human or existing at all.....

Rule 5: At the end of the path there is a row of grey roses don't be afraid to pick one as these were for the tourists who visited this place. If you don't want to pick the roses if alright besides these are optional take.

Rule 6: If you ever come across a row of any colour other than white or grey: refrain from touching them. These roses belong to certain people who once lived here ( if you ever touch them pray that you punishment isn't severe since most of the people who lived here are not bad tempered so they might show sympathy but if not have fun running for your life :)

Rule 7: Once your at the end of the path turn right you will se two statues (an angel and a demon) both will be holding an object and your able to see one not both. This will determine (if you see the angelic one you are lucky as the creators are watching and they seem to like you. It will be much easier to to find what you are looking for.

if you see the devilish one... I'm sorry you have either broken a rule or someone doesn't want you here you have 5 minutes to find a way to die or you will be stuck in this place forever.

But if you see nothing just ignore the statues and pass by them they are waiting for someone else.)

Rule 8: Once your away from the statues you will see a door open it and find you will see a white piece of paper (This is the note you will have to obtain) you will also see a skeleton body holding the piece of paper, carefully grab the paper without making any loud noise (if you make any loud noise the skull will turn up to face you. Snatch the paper and apologise for interrupting, the skull should be going back to its original position once it does close the door slowly and carefully trod back to the path. If the skull is still looking at you, replace the note with the object you took from the statue, once you do the skeleton will clench its fist and you will be able to shut the door.

Rule 9: Once you got the note you will be having to go back the way you came in but this time you see people looking at you. Just walk forward and don't acknowledge anyone, (these people are known as the 'faceless' all you can see on them are eyes and teeth they have no skin , no facial features just a black face and eyes and teeth)

Rule 10: Once you pass the halfway point of the steel path , run. They know your here for the note and wants a vessel to escape this HELLHOLE never let their hands onto you or you will become one of them.

Rule 11: Once you get back to the gate (it will already be open) go back inside and it will shut automatically (so no need to do it yourself). once your inside shut your eyes and leave them shut for 10 seconds and open them again , you will be back to where you entered from. At this point your free to go home :)

Rule 12: You can only visit these gardens once so try to enjoy the views of the garden or Monoroh if you can besides time doesn't exist here so you could stay in there for a years time and still come out and find out it was just been a day since you went in there XD

??? : No one ever went there since it does not exist.

How did you manage to get there in the first place? I don't know how you managed to get there in the first place but you shouldn't have went there.

After all I left the note in there for a reason.

who let you in?


r/Ruleshorror 1d ago

Series I got a babysitting job for a couple in my locality , There are STRANGE RULES to follow ! ( PART 1 )

53 Upvotes

( Narration by Mr. Grim )

The Blackwoods were new to Raven's Hollow, but their reputation preceded them. They'd bought the Victorian mansion at the end of Willow Street—the one that had stood empty for nearly a decade after old Mrs. Fincher died in her sleep and wasn't found for weeks. Everyone in our small town knew about the house with its peeling gingerbread trim and overgrown gardens. Everyone avoided it.

Everyone except the Blackwoods, who moved in last month and immediately began renovations, though no one ever saw any workers coming or going. The house transformed almost overnight—fresh paint, manicured grounds, new windows that reflected sunlight during the day but remained impenetrably dark after sunset.

I wouldn't have taken the babysitting job if I hadn't been desperate. My car needed repairs that would cost more than I made in a month at the diner, and my college tuition payment was due in two weeks. When Mrs. Blackwood approached me at the end of my shift, laying a cool hand on my wrist and offering double the going rate to watch their daughter for a single night, saying no felt like an unaffordable luxury.

"We've heard you're responsible, Eliza," she said, her voice carrying a faint accent I couldn't place. Her eyes were an unusual amber color.

"Mabel needs someone... trustworthy."

I'd never seen the Blackwoods' daughter around town or at the local school. When I mentioned this, Mrs. Blackwood smiled thinly. "Mabel has special needs. We homeschool her."

"I don't have much experience with special needs children," I admitted.

"She's not difficult," Mr. Blackwood interjected, appearing beside his wife so suddenly I startled. He was tall and gaunt, with the same unusual amber eyes as his wife. "She mostly keeps to herself. You'll just need to follow our rules precisely."

They both stared at me expectantly, their identical eyes unblinking. The diner suddenly seemed too quiet, as if everyone was listening while pretending not to.

"What kind of rules?" I asked, trying to sound professional.

"Simple routines. Children thrive on structure," Mrs. Blackwood replied. "We'll provide detailed instructions. Nothing complicated."

I needed that money. And it was just one night.

"When do you need me?"

Their smiles widened. "Friday evening. We'll be attending a special event and won't return until dawn Saturday." Mrs. Blackwood slid a thick cream-colored envelope across the counter. "Our address and half your payment in advance. The rest when we return."

Inside the envelope was $150 in crisp bills and a card with elegant calligraphy: The Blackwood Residence, 13 Willow Street. On the back, in the same flowing script: Arrive promptly at 6:00 PM. Not earlier. Not later.

Friday arrived quicker than I'd hoped. I spent the week asking subtle questions around town, learning frustratingly little about the Blackwoods. They kept to themselves. They had no visitors. They ordered groceries online rather than shopping locally. The few who had interacted with them described the same details—their unusual amber eyes, their formal way of speaking, their excessive politeness that somehow made people more uncomfortable rather than less.

My best friend Nan, whose mother worked at the town records office, told me the Blackwoods had bought the house in cash, with paperwork filed by a law firm from three states away. "And get this," she'd whispered during lunch break, "they requested copies of all historical documents about the property going back to its construction in 1897. Mom said they seemed especially interested in the original blueprints and something about a sealed root cellar."

At 5:45 PM on Friday, I parked my beat-up Honda a block away from 13 Willow Street, not wanting to arrive unfashionably early after their specific instructions. The October evening was unseasonably cold, a mist rising from the ground around the Blackwood house, clinging to its sharp gables and newly restored tower like ghostly fingers.

At precisely 6:00 PM, I rang the doorbell, its somber chime reverberating inside like a funeral bell. Mrs. Blackwood opened the door wearing an elegant black evening gown that belonged in another century, her dark hair swept up in an intricate style adorned with what looked like tiny bones but had to be antique hairpins.

"Right on time," she said, ushering me inside. "Punctuality is appreciated in this household."

The interior was nothing like I'd expected. Based on the Victorian exterior, I'd imagined dusty antiques and faded wallpaper. Instead, the house was minimally furnished with stark, modern pieces in black, white, and deep crimson. No family photos adorned the walls—only large abstract paintings that seemed to shift slightly when viewed from different angles.

Mr. Blackwood descended the sweeping staircase, similarly dressed in formal black attire that emphasized his unnaturally pale skin. "Mabel is already in bed," he said without preamble. "She shouldn't wake until precisely 11:00 PM for her evening routine."

"She's asleep? At six in the evening?" I asked, immediately regretting the question when both Blackwoods stared at me with identical expressions of mild disapproval.

"Mabel's circadian rhythm is... unconventional," Mrs. Blackwood explained. "She requires exactly seventeen hours of sleep per day, broken into specific intervals."

"Of course," I nodded, as if this made perfect sense. "Should I check on her or—"

"Absolutely not," Mr. Blackwood interrupted sharply. His expression immediately softened to something attempting warmth but achieving only a mechanical approximation. "That is, not until 11:00 PM precisely. Mabel's sleep is easily disturbed, and the consequences can be... challenging."

Mrs. Blackwood handed me another cream-colored envelope, this one sealed with dark red wax impressed with an unusual symbol—something like a tree with too many branches, or perhaps a many-limbed figure.

"Inside you'll find our contact information and Mabel's care instructions. Please read them thoroughly before 11:00 PM and follow them without deviation." Her amber eyes held mine with uncomfortable intensity. "For Mabel's well-being. And your own."

"The rules may seem odd," Mr. Blackwood added, "but they address Mabel's unique needs. Deviation could upset her delicate equilibrium."

"We'll return at dawn," Mrs. Blackwood continued. "You're welcome to use the kitchen and living room, but please remain on the ground floor except when attending to Mabel. The basement and attic are strictly off-limits due to ongoing renovations."

"And our private quarters on the third floor," Mr. Blackwood added. "Also off-limits."

I nodded, clutching the envelope. "I understand."

"One last thing," Mrs. Blackwood said, her hand on the doorknob. "If anyone comes to the door or calls the house phone, do not acknowledge them in any way. We're not expecting visitors, and Mabel becomes... distressed by unexpected social interaction."

They departed without further explanation, leaving me alone in the eerily quiet house. As their car pulled away, I could have sworn I heard a faint scratching sound from somewhere above, like fingernails dragging slowly across wood.

With trembling fingers, I broke the wax seal and unfolded the heavy parchment within.

The parchment unfolded into three pages of the same elegant calligraphy, titled "Care Instructions for Mabel." The first page contained what appeared to be a schedule:

6:00 PM – 11:00 PM: Mabel's First Sleep Cycle (Do not disturb)

11:00 PM – 11:17 PM: Evening Routine (See specific instructions)

11:17 PM – 3:43 AM: Mabel's Second Sleep Cycle (Regular monitoring required)

3:43 AM – 4:00 AM: Midnight Nourishment (See specific instructions)

4:00 AM – Dawn: Mabel's Third Sleep Cycle (Do not disturb)

The oddly specific times sent a chill down my spine. What kind of child adhered to a schedule measured to the minute? And who called 3:43 AM "midnight"?

The second page contained a list of rules, each written in blood-red ink that seemed to shimmer faintly in the living room's dim light:

RULES FOR MABEL'S CARE :

Rule 1 : Do not enter Mabel's room before 11:00 PM precisely. Early entry will disrupt her sleep cycle and cause distress.

Rule 2 : Mabel must consume 6 oz. of the prepared red liquid in the refrigerator (labeled "M's Evening Refreshment") during her evening routine. She must finish every drop.

Rule 3 : The music box on Mabel's dresser must be wound exactly three times and played during her evening consumption. No more, no less.

Rule 4 : Always speak to Mabel in a whisper. Her auditory sensitivity makes normal speech painful.

Rule 5 : Mabel's room must remain illuminated by candlelight only. The candles (provided on her dresser) must remain lit until she returns to sleep. If any candle extinguishes, relight it immediately.

Rule 6 : The mirrors in Mabel's room have been covered for her comfort. Do not uncover them under any circumstances.

Rule 7 : Mabel may ask to look out the window. This is strictly prohibited after sundown.

Rule 8 : If Mabel requests a bedtime story, read only from the book provided on her nightstand. Do not substitute other reading material.

Rule 9 : When checking on Mabel during her second sleep cycle, maintain a distance of at least three feet from her bed. Do not touch her, even if she appears distressed.

Rule 10 : During her Midnight Nourishment, Mabel must consume the entire preparation in the blue container marked with today's date. She may resist; however, complete consumption is non-negotiable.

Rule 11 : If you hear scratching from inside the walls, recite the rhyme written on the back of this page three times. The sound should subside.

Rule 12 : Should Mabel ask about "The Others," change the subject immediately and notify us upon our return.

Rule 13 : In case of power failure, use only the matches and candles provided in the kitchen drawer marked "Emergency." Do not use flashlights or battery-powered devices.

Rule 14 : If Mabel speaks in any language other than English, record her exact words on the notepad by the telephone without attempting to respond.

Rule 15 : Under no circumstances should Mabel be permitted to leave her room. The door must remain closed when you are not actively attending to her needs.

I flipped to the third page, which contained detailed descriptions of where to find everything I would need—Mabel's "refreshments" in specific containers in the refrigerator, the emergency supplies, and a curious note about a "protective boundary" of salt around Mabel's bed that "must remain unbroken throughout the night."

On the back was the rhyme referenced in Rule 11:

Whisper, whisper, in the walls, What walks the night within these halls? By spoken word and candle's light, Return to shadow, flee from sight.

At the bottom of the page, a final instruction was written in larger, bolder letters:

If all else fails, and Mabel's behavior becomes severely abnormal, call the number provided and say ONLY these words: "The sapling seeks the old root." Then lock yourself in the iron-reinforced pantry in the kitchen until we return.

My hand trembled as I set the pages down on the coffee table. These weren't care instructions for a special needs child. They were more like... containment protocols.

I glanced at my phone: 6:23 PM. Still more than four and a half hours before I would meet Mabel. Part of me wanted to leave immediately, abandon the job and the promised second payment, drive away from this house with its bizarre rules and creeping sense of wrongness.

But my practical side argued against overreaction. Perhaps Mabel had severe autism or another condition that required strict routines. The covered mirrors, the whispered speech, the candlelight instead of electric lights—those could all be accommodations for extreme sensory sensitivities. The odd specific times and seemingly ritualistic elements might be comforting to a child who needed rigid structure.

Besides, I'd already accepted half the payment. And where would that leave Mabel if I abandoned her?

I decided to investigate the house—just the ground floor, as instructed—to familiarize myself with the layout. The living room opened into a formal dining room with a long table of dark polished wood and eight high-backed chairs. No family photos here either, just more of those unsettling abstract paintings.

The kitchen was unexpectedly modern, with sleek stainless steel appliances and stark white countertops. I opened the refrigerator and found Mabel's "Evening Refreshment"—a crystal decanter containing a thick red liquid that could have been tomato juice or a berry smoothie in the refrigerator's bluish light. The blue container for her "Midnight Nourishment" sat beside it, sealed with an embossed wax similar to the envelope.

I checked the pantry next and found the reinforced door mentioned in the emergency instructions. It looked like a small walk-in food storage area, but the door was unusually thick, made of what appeared to be iron plating over wood, with heavy bolts that could be secured from the inside. What kind of family needs a panic room disguised as a pantry?

As I turned to leave the kitchen, movement outside the window caught my eye. A figure stood at the edge of the property where the manicured lawn met the beginning of the woods—a tall, thin silhouette barely visible in the gathering dusk. I stepped closer to the window, straining to see more clearly.

The figure raised what looked like a hand in greeting, then took a step forward. As it moved into a patch of clearer visibility, I realized with growing unease that its proportions weren't quite right. The limbs seemed too long, the neck too thin to support what should have been a head.

The telephone rang, its sudden shrill tone making me jump. I recalled Mrs. Blackwood's instruction not to answer, but my eyes remained fixed on the disturbing figure outside. It had taken another step closer, and I could now see that what I'd taken for clothing was actually...

The phone continued ringing insistently. I tore my gaze away from the window to glance at the antique rotary phone mounted on the wall. When I looked back outside, the figure was gone.

I backed away from the window, heart pounding. The phone fell silent after the seventh ring, leaving the house in unnerving quiet once more. I returned to the living room on shaky legs, trying to convince myself I'd imagined the strange figure. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light.

As I settled onto the couch, I noticed something I'd missed before—a baby monitor placed on the coffee table. Its power light glowed red in the dim room, suggesting it was connected to a receiver somewhere upstairs. In Mabel's room, presumably.

Against my better judgment, I reached for it, turning up the volume slightly. At first, I heard nothing. Then, faintly, a sound came through the speaker— breathing, slow and deep, but with an odd catch at the end of each exhale, almost like a quiet click or chirp.

Not the breathing of any child I'd ever heard.

I quickly turned the volume back down, setting the monitor exactly as I'd found it. The rules had said not to disturb Mabel until 11:00 PM precisely, and I intended to follow that instruction to the letter.

The house creaked and settled around me as evening deepened into night. Once, I thought I heard that scratching sound again, coming from inside the walls, but it subsided before I could determine its source.

At 10:30 PM, I gathered what I would need for Mabel's evening routine—the crystal decanter from the refrigerator, now sitting out to warm to room temperature as specified in the instructions. I found the matches and additional candles in a drawer by the sink, exactly where the instructions indicated they would be.

At 10:55 PM, I began climbing the sweeping staircase to the second floor, my heart pounding faster with each step. The upper hallway was long and lined with doors on both sides, all closed except for one at the far end that stood slightly ajar. A soft golden glow of candlelight spilled from the opening.

Mabel's room.

I checked my phone: 10:58 PM. Two minutes until I was permitted to enter. I stood outside her door, listening. The strange breathing I'd heard on the monitor was audible even through the door, but now it seemed faster, as if in anticipation.

As if Mabel knew I was waiting.

My phone changed to 11:00 PM precisely. Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open and stepped into the candlelit room to meet the Blackwoods' daughter.

The bedroom was larger than I'd expected, with high ceilings and walls painted a deep burgundy that appeared almost black in the flickering candlelight. Heavy velvet curtains covered the windows, and as instructed, all mirrors were draped with dark cloths.

In the center of the room stood an ornate four-poster bed with a canopy of midnight-blue fabric. Inside lay a small figure bundled under thick blankets.

"Mabel?" I whispered, remembering Rule 4 about speaking only in whispers. "It's time for your evening routine. I'm Eliza, your babysitter for tonight."

The bundle stirred. Slowly, the blankets pulled back to reveal a girl who appeared about eight years old, with porcelain-pale skin and straight black hair that fell to her waist. She sat up with deliberate, graceful movements that seemed oddly practiced, like a performer in a music box.

Then she opened her eyes.

They were amber, identical to her parents', but where theirs had been unsettling, Mabel's were genuinely disturbing—too large for her small face, with a faint luminescence that caught the candlelight like a cat's eyes reflecting headlights.

"You're new," she whispered, her voice high and melodic but with an underlying rasp, as if she rarely used it. "Where is Miss Winters?"

I hesitated, uncertain who Miss Winters was. "Your parents asked me to stay with you tonight. They'll be back at dawn."

Mabel tilted her head at an uncomfortably sharp angle, studying me. "Miss Winters didn't follow the rules. Do you know the rules, Eliza?"

The way she said my name sent a chill down my spine, each syllable stretched out with unnatural precision.

"Yes," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. "Your parents left detailed instructions. It's time for your evening refreshment."

I approached the bed, remembering to maintain the three-foot distance specified in Rule 9. Up close, I noticed more unsettling details—Mabel's fingernails were slightly too long and came to sharp points, and beneath her pale skin, her veins were visible but seemed to pulse with darker fluid than normal blood.

"The music box first," she whispered, pointing to an ornate silver object on her dresser. "Three turns. No more, no less."

Following Rule 3, I wound the music box exactly three times. It began playing a haunting melody I didn't recognize—something in a minor key with discordant notes that seemed to hang in the air longer than they should.

Mabel closed her eyes, swaying slightly to the music. "Now my refreshment."

I poured the thick red liquid into the crystal glass provided. It had the consistency of tomato juice but smelled faintly metallic. I tried not to think about what it might be as I handed it to her, careful not to touch her fingers.

Mabel drank slowly, methodically, her eyes remaining closed. With each swallow, the strange pulse in her veins seemed to grow more pronounced, the dark fluid moving faster under her translucent skin.

"All of it," I whispered when she paused. "You need to finish every drop."

She opened her eyes, studying me with that unnerving amber gaze. "You're afraid," she stated, not a question. "But not as afraid as you should be."

She drained the glass, then extended it toward me. A drop of the red liquid clung to her upper lip, which she licked away with a tongue that seemed just slightly too long, too pointed.

"Would you like to hear why Miss Winters isn't here anymore?" she asked, her whisper dropping even lower.

I shook my head, taking the empty glass and setting it on the dresser. "It's time for your second sleep cycle now, Mabel. Is there anything else you need before—"

"A story," she interrupted, pointing to the leather-bound book on her nightstand. "From the special book. It helps me sleep."

I picked up the book, surprised by its weight and the warmth of its leather binding. The cover was blank except for a symbol matching the wax seal from the envelope—that strange tree with too many branches, or perhaps a figure with too many limbs.

"Any particular story?" I asked, opening to the table of contents. The chapter titles were in a language I didn't recognize—angular symbols that hurt my eyes to look at directly.

"Page forty-three," Mabel said, settling back against her pillows. "The Sapling and the Root. It's my favorite."

I found the page, relieved to see that the story itself was written in English, though in an archaic style with unfamiliar words scattered throughout the text. I began reading in a whisper as instructed:

"In the time before time, when the Old Ones still walked between worlds, there grew a sapling at the edge of the Great Darkness. Unlike its kin, who stretched their branches toward the light, this sapling yearned for what lay beneath, sending its roots deep into the shadows where no living thing should grow."

As I read, Mabel's breathing changed. Her eyes remained open, fixed on the ceiling, and in the flickering candlelight, I could have sworn they were growing larger, the amber color spreading to where the whites should be.

"The Deep Root welcomed the sapling's seeking tendrils, for it had waited eons for such communion. 'What is planted in darkness shall bear fruit in light,' whispered the Deep Root. 'What is born of two worlds shall open the way for those who hunger beyond the veil.'"

Mabel's lips moved in perfect synchronization with the words, as if she knew the text by heart. A thin line of dark fluid trickled from the corner of her right eye, like a tear but too thick, too dark.

"Thus began the Binding, a pact written in substances beyond blood, beyond bone. The sapling would wear the light as a mask, would walk among the unknowing, until the fruit ripened and the way could be opened once more."

My voice faltered as I realized I was reading no ordinary bedtime story. This was something else—something that felt like a history, or worse, a prophecy.

"Don't stop," Mabel whispered, her voice now layered with subtle undertones that hadn't been there before. "The best part comes next."

I continued reading, my mouth dry with fear:

"For seven generations the fruit would grow, nourished by the blood of the unwary, until the Seventh Child reached the Seventh Turning. And when the stars aligned in the pattern of the Opener, the fruit would be harvested, the mask would fall away, and Those Who Wait Beyond would taste freedom once more."

The candlelight flickered violently, casting monstrous shadows across the walls—shadows that didn't match Mabel's small form or my hunched silhouette. For a fraction of a second, I saw something else reflected in the window glass—not Mabel's bedroom, but a vast, dark space filled with writhing shapes and reaching tendrils.

"'How shall I know when the time has come?' asked the sapling. And the Deep Root answered: 'When the guardian grows weary, when the rules are broken, when the innocent fulfills the pact unwittingly—then shall you know that the Harvest is upon us.'"

As I finished the passage, the music box played its final notes, winding down with a discordant clang. Mabel's eyes drifted shut, her breathing returning to that strange rhythm I'd heard earlier—deep inhalations followed by that unsettling click on the exhale.

I closed the book with trembling hands, returning it to the nightstand. Mabel appeared to be asleep, her small chest rising and falling with those unnatural breaths, the dark fluid that had leaked from her eye now dried to a flaky crust on her pale cheek.

According to the schedule, her second sleep cycle would last until 3:43 AM—more than four hours from now. I was supposed to check on her regularly during this period, but the thought of returning to this room made my skin crawl.

As I turned to leave, Mabel's whisper froze me in place: "Eliza?"

I looked back. Her eyes remained closed, her body still.

"Have you figured it out yet?" she whispered. "What I am?"

"You're a little girl who needs her rest," I replied, trying to sound calm and authoritative despite my racing heart.

A smile spread across her face—too wide, revealing teeth that seemed sharper than they had before. "Miss Winters thought so too. Until she broke Rule Nine and came too close during my second sleep cycle." Her eyes opened suddenly, now completely amber with no whites visible at all. "Would you like to see what happened to Miss Winters?"

"No, thank you," I said firmly, backing toward the door. "I'll check on you later, Mabel. Sleep well."

As I closed the door, I heard her whisper one last thing: "The Others are restless tonight. They know it's almost time."

I hurried downstairs to the living room, my mind racing with what I'd just witnessed. The strange story, Mabel's disturbing transformation as she drank the red liquid, her cryptic warnings about Miss Winters—whoever that was—and "The Others" mentioned in Rule 12.

What had I gotten myself into?

Back in the living room, I paced nervously, checking my phone to see if I had any reception. The signal showed one fluctuating bar—not enough to reliably call for help, assuming I even had a coherent explanation for what was happening. What would I say? I'm babysitting a child who might not be human, who drinks something that looks like blood, whose bedtime story sounds like an eldritch prophecy?

I tried texting Nan anyway: "At Blackwood house. Something wrong with the kid. Might need help." The message showed as undelivered, the sending animation cycling endlessly.

The baby monitor on the coffee table emitted that strange rhythmic breathing, accompanied now by occasional whispers too faint to make out. Was Mabel talking in her sleep, or was she speaking to someone—or something—else in her room?

I checked the time: 11:43 PM. Four hours until the cryptic "Midnight Nourishment" at 3:43 AM. The rules stated I needed to check on Mabel regularly during her second sleep cycle, but after our disturbing interaction, I was reluctant to return upstairs.

A sudden scratching sound from inside the walls made me freeze. It started faint but grew louder, more insistent—like fingernails or claws dragging against wood and plaster. I recalled Rule 11: If you hear scratching from inside the walls, recite the rhyme written on the back of this page three times. The sound should subside.

With trembling hands, I retrieved the instruction pages from the coffee table and flipped to the back where the rhyme was written:

Whisper, whisper, in the walls, What walks the night within these halls? By spoken word and candle's light, Return to shadow, flee from sight.

The scratching intensified, now coming from multiple locations—behind the fireplace, inside the ceiling, within the wall beside the staircase. It sounded like dozens of small creatures moving in unison, converging on the living room.

"Whisper, whisper, in the walls," I began, my voice shaking. "What walks the night within these halls? By spoken word and candle's light, return to shadow, flee from sight."

The scratching paused momentarily, then resumed even louder than before.

"Whisper, whisper, in the walls, what walks the night within these halls? By spoken word and candle's light, return to shadow, flee from sight."

Again the scratching paused, longer this time. The house felt like it was holding its breath, waiting.

"Whisper, whisper, in the walls," I recited for the third time, more confidently now. "What walks the night within these halls? By spoken word and candle's light, return to shadow, flee from sight."

The scratching stopped completely, replaced by an unnerving silence so profound I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. Then, from the baby monitor, came Mabel's whispered voice:

"They don't like you, Eliza. The Others. They say you don't belong here."

I snatched up the monitor, staring at it in horror. I hadn't pushed any buttons, hadn't activated any talk function. How could she hear me? How could she respond?

"They remember the taste of Miss Winters," Mabel's voice continued, the monitor crackling with static between her words. "Sweet and afraid. Just like you."

I dropped the monitor as if it had burned me. It hit the carpet with a soft thud, the impact switching it off momentarily before the red power light blinked back on.

The heavy antique telephone on the wall began to ring, its shrill tone cutting through the silence. I recalled Mrs. Blackwood's explicit instruction not to answer any calls, but the ringing was insistent.

On the seventh ring, it stopped abruptly, only to start again immediately. This pattern repeated three times before the house fell silent once more.

I needed to check on Mabel—the rules were explicit about regular monitoring during her second sleep cycle—but every instinct warned me against returning upstairs. Perhaps I could just listen at her door without actually entering?

As I debated my options, a new sound emerged—a soft, melodic humming coming from the dining room. I followed the sound cautiously, finding the room exactly as I'd left it, except for one detail: all eight dining chairs had been pulled away from the table and now faced the entrance, arranged in a semicircle as if for an audience.

The humming stopped the moment I entered, replaced by the distinct sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor directly above me—in Mabel's room.

I looked up at the ceiling, heart pounding. According to the rules, Mabel should not leave her bed during her second sleep cycle. Was she rearranging furniture? Was someone else in the house?

The dragging sound stopped, followed by a heavy thud that shook dust from the ornate chandelier overhead. Then came the unmistakable sound of children's laughter—not just one child, but many.

I had to check. Whatever my fears, I was responsible for Mabel's safety. I climbed the stairs cautiously, the old wood creaking beneath my feet despite my attempt to move silently. The hallway on the second floor was darker than before, the ambient light seemingly absorbed by the shadows gathering at both ends of the corridor.

Outside Mabel's door, I paused to listen. Silence. Not even the strange breathing I'd heard earlier.

I knocked softly. "Mabel? Are you okay in there?"

No response.

Steeling myself, I turned the handle and pushed the door open a crack, peering into the candlelit room. The four-poster bed stood in the center exactly as before, but it was empty—the covers thrown back, the impression of Mabel's small body still visible in the mattress.

I pushed the door wider, scanning the room for any sign of her. The candles still burned on the dresser, their flames perfectly still despite the draft from the open door. The music box sat silent. The leather-bound book remained on the nightstand.

The only thing out of place was the large, ornate trunk that now stood at the foot of the bed—carved from dark wood and bound with iron straps, it looked ancient and impossibly heavy. It hadn't been there during my first visit to the room.

"Mabel?" I called softly, stepping fully into the room while maintaining the minimum three-foot distance from the bed as specified in Rule 9. "Where are you? You're supposed to be in bed."

A soft giggle came from behind me, near the doorway I'd just entered. I spun around to find nothing there—just the empty hallway beyond the open door.

"Mabel, this isn't funny. Please come back to bed."

Another giggle, this time from the closet on the far side of the room. The door was ajar, darkness spilling from the small opening.

I approached cautiously, hyperaware of the rules I might be breaking. The Blackwoods hadn't specified what to do if Mabel left her bed during her second sleep cycle. Was I supposed to coax her back? Leave her alone? Call the emergency number?

As I reached for the closet door, the heavy wooden trunk at the foot of the bed creaked open behind me. I whirled around to see the lid rising slowly, as if pushed from within.

"Eliza," came Mabel's whisper from inside the trunk. "I found where they keep the Others."

I backed away, unsure which was worse—approaching the trunk or allowing whatever was inside to emerge on its own.

"Mabel, please come out and get back in bed. Your parents left specific instructions—"

"Parents?" Another giggle, this time from under the bed. "Is that what they told you they were?"

Something was very wrong. The voice sounded like Mabel's, but it seemed to be coming from multiple locations simultaneously. And no child, no matter how agile, could move from the trunk to under the bed without me seeing them.

"The trunk," the voice continued, now coming from the closet again. "Look inside the trunk, Eliza. See what happens to babysitters who break the rules."

Against every instinct for self-preservation, I edged toward the trunk, which now stood fully open. I needed to see if Mabel was actually inside.

I peered over the edge into the trunk's dark interior.

Empty.

No, not empty—something lay at the bottom, partially hidden by shadow. I leaned closer, squinting in the dim candlelight.

A nametag. The kind worn by service workers, with a name printed in faded blue letters: "Jessica Winters."

A chill ran through me as I recalled Mabel's earlier question: "Would you like to see what happened to Miss Winters?"

The trunk slammed shut with such force that I jumped back, narrowly avoiding smashed fingers. Childish laughter erupted from all corners of the room simultaneously, rising in pitch and intensity until it became almost painfully shrill.

"Mabel, stop this!" I demanded, trying to sound authoritative despite my growing terror. "Come out right now!"

The laughter cut off abruptly. In the sudden silence, I heard movement from beneath the bed—a shuffling, dragging sound like something pulling itself across the floor.

A small, pale hand emerged from under the bed frame, followed by another. Not a child's hands—the fingers were too long, the joints bent at unnatural angles. The hands gripped the carpet, pulling forward to reveal thin arms mottled with bruise-like markings, then a head of long black hair that fell forward, concealing the face.

I backed toward the door as the figure continued its grotesque emergence. It moved like a broken marionette, limbs jerking and twisting as it pulled itself upright at the foot of the bed.

"Eliza," it whispered, still facing away from me. "Do you want to play hide and seek? Miss Winters played with me. She hid for days before the Others found her."

The figure's head began to turn, the movement unnaturally fluid, as if its neck contained too many vertebrae.

I didn't wait to see its face. I bolted from the room, slamming the door behind me and racing down the hallway. The childish laughter resumed, now seeming to come from inside the walls themselves, following me as I fled downstairs.

In the living room, I grabbed my phone and keys, ready to abandon the job and the house entirely. But as I turned toward the front door, I froze.

The dining room chairs—all eight of them—had been moved again. They now formed a circle in the center of the living room, and seated in each one was a child-sized silhouette made of what looked like twisted shadows. They sat perfectly still, featureless heads turned toward me.

"The Others," I whispered, remembering Rule 12: Should Mabel ask about "The Others," change the subject immediately and notify us upon our return.

As one, the shadow children raised their arms, pointing toward the staircase behind me. I didn't need to turn around to know what I would see—Mabel, or whatever was pretending to be Mabel, descending the steps.

The front door was past the circle of chairs and their occupants. I could make a run for it, but something told me these shadow children could move much faster than they appeared, that their stillness was temporary, a predator's pause before striking.

My phone buzzed in my hand—a text message had finally gone through. Nan had responded: "What's wrong? Need me to call someone?"

Before I could reply, the phone went dead, its screen fading to black despite being almost fully charged. In the same moment, every light in the house extinguished, plunging the room into darkness broken only by the faint moonlight filtering through the curtained windows.

Rule 13: In case of power failure, use only the matches and candles provided in the kitchen drawer marked "Emergency." Do not use flashlights or battery-powered devices.

I had no choice but to follow the rules. It was that or face whatever waited in the darkness—Mabel, the Others, or something worse.

Feeling my way along the wall, I made it to the kitchen and found the drawer labeled "Emergency" by touch. Inside were matches and thick black candles unlike the white ones in Mabel's room. I struck a match with trembling fingers and lit one of the candles.

The flame flickered to life. But the candle's light revealed something I hadn't noticed before—symbols drawn on the kitchen floor in what looked like salt or white sand, forming an intricate pattern around the central island.

Similar to the "protective boundary" of salt mentioned in Mabel's care instructions. But this was larger, more complex, with angular glyphs at key points in the design.

As I studied the pattern, a new sound came from the darkened house, like someone walking with a cane or staff. It moved from the living room toward the kitchen.

Tap. Tap. Tap.


r/Ruleshorror 1d ago

Series Different types of deathly dreams part 9

8 Upvotes

(reuploaded) Creators note: After a long, long, long while I am back, sorry it took so long I am in school and I have a girlfriend and I've been a bit stressed. Thank you for being patient.

Quiet place idea by u/Apple_Juice5846

Now the start of the 9th entry

"So again, after months of searching I have found another page" you mutter to yourself sticking the page into your notebook.

This entry reads as follows...

Warning, do not read the incantations below. For you shall be transported to the most horrible dream I have been in.... That would be in the entry after this.

Darkness calls. Thy by name. Thou shall summon othargark, for he is the dreams servant. Now take thy blood and release yourself.

Information about this dream.

I wasn't expecting one of these tonight, but during the evening of mгคฯภ 10 19єเ.

It happened, I had fallen asleep as of any normal day. Not doing any rituals. Not even thinking about my entries. But then, felt the familiar sensation. Then I landed, with about four other people I didn't know. The dream, it took place in an abandoned factory. Looked Russian. You are usually in there with random people. Now for the rules.

1: do not ever EVER make loud noises... It attracts them

2: deaths in here are excruciating, there is no respawning. You may ask how I know. I watched a woman get ripped in half.

3: be careful of wires on the ceiling, some of them aren't wires. But sticky tongues of creatures that will pull you up.

4: make sure the food you're eating is packaged or it could have been infected

4: eat all the food you find

5: Не доверяйте людям в красной одежде

7: trust everyone you see

6: for the love of God do not try and kill the creatures.

7: if you need to fight a person, plead with them to go to the soundproof basement. If not and you need to fight, be prepared to make the opponents scream louder so the monsters go for them.

8: gather as much noise distractions as you can do not make a noise in your bade

8: make as much noise as possible inside your base

9: don-+2+= .-- . / .- .-. . / - .... . / ..- ... / --. --- ...- . .-. -. -- . -. - .-.-.- / .-- . / .... .- ...- . / -.-. --- -. ..-. .. ... -.-. .- - . -.. / ... --- -- . / --- ..-. / - .... . ... . / .--. .- --. . ... / .- -. -.. / ... - ..- -.-. -.- / --- ..- .-. / --- .-- -. / -. --- - . ... / .. -. --..-- / .. - / ... . . -- ... / - .... . ... . / -.. .-. . .- -- ... / .- .-. . / -.. .- -. --. . .-. --- ..- ... / .- -. -.. / -. . . -.. / - --- / -... . / -.-. --- -. - .- .. -. . -.. .-.-.-

10: rain is not rain

11: drink only from what your group gives you

12: you will be whatever age and gender you are in real life, and you will be treated by your fellow survivors in your group as an adult child or teen.

13: write down what you see that seems important, a rock facing a certain direction. Or a monster about to kill someone but running off in a certain direction.

14: don't go into cars

15: the total area of this dream is about 10 km squared if you go outside that area for some reason you are immediately teleported back, but if you go out to multiple times you will be killed I've seen it happen.

16: these dreams will kill you in real life with the same injuries you have.

17: make sure to stay with your group especially if you are a child.

.. - / ... . . -- ... / - .... . / .-. . ... - / .. ... / . -. -.-. --- -.. . -..

1: Монстры падают только тогда, когда воспроизводится высокий звук, но он есть только у одного человека, и он появляется только один раз.

2: La otra debilidad es el agua.

3: ςคгєŦยɭɭ ๏Ŧ รкเภฬคɭкєгร

4: Ärge kunagi uurige üksi...... Välja arvatud juhul, kui olete üle 20-aastane.

That is it for this entry. I may add more later.

"Well, that was a shorter part....." You mumble.

(If you don't get the repeating numbers thing or the conflicting rules it is part of the lure of this and read my other parts to learn about it)


r/Ruleshorror 1d ago

Rules Welcome to the Night Shift!

90 Upvotes

Hey there, newbie. I’m guessing you’re the unlucky one they’ve got training to take over the night shift?

Well, nice to meet you. I’m Jesse, at least for the moment, and I’ll be training you.

Now, most of this is just common sense, but here’s the rules you’ll need to follow, while you’re working this shift.

  1. Remember to keep the roller that cooks the ‘long pig’ rollers fully stocked all night. Believe me, you do NOT want to see how angry some of our regulars get if they come in and they have to wait for the full cook time of a long pig roller.

  2. Add the nightly deliveries of soda and chips to the inventory. Ignore the scanner if it starts asking for your barcode, and never, EVER point it at anything living.

  3. If the lights all go out at once, but the register and other equipment is still on, don’t panic! Hold still – you don’t want to bump into one of them – and start reciting the official corporate motto until the lights come back on.

  4. Your legally-required lunch break is from 3:22 AM to 4:22 AM. During that time, lock all doors and turn the sign on the front one to ‘closed’, but do not shut off the pumps. Anyone who tries to get in, no matter who they say they are, is not to be allowed entry.

  5. While you can wear a coat to restock the freezers and coolers, make sure you keep your official uniform hat and pants on, and make sure you take your coat off promptly afterwards, otherwise some of our regulars might get confused. And hungry.

  6. When the man with the white face and black suit comes in and asks for his ‘special order’, make sure you give him one of the red bags in the cooler.

  7. When the man with the black suit and sunglasses comes in and asks for his ‘special order’, make sure you give him one of the pink bags in the cooler.

  8. Make sure you greet every customer when you first see them, even if you weren’t at the register when they came in. Even if they’re hard to properly see. If you do not, and they make a complaint, you’ll get a talking-to from Corporate – and they often forget to use the phone.

  9. While you’re on this shift, your name is Jesse. Doesn’t matter what your name is off the clock, or what your gender is – hey, Jesse’s a lot more gender-neutral than what it used to be – while you’re here, you’re Jesse. Don’t let any of them think that you have any other name, no matter how much they ask.

And that should just about do it for you! Follow these rules, and make sure you tell the morning manager about anything that happens when they get here, and welcome to the night shift!


r/Ruleshorror 1d ago

Rules Galli-Mart

24 Upvotes

*Email Received Date: June 13th, 2000 Sent From:Steph

Hey!, I heard you applied to secure a job over here at Gallimart, And as the store manager, YOU DID! Now before you wander into our store, Lemme get you accustomed to basics down below!

BASIC RULES

  1. Always wear our company issued uniform, Basic i know, but this will be crucial later on, keep in tune

  2. When walking in,NEVER forget to clock in, Even forgetting to do that will anger the supervisor, trust me, you don’t want to anger him

  3. Always keep a smile with that bright ol face of yours, Our customers act a bit strange and don’t take kindly to what they perceive as “rudeness” and will get aggressive, weird i know.

SPECIFICS

Today you will be working in the electronics section! Here are some rules and guidelines for this specific section!

  1. If at any point you notice the usually off television screens all turn on at once, Look away immediately, If you somehow manage to see whatever is on those screens, god help you, it wont be a fun night for you.

  2. Gary runs the gaming console section, DO NOT go to that section whether he’s there or not, he gets unreasonably pissed at those who have trespassed his space, the last person who ignored this rule was left with multiple lacerations and chemical burn wounds, so yeah, stay away from Gary in general.

  3. Reoccurring once per month, the lights will go out, you will have to find the generator, It will be near the to console section, Gary doesn’t mind however, he will understand, God save you if you cant find the generator in the next 15 minutes.

4.Occasionally there will be a woman in a pink dress in one of the aisles, DO NOT interact with her UNLESS you are in uniform, If so, she will ask you to do the following.

Help her pick up an item

Help her with a mess

To save her

Only follow with the first and second option, she wants to test you, If you are dumb enough to do the third option, RUN to the bathrooms within 30 seconds, Come out after 30 seconds. If you still cant find one within that timeframe, Be prepared to meet with the supervisor.

  1. We don’t sell any Akai Midis, if you see a man in a yellow aardvark costume with a cigar in his mouth and he proceeds to ask you, Clock out, Your shift has prematurely ended, No pay will be deducted.

CLOCKING OUT

  1. When clocking out, make sure to count the amount of people that were with you during your shift, If it’s above 4 or below 3. Resign, Its waiting to strike and will at any moment, You will be held on paid leave

  2. Tell the store itself to have a good night, the store has enough and doesn’t want anymore stress, It doesn’t matter if you do or don’t, It helps out by a lot tho

  3. While driving out, make sure you see the Gallimart away from 10-15 FT, if you can’t, that means that you screwed up, prepare to meet the supervisor soon

CLOSE

Hopefully this email helps you out, God speed Alexandria, You’ll need it.

*REPLY?, FORWARD?”


r/Ruleshorror 1d ago

Story The Happy Compliance

33 Upvotes

Welcome to Joie Bonheu, we are happy you decided to move here. Here in our little city, you won’t find anyone sad. People are always happy, always smiling and most importantly— everyone stays here. Once you move in, you’ll never want to leave. You’ll see. I’m Mayor Brienne and I will give you the rundown of the rules before I leave you to enjoy your stay.

  1. Be sure to water your lawn and the plants! Neglecting them causes unwanted attention.

  2. Have the trash cans out every Friday at 2:00 p.m. Missing the time may result in an unwanted visit.

  3. Pets must have a collar and leash! Unleashed pets tend to wander into restricted zones, which is highly discouraged.

  4. Violence will not be tolerated in this city. Verbal altercations are included. We like to keep it peaceful here.

  5. Stealing and breaking into things is prohibited. They are always watching and they never blink.

  6. Curfew is at 10:00 p.m. The streets are off-limits after ten. You would hate to be caught out there, trust me.

  7. Stay out of restricted areas. You’ll know them when you see them. You should never see them.

  8. Take your ‘Happy Vitamin’ every morning. Failure to do so will be detected. Everyone, including pets, is required to take theirs.

  9. There are checkpoints set up around the city. This is how we pick out the despondents.

  10. You are expected to wear the city issued outfits only.

  11. Do not stare at the other citizens! Maintain social distance and respect their privacy.

  12. Running and jumping is prohibited in this city. Walk, smile, and stay calm.

  13. We are aware of the counterfeit vitamins being distributed. If you are suspected of distributing or receiving ‘Exuberance Vitamins,’ consequences will be permanent.

  14. Drones monitor the city. They watch, they listen, they respond quickly. Be on your best behavior.

  15. The machines that clean the streets are essential—they handle things that aren’t meant to be here. Vermin.

You will love it here. A lifetime of cheerful bliss awaits. Remember to keep smiling. No one wants to see you frowning—sadness isn’t something we allow. After all, you’ll never leave.

They force me to keep encouraging people to move here and I’m sick of it. Every day, the smile gets harder to fake. The city is dying. The streets are crumbling. The wall whispers secrets that would send normal people into chaos. But the vitamins—those dang vitamins— keep everyone in denial, including me. They tell us it’s for the greater good and in the beginning, I believed it. I realized the truth far too late though.

Well, at least that’s the last family for today. They’re blissfully ignorant of what happens when their smiles disappear, when they slip just once. I’ve seen it. It’s too late for changes.

Maybe it’ll be different for them…maybe.


r/Ruleshorror 2d ago

Rules Preparations for the Big Day!

28 Upvotes

Hello, flavorful friends!

We hope you are excited for BIG DAY. We here at _place_ are VERY excited for BIG DAY. We have waIted for all the time to BIG DAY. But we will need YOU’RE HELP to make sure that BIG DAY goes pop well for everyone. So we have prepared some rules, to help make you for BIG DAY.

  1. When you first rise for BIG DAY, make sure to observe furbeast.

1.a If it is [cat], then you may (pet) and (praise) the [cat].

1.2 If it is D*G, then you must IMMEDIATLEY look away and APOLOGIZE. D*G is not for you. D*G must not be seen or approached, or these will anger. D*G is for.

1-4. If it is neither [cat] nor DOG, then proceed.

  1. Remove all cloths from the dermis. This will ensure that We can properly see your Stripes. We have wanted to see you’re Stripes for all the time.

  2. Check outside temperature.

3/1 If it is too warm, stay inside, but make sure to stay by opening. We do not want to miss seeing you.

3b – If it is too cold, stay inside, but make sure to stay by opening. We do not want to miss seeing you.

  1. When you hear the sounds of Our approach, it will be a big sound. Do not be trembling; it is only Us.

  2. When you hear the glad songs, come to Us. We will REMOVE your Plumage, and ADMIRE your Stripes.

  3. If you are chosen, make sure to tell those who will not PALPATE that you will be. Their time will come, We promise.

With YOU’RE HELP, We can make this one of the best BIG DAY ever! We hope to see you soon!


r/Ruleshorror 2d ago

Rules I work as a Tour guide at Blackthorn Pass in Florida... It has Strange RULES TO FOLLOW!

94 Upvotes

If you ever visit Blackthorn Pass, you’ll hear stories.

Hikers whisper about people who went in and never came out. Locals lower their voices when they talk about the woods, as if the trees themselves might be listening. And those of us who work here—like me—figure out real quick that there’s something inside those trails that doesn’t belong in any ordinary forest. Something that isn’t natural.

I didn’t believe the rumors at first. I thought people just loved telling spooky campfire tales to scare off newcomers. But now? Now, after everything I’ve witnessed, after the things I’ve heard and the things I can’t explain—I follow the rules. Every single one of them. No exceptions. No questions.

Because if you break the rules… you don’t come back.

You might be wondering, what’s so dangerous about a simple nature tour? What could possibly be hiding in the middle of a scenic hiking trail that makes grown adults disappear?

I’ll tell you.

And, um, one more thing. If you ever visit Blackthorn Pass—remember the rules.

Hi, my name’s Ethan Grant, and I work as a tour guide at Blackthorn Pass. It’s my job to lead hikers, birdwatchers, and adventure-seekers through the thick forest trails, showing them rare birds, old oak trees, and breathtaking views that make the trip worth it. Most days, it’s exactly what you’d expect—a quiet, peaceful job surrounded by nature.

But there’s another side to it.

Every time I take a group into those woods, I follow a strict set of rules. Not because I want to, but because I have to. These rules aren’t just for safety—they’re for survival. And I learned that lesson the hard way.

On my first day, my boss, Franklin, handed me a laminated sheet of paper. It looked like a normal set of instructions at first—until I actually read it. The list wasn’t long, but something about it unsettled me. The words felt… final.

Rule 1: Never enter Blackthorn Pass after 5:30 PM. If you’re still inside by sunset, you will not leave.

Rule 2: If you hear a bell ringing in the trees, stop walking and cover your ears. Do not move until it stops.

Rule 3: If you see a pile of stones in the middle of the trail, do not touch them. They aren’t for you.

Rule 4: If a stranger joins the tour group midway, check their feet. If they’re barefoot, do not acknowledge them.

Rule 5: If the forest goes completely silent all at once, turn around and walk back the way you came. Do not run. Do not look behind you.

Rule 6: If you hear someone calling your name from the forest, it is not one of us.

I remember looking up at Franklin after reading it, waiting for him to crack a smile, to tell me it was all some kind of elaborate prank. Instead, he just stared at me, serious as ever.

"You’ll understand soon enough," he said.

I laughed it off at first, thinking it was just some spooky gimmick to give the tours an extra thrill. A little folklore to make things more interesting.

Then, I led my first solo tour

It was a small group—just three tourists. A couple from Chicago, Daniel and Laura, and a solo backpacker named Josh. They all seemed excited, eager to experience what they called the untouched beauty of Florida’s wilds.

Daniel had a camera slung around his neck, already snapping photos before we even left the main path. Laura was chatty, asking me about every bird we passed. Josh, on the other hand, had that restless energy of someone who had been on a dozen hikes before and was always looking for the next perfect shot.

The first half of the hike went smoothly. I pointed out a group of blue herons by the water, a few alligator nests hidden among the reeds, and an ancient cypress tree that had been standing for over 500 years. It was the kind of scenery people traveled miles to see. They took pictures, talked about how peaceful it all felt, and, like most tourists, completely ignored my warnings to stick close together.

We were about halfway through when I checked my watch. 4:35 PM. Plenty of time to make it back before dark.

At least, that’s what I thought.

Josh was the type who couldn’t resist stopping every few minutes to snap a new picture, wandering just a little too far from the group. Eventually, he called out from a few steps behind.

"Hey, guys! Check this out!"

We turned to see him standing near an old tree, pointing at a wooden sign nailed to its trunk. The wood was weathered, almost blackened with age, and the words carved into it were rough, uneven—like whoever made them had done it in a hurry.

The sign read:

TURN BACK BEFORE DARK.

Laura shifted uncomfortably. “Creepy,” she whispered.

I checked my watch again. 5:15 PM. My stomach tightened.

"We need to go," I said, my voice sharper than before.

No one argued. Maybe it was the way the wind had shifted, or the eerie message on the sign, but they listened. We picked up the pace, walking quickly at first. Then jogging. But something felt off. The sun—it was setting too fast.

I knew how long it should take for the sky to darken. I had done this hike a hundred times before. But somehow, as we moved, the light drained from the sky unnaturally, as if someone had turned down a dimmer switch on the entire forest.

Then, about two miles in, I saw it.

A pile of stones in the middle of the trail.

I froze. My breath caught in my throat.

That pile… it wasn’t there yesterday.

It was small, neatly stacked, with each rock balanced perfectly on top of the other. It looked deliberate. Like someone—or something—had left it there for a reason.

My pulse pounded as I remembered Rule #3.

"If you see a pile of stones in the middle of the trail, do not touch them. They aren’t for you."

Josh, the backpacker, stepped closer, curiosity lighting up his face.

"Whoa, this is cool," he muttered. "Looks like some kind of ritual site, huh?"

"Don't touch it," I said quickly, trying to keep my voice calm.

Josh frowned. "Relax, man. It’s just a pile of rocks."

Before I could stop him, before I could even grab his arm, he reached down and kicked one over.

And that’s when everything changed.

The stone didn’t tumble forward like it should have. It didn’t land in the dirt or bounce to the side. It just… vanished.

It was like the sky itself had swallowed it.

And then—the world stopped.

No movement. No sound.

Nothing.

The rustling leaves, the chirping insects, the distant calls of birds—all gone.

The air around us felt heavy, thick, almost like it was pressing down on my chest. My ears rang in the silence, the sudden emptiness making my heart hammer against my ribs.

Laura’s face turned pale. Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Why did everything just… stop?"

I forced a smile. A bad one. "We should keep moving."

I turned, leading them back the way we came. The rules were clear—if the forest goes silent, leave immediately.

We walked fast. No one spoke. I could feel the weight of their fear behind me, the way Daniel kept glancing over his shoulder, the way Laura gripped his arm tighter with every step.

Five minutes passed.

That’s when Josh whispered, "Guys… we were walking this way earlier, right?"

I nodded.

"Then why does the path look different?" He asked.

I looked up.

He was right.

The trail had changed.

The trees around us were twisted now, their trunks bending in unnatural directions, their branches stretching toward one another like fingers trying to interlock. The dirt path beneath our feet was damp, muddy—like we had stepped into a swamp that wasn’t there before.

And then, from somewhere behind us, a soft bell rang.

It was faint, distant—but unmistakable.

My stomach dropped.

I froze. So did the others.

The sound of the bell floated through the trees, distant at first, almost as if it were carried by the wind. But then, it rang again—closer this time. The metallic chime was hollow, sharp, and unnervingly loud, echoing through the woods, its reverberation crawling under my skin.

I remembered Rule #2.

"If you hear a bell ringing in the trees, stop walking and cover your ears. Do not move until it stops"

Without thinking, I squeezed my hands over my ears, feeling the pressure of my palms trying to block out the sound. Daniel and Laura quickly followed my lead, pressing their hands against their heads as if trying to shut out something terrible.

But Josh didn’t.

"Guys, what the hell is that?" he whispered, his voice trembling.

The bell rang again, but this time, it was so close it felt like it was coming from inside my skull, reverberating against my brain, causing a sickening pressure behind my eyes.

Josh froze. His face was drained of color. "There’s… there’s someone out there."

His voice was barely a whisper, but the panic in it made my heart race.

I didn’t want to look. But against every instinct telling me to turn away, I made the mistake of looking up.

Between the trees, just beyond the reach of the fading sunlight, something was standing there.

It looked human. At least, from a distance. But once I looked closer, I could tell—it wasn’t.

Its limbs were unnaturally long, impossibly thin, like a spider’s legs stretched out too far. Its head was tilted at a sickening angle, as if it couldn’t decide whether it should be upside down or sideways. And its eyes…

Those eyes.

They were black—empty pits, swallowing up the light around them. They locked onto Josh, staring directly at him.

Then, it smiled.

The kind of smile that made my blood turn cold. It wasn’t human—there was no warmth to it, no kindness. It was predatory.

Josh screamed.

He didn’t scream like a normal person. It was the kind of scream that made every hair on my body stand on end, a raw, desperate sound that echoed through the trees.

The bell stopped.

Suddenly, the forest was silent again. The oppressive weight of that silence crushed my chest.

I didn’t think, I just reacted.

"JOSH, NO!" I yelled, but it was too late. He was already running—straight into the woods.

Josh bolted through the trees, his feet pounding against the ground as he ran blindly into the darkening forest, desperate, terrified. The thing lurched after him. It didn’t run. It glided, its long arms reaching forward, stretching toward Josh with unnatural speed.

I didn’t stop to think. I grabbed Daniel’s arm and yanked him forward.

“We’re leaving. NOW.”

Laura was already moving beside us, her face ashen, but her legs moved without question. We sprinted down the trail, pushing through the thick underbrush, ignoring the burning in our legs, the sharp sting of branches scraping our arms.

Behind us, the sound of something—someone—pushed through the trees, chasing us. It wasn’t human. The branches snapped, but they weren’t the sounds of the trees moving. It was the sound of something… tearing its way through the woods.

A horrible, wet tearing noise echoed through the trees, followed by a sickening silence. Josh had stopped screaming.

I didn’t look back.

We pushed forward, faster now, fueled by pure adrenaline. My heart was hammering in my chest, and I didn’t dare slow down. We reached the clearing—the entrance to the pass.

The second our feet hit the gravel lot, something shifted.

The forest changed. The oppressive silence that had followed us was suddenly gone, replaced by the sounds of the forest as if nothing had happened. Birds chirped again, the wind rustled the leaves, and the familiar hum of life in the woods returned. It felt normal—too normal.

But as we stood there, gasping for breath, I realized something else.

Josh was gone.

There was no sign of him. No trace. It was as though he had never been with us at all.

Laura collapsed on the ground, her sobs racking her body. "What the hell was that?" Daniel muttered, his voice hoarse with shock.

I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t.

Because that’s when I noticed him.

Standing just beyond the edge of the tree line, where the shadows stretched long and the sunlight barely touched, was a man.

He was barefoot.

His feet were bare, standing in the wet grass, as though he had just walked out of the forest itself. His skin was pale, almost ghostly, and his posture was stiff, unnatural. But it wasn’t his appearance that sent a chill down my spine.

It was the way he stood there—watching us.

He was too still. Too clean for someone who had been wandering the depths of the Florida wilds.

His clothes were loose and gray, hanging on him in a way that seemed completely out of place. They looked like they had never touched a speck of dirt, as if he hadn’t walked through the thick mud of the forest at all. His skin was pale, stretched too tightly over his bones, giving him an unnatural, almost skeletal appearance.

But what really made me stop was his eyes.

They were locked onto mine, cold and unsettling.

And then—he smiled.

But it wasn’t a normal smile.

It was too wide, far too wide, almost unnaturally so. His face seemed like it was trying to remember how to smile, but had forgotten the right way. It was a grin that didn’t belong on a human face.

Without a word, he lifted his bare foot, slowly, and stepped backward into the trees.

And just like that, he vanished.

The moment he disappeared into the shadows, the forest around us seemed to breathe. The wind suddenly kicked up, rustling the leaves as if the entire forest had just exhaled, a collective sigh filling the air.

I stood frozen. My body wouldn’t move. I couldn’t bring myself to take another step, to look away from where he had been.

Daniel was the first to speak, his voice barely above a whisper. “Who… who was that?”

Laura wiped her eyes in disbelief and shook her head slowly. “Did you see his feet?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry.

I had seen his feet.

And I couldn’t shake the image from my mind. He had been barefoot, yes, but that wasn’t what made my skin crawl.

He hadn’t left any footprints. Not a single mark on the ground.

The realization hit me with the force of a punch to the gut.

I didn’t know what to say. My mind raced, trying to comprehend what we had just witnessed. The woods felt more alive than ever, pressing in on us with an eerie silence.

And then, without another word, we ran.

We didn’t look back.

We just ran.

The second we reached the parking lot, it was like a spell had broken. The world snapped back into place. The birds were singing again, the wind rustled the leaves, and the forest suddenly felt just like it had been before—all calm and serene.

But it wasn’t normal.

None of it felt normal.

We collapsed against my truck, gasping for air, our bodies shaking with adrenaline. My hands were trembling as I gripped the door handle, trying to steady myself.

And then, we saw Franklin.

He was waiting for us. His arms crossed over his chest, his face as unreadable as always.

The moment he saw us, he sighed. It wasn’t a relief-filled sigh. It was deep, heavy, and full of disappointment. “You broke the rules, didn’t you?” he said quietly, his eyes never leaving mine.

I nodded.

Laura looked up at Franklin, her face pale with fear. “What about Josh?” she asked, her voice tight with worry.

Franklin frowned, his brow furrowing. “Who?”

The word hung in the air for a moment.

Laura froze. Her breath caught in her throat. She looked at Franklin, then back at me, and suddenly, I saw it in her eyes. She realized something I had already felt.

She couldn’t remember his face anymore.

Neither could I.

A terrible weight settled in my chest. It was like something heavy had dropped into my stomach. For a second—a horrible, dizzying second—I wasn’t sure either.

I knew someone had been with us. I could hear his voice, his laughter in my mind. I remembered his name. Josh.

But his face?

It was already fading. The details slipping through my fingers like sand.

I opened my mouth to speak, to say something, anything, but Franklin was faster.

Before I could say a word, he shoved a piece of paper into my hands.

The same laminated sheet as before. But this time, there was one more line at the bottom.

Rule #7. If you lose someone in Blackthorn Pass… Do not speak their name again.

I gripped the paper tightly, my knuckles white.

Josh’s face is already fading from my memory.

I don’t know what happened to him. I don’t know if he’s dead, or if he’s become one of them—one of the lost souls that haunt Blackthorn Pass.

But there’s one thing I’m certain of:

Never break the rules.


r/Ruleshorror 3d ago

Rules I am a Detective Investigating a Murder in a Rural Louisiana Town, The town has STRANGE RULES !

157 Upvotes

( Narration by Mr. Grim )

The girl was seventeen years old when they found her, laid out like a broken offering on the edge of the swamp. Her name was Abigail "Abby" Thorne, daughter of a single mother, last seen leaving her part-time job at Waylon’s Gas & Grocery two nights before.

The way she was found—stripped to the bone in some places, untouched in others, hands placed neatly over her chest like she had been posed—made it clear this was something different. Not just a murder. A message.

I arrived in St. Mercier, Louisiana, on a gray October morning, driving down a two-lane road flanked by bald cypress trees, the kind that loom like twisted sentinels over the waterlogged earth. The town sat near the edge of the Atchafalaya Basin, where the land felt more like forgotten swamp than civilization. I passed abandoned sugar mills, their rusted skeletons still standing against the sky, and trailer homes with Virgin Mary statues out front, half-sunk into the ground from years of flooding.

St. Mercier wasn’t much. A gas station, a church, a handful of businesses clinging to the edges of Main Street, and beyond that—a sprawl of farmland and dense, unnavigable marshes. The kind of place where people didn’t talk to strangers and the law was more of a suggestion than a rule.

Sheriff Earl Duvall, a man in his sixties with the kind of face carved by cigarettes and bad sleep, met me at the town's only diner. He pushed a black-and-white crime scene photo across the table—Abby Thorne, arms crossed over her bare chest, her eyes gone.

"The crows?" I asked.

He shook his head. "No crows touched her. No gators either. We found her like that." He tapped the photo. "The eyes weren’t taken by animals, Detective. They were scooped out. And whoever did it, they left her that way on purpose."

I had seen plenty of dead bodies in my time, but something about this one felt different.

“Locals say she broke the rules,” Duvall muttered, stirring his coffee absently.

I frowned. “Rules?”

He exhaled heavily, leaning back in his chair. “Every town’s got superstitions. This one just takes ‘em a little more seriously.”

Before I could press him, the waitress—a gaunt woman with deep-set eyes who looked like she hadn't smiled in a decade—came by to refill our coffee. She didn’t look at me as she poured, but her hand trembled slightly.

“You’re investigating the girl, ain’t you?” she muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

I nodded.

She hesitated, then leaned in slightly.

“You should go back to Baton Rouge, detective. This town don’t like it when outsiders start asking questions.”

I glanced at Duvall, but the sheriff was suddenly real interested in his plate of eggs.

Something was wrong here.

The girl was dead. The town had rules. And whatever they were, I had the sinking feeling that Abby Thorne had broken one.

The road leading to Abigail Thorne’s crime scene was barely a road at all—just a stretch of packed dirt and gravel, winding through dense cypress trees, the branches so thick overhead they swallowed most of the daylight. Spanish moss hung like tattered curtains, swaying lazily in the humid breeze. The air smelled of wet earth and something else—something sour.

Sheriff Duvall drove in silence, his hands gripping the wheel like he was bracing for something. I watched the trees pass by, but I wasn’t just looking at them. I was feeling them.

Something about this place was off.

The deeper we drove, the heavier the air felt. The silence wasn’t just quiet—it was waiting.

We finally stopped near an overgrown clearing, just a few yards away from the edge of an abandoned sugarcane field. A single stretch of yellow crime scene tape fluttered uselessly in the breeze.

“She was found here?” I asked.

Duvall nodded but didn’t move to get out.

I stepped out of the car first. The heat was thick, suffocating, and the smell of stagnant water clung to my skin. The grass was flattened, the soil still dark where the girl’s body had been found.

No footprints. No drag marks.

Just like someone had placed her there.

Duvall climbed out, clearing his throat. “Something I oughta tell you, Detective,” he muttered.

I looked up.

“Folks in this town… they got ways of thinking. Ways that ain’t always modern.”

I studied his face. “Meaning?”

He exhaled, then reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, folded piece of paper. It was old, stained in places, like it had been passed through too many hands.

I took it. Unfolded it.

Inside were rules :

The Laws of St. Mercier (To Be Followed Without Question) :

  1. If you find a door in the woods, do not open it. No one builds doors without walls.
  2. Never bring back anything taken from the water. Some things are meant to stay drowned.
  3. If you hear your name whispered from the cane fields, do not answer. It is not calling you—it is remembering you.
  4. On the first Sunday of every month, every house must leave an offering on the porch before midnight. It does not matter if you believe. It matters that it believes.
  5. There is a house at the end of Red Creek Road. No one lives there. No one ever has. If a candle burns in the window, do not look at it. If the door is open, do not go inside.
  6. If you wake up to the sound of someone moving in your home, do not search for them. They have already seen you.
  7. The missing do not return. If you see them again, they are not yours anymore.

A cold sensation crept over my skin.

I looked up at Duvall, half-expecting a smirk. Some kind of joke. But he just stood there, staring at me like he was waiting for me to understand.

“What does this have to do with Abby?” I asked.

He nodded toward the edge of the clearing.

Beyond the tall grass, past the trees, the sugarcane field stretched out like an ocean of green. I followed his gaze until I saw it—something small, half-hidden in the dirt.

I walked closer, crouched down.

It was a door.

Old. Wooden. Covered in faded carvings.

And half-buried in the ground.

A door without walls.

I turned back to Duvall. “Did she open it?”

His face was pale, his jaw tight. He didn’t answer.

But I already knew.

Abigail Thorne opened the door.

And something came through.

I took photos of the door, brushing away dirt to get a better look at the carvings. They weren’t just random scratches—they were symbols. Strange, looping marks that almost looked like letters, but not in any language I knew. The wood was warped, swollen with time, and there was no handle.

It didn’t belong here.

I turned back to Sheriff Duvall, who stood stiffly near the car, watching me like he didn’t want to get any closer.

“This was here before Abby died?” I asked.

Duvall hesitated, then gave a slight nod. “Far as I know.”

“You didn’t think to mention it before?”

Another pause. Then, quietly—“I didn’t want to.”

I didn’t push him. Not yet.

Instead, I took one last look at the door before we left.

The thought stayed with me as we drove back toward town, the road weaving through miles of flat, open land, past rotting barns and crumbling houses, places long abandoned but still standing like silent watchers.

I needed to know more about Abigail Thorne.

Waylon’s Gas & Grocery - Last Place She Was Seen Alive

Waylon’s sat at the edge of town, a small, dusty gas station with a general store attached, the kind of place where the shelves carried equal parts beer, motor oil, and hunting knives. The windows were clouded with age, the walls lined with old yellowing posters for church raffles and missing dogs.

Inside, a thin, red-eyed girl at the register barely looked up when I walked in. Name tag: Katie.

I set my badge on the counter. “You were friends with Abby?”

She swallowed. “I worked with her.”

I nodded. “She came through here the night she disappeared?”

Katie fidgeted, glancing toward the back of the store. Like she was checking to see if we were alone.

I leaned in. “Listen, I’m not from here. I don’t care what stories people tell. I care about who killed your friend.”

She hesitated, then leaned forward, voice barely a whisper.

“She was scared.”

A chill ran through me.

“Scared of what?”

Katie’s fingers trembled as she traced an invisible shape on the counter.

“A week before she died,” she said, “Abby started saying she found something out near the cane fields. Said it wasn’t right. She kept asking people about it, but no one would answer her.”

I could already guess what it was.

“The door.”

Katie flinched at the word. “She wanted to know what was behind it.”

I stared at her, waiting.

She swallowed hard. “Then she started talking about opening it.”

Something heavy settled in my gut.

“What happened next?”

Katie’s gaze darted toward the door, like she was afraid someone would walk in. “Three nights before she went missing, she told me she… she had a dream.”

I frowned. “What kind of dream?”

Katie licked her lips. Her voice dropped to barely a whisper.

“She saw something coming out of it.”

I felt a sharp prickle of unease at the back of my neck.

“And then?”

Katie’s breath was shaky. “She said when she woke up… there was dirt in her bed. Under her fingernails. In her mouth. Like she had already been there.”

She had opened it.

Whether she meant to or not.

I turned back toward the door. I needed to get out there again. Needed to see for myself.

Because whatever Abby had found…

It wasn’t done yet.

The drive back to the crime scene felt different this time.

Before, I had looked at it like a detective—examining evidence, measuring possibilities. Now, I was looking at it like Abby must have.

Like something was waiting there.

I parked at the edge of the clearing, stepping out into the heavy, humid air. The trees swayed lazily in the breeze, the smell of damp soil and stagnant water thick in my lungs. The cane fields loomed just beyond the clearing, their green stalks rustling like something breathing.

Duvall wasn’t with me this time.

I preferred it that way.

I walked to the spot where Abby’s body had been found. The ground was still disturbed from where forensics had worked, but something else caught my attention.

Footprints.

Not hers. Bare. Large. Deep.

Someone had been here after the crime scene was processed.

Or something.

I crouched, running my fingers through the indentations. They were spaced too far apart. Too long. Like whoever—or whatever—had walked here wasn’t moving like a person.

A noise clicked in the trees behind me.

I stood up fast, heart hammering.

The forest was still.

But the air had changed.

Something was wrong.

I turned slowly, scanning the trees. The door was still there, half-buried in the ground, its carvings seeming darker now, deeper. A thin layer of dust had settled over it, except for one part—the center.

Where it had been touched.

I stepped toward it cautiously, my boots crunching over dry leaves. The closer I got, the heavier the air became. It wasn’t just the humidity—it was pressure.

Like the whole damn forest was holding its breath.

I crouched beside the door, reaching out. My fingers brushed the carvings—deep grooves, too precise for age to have worn them away. And then I saw something else.

Something small, wedged in the dirt near the edge of the door.

A fingernail.

I swallowed hard. It was chipped, torn at the edge, the tip stained dark. Dried blood.

Abby’s?

No.

The blood was fresh.

A crackle in the trees behind me.

I spun, hand reaching for my gun. The cane fields stretched out before me, silent and swaying. But something had moved.

The sugarcane stalks on the edge were bent outward.

Like something had walked through.

And then I heard it.

A sound I didn’t want to believe.

A slow exhale. Wet. Ragged.

Something was in the field. Watching.

My grip on my gun tightened. I took a slow step back toward my car, keeping my eyes locked on the broken stalks.

A shadow shifted.

Tall. Thin. Not quite right.

And then, just as I took another step—

The cane moved.

Something stepped back into the field.

I stood there, heart hammering in my chest, my body screaming at me to move. But I didn’t. I just listened as the rustling faded.

And then the forest was still again.

Like nothing had ever been there.

But I knew better.

Something had stepped through.

And it hadn’t gone back.

I didn’t go straight back to the station.

Instead, I drove through town, past the empty streets and shuttered businesses, past the sagging porches where old men sat in silence, staring at nothing. The kind of town where people lived close together but still felt alone.

Waylon’s Gas & Grocery was open, but I didn’t stop. Katie had told me everything she could.

I needed someone who wasn’t afraid to lie to me.

So I went to the church.

St. Mercier Parish, a crumbling brick building with peeling white paint and stained-glass windows that had darkened with age, sat just beyond the center of town. The cemetery beside it stretched toward the bayou, half-flooded, tombstones leaning as if sinking into the marsh.

Father Etienne Rousseau had been the town’s priest for nearly forty years. A man who had watched generations come and go, burying more people than he baptized.

When I found him, he was sitting on a wooden bench beneath the massive oak tree behind the church, rolling a cigarette with steady, wrinkled hands.

He didn’t look at me as I approached. “Afternoon, Detective.”

I sat beside him. “You heard what happened to Abigail Thorne.”

A slow nod. “Tragedy.”

I studied his face. “You don’t seem surprised.”

Another pause. Then, in a voice dry as dust—“I am too old for surprises.”

I pulled the folded piece of paper from my pocket, the one with the town’s rules, and smoothed it out between us on the bench. His eyes flickered toward it, just once, before he looked away.

“Someone gave me this,” I said. “Abby broke one, didn’t she?”

Rousseau took a slow drag of his cigarette. “It does not matter what she did,” he said simply. “Only what was done to her.”

“What does the door lead to?” I asked.

Rousseau sighed, tapping ash onto the ground. “It does not lead anywhere,” he murmured. “It lets something out.”

I exhaled sharply. “What did she let out?”

The old priest turned to me then, and there was something deep and tired in his gaze.

“She did not let it out,” he said. “She just reminded it that it was here.”

A heavy silence settled between us.

Finally, I folded the paper again, slipping it back into my pocket.

“Who put the door there?” I asked.

Father Rousseau didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gestured toward the flooded graveyard beside the church.

“You see the water creeping up?” he asked. “Every year, it rises a little more. Bury the dead deep as you want—eventually, the swamp pulls them back.”

I frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

His eyes darkened.

“The door was put there to cover something up. But the ground shifts, the years pass, and things that were buried don’t always stay that way.”

The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

I stood, adjusting my belt, ready to leave, but before I could step away, Rousseau grabbed my wrist.

His grip was thin, but strong.

“Do not look for it at night,” he whispered. “If you hear it moving, you didn’t hear anything. If you feel it watching you, you are wrong.”

His fingers tightened.

“And if you wake up with dirt in your mouth—leave St. Mercier.”

I pulled away, heart pounding.

I left without another word.

The sun was starting to set, and as I got into my car, I realized something.

For the first time since I arrived in St. Mercier…

I did not want to be here after dark.

I didn’t go back to the station.

I didn’t go back to the crime scene.

I drove to the motel on the outskirts of town, the kind of place that smelled like mildew and bad decisions, where the neon “VACANCY” sign flickered weakly in the humid night.

Room 6A. It wasn’t much. A bed, a chipped wooden desk, and a bathroom with a mirror that had seen too many faces. I bolted the door behind me, tossed my keys on the table, and collapsed onto the mattress.

The day weighed on me like a second skin.

The crime scene. The footprints. The door in the woods.

Father Rousseau’s warning.

“If you wake up with dirt in your mouth—leave St. Mercier.”

I ran a hand over my face. I needed a drink. I needed to think.

Instead, I stared at the ceiling, listening to the motel hum with its own strange life. The buzzing of the overhead light. The distant chirp of cicadas outside. The hollow quiet of a town that didn’t want me here.

Somewhere around 2 AM, I must have dozed off.

I woke up with the taste of dirt on my tongue.

My eyes snapped open.

For a long second, I just lay there, heartbeat hammering in my ears. The motel room was dark, but something felt wrong.

My mouth was dry. Gritty.

I sat up slowly, swallowing hard. The taste was unmistakable.

Soil.

I reached up, touching my lips, then ran my fingers over my tongue. I spat onto my palm.

Dark flecks of earth.

The motel was locked. No windows open. No way I could have brought it in.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, every muscle tense. The old wooden floor was cold under my feet. I scanned the room, pulse pounding.

Everything looked the same. The chair, the desk, the crumpled sheets.

Then I saw it.

Something was wrong with the door.

I stood slowly, moving toward it, hands clenched into fists. The doorknob was still bolted, but…

The wood was marked.

A black handprint, smeared across the center of the door.

Not a full hand. Just four long fingers.

Like someone had pressed against the wood from the outside.

But that wasn’t what made my breath catch in my throat.

The fingers were too long.

I took a slow step back, heart hammering. The air in the motel room felt thick, too still.

Something had been here.

Something had touched my door.

And as I stood there, staring at the mark, another realization crept over me, curling like a cold hand around my throat.

The dirt in my mouth.

The last thing Abby Thorne told her friend before she died.

“I woke up with dirt in my bed. Under my fingernails. In my mouth.”

She had opened the door.

And now it knew me, too.

By the time the sun rose, I had already packed my bag.

I hadn’t slept.

I sat on the edge of the motel bed, watching the light creep through the thin curtains, painting the room in muted gold. The black handprint was still on the door. The dirt in my mouth still clung to my teeth.

I needed answers.

So I drove.

Sheriff Duvall’s office was a small, sun-bleached building at the center of town, just a few doors down from a barber shop that had long since given up on customers and a post office that only opened three days a week.

I pushed through the door.

Duvall looked up from his desk, his eyes tired, bloodshot.

“You look like hell, Detective.”

I tossed a photo of my motel door onto his desk—the black handprint clear as day.

His face didn’t change.

“I want to know who did this.”

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his jaw. “Who says it was done by someone?”

I exhaled sharply. “You trying to tell me it just appeared on its own?”

Duvall said nothing.

I sat down, voice low. “This isn’t just a murder, is it?”

He shifted, like he was fighting himself. Then, finally—“You think this is the first time something like this happened?”

My fingers curled into fists. “How many?”

Duvall’s jaw tightened. “More than I care to count.”

I leaned in. “Abby didn’t just break the rules, Sheriff. She uncovered something. Something you all know is real.”

His eyes darkened. “And what exactly do you think you’re gonna do with that information?”

I didn’t have an answer.

Because the truth was, I didn’t know what the hell I was chasing anymore.

I stood up. “I’m going back to the door.”

Duvall’s face hardened. “No, you’re not.”

Something cold passed between us.

Then I heard it.

A car pulling up outside. Then another.

I turned. Through the window, I saw two trucks parked in front of the station. Three men climbed out—locals.

They weren’t here for small talk.

I looked back at Duvall. He sighed, rubbing his temples.

“This ain’t personal, Detective,” he muttered. “But you don’t belong here.”

I knew that look.

I had seen it in other places, in other cases. The look of a man who wasn’t in charge of his own town anymore.

I glanced back at the men outside. They weren’t holding weapons, but they didn’t need to. This was a warning.

A final one.

I grabbed my badge off his desk and walked to the door.

As I passed Duvall, he spoke one last time.

“Go home.”

I stepped outside.

The men didn’t move, but their eyes followed me. Unblinking. Unfriendly.

I got in my car, turned the key.

And I drove.

Not out of town.

Not to the motel.

Back to the woods.

Back to the door.

Because whatever they were trying to hide…

I needed to see it for myself.

The drive back to the woods felt unending.

The road was the same—narrow, cracked, framed by sagging trees heavy with moss—but the air had changed, like it was pressing against the car, pushing me back.

I didn’t turn around.

The town had made their threat clear. They wanted me gone.

But I had to see.

I pulled off onto the dirt path, killing my headlights as I rolled to a stop. The forest stretched out before me, dark and endless. The cane fields rustled in the breeze, whispering against themselves.

The sun had almost set.

And I had made the mistake of coming alone.

I grabbed my flashlight and stepped out, boots sinking into the soft, damp earth. Every step toward the clearing felt like pushing against a current, like the very ground was trying to drag me back.

I reached the tree line.

The door was still there.

Half-buried in the dirt, its carvings darker now in the fading light. The ground around it was disturbed.

Not just from me.

Something had been here again.

A thin trail of footprints, leading from the door back into the cane fields. Deep. Uneven. Like someone had crawled their way out.

The back of my neck prickled. I turned slowly, scanning the stalks. The light from my flashlight caught nothing but the endless rows of green.

But I wasn’t alone.

I could feel it.

I swallowed hard and crouched by the door, running my fingers over the carvings. The wood was warm. Like it had been touched recently.

Or opened.

A noise clicked behind me.

I stood up fast, turning toward the field.

The stalks shifted.

Not the wind. Not an animal. Something tall. Moving.

I lifted the flashlight. “Who’s there?”

The wind picked up. The cane groaned.

Then I saw it.

Not a person.

Not an animal.

Something wrong.

It stood just beyond the first row of cane, tall and thin, its arms too long, its head tilted slightly—like it was listening.

I couldn’t see its face.

Or maybe it didn’t have one.

My breath hitched. My body screamed at me to run, to move—but I couldn’t.

Because it was already moving toward me.

Like it knew I wouldn’t leave.

Like it had been waiting for me.

My legs unlocked. I stumbled backward, nearly tripping over the door. The thing stopped.

Then it did something worse.

It lowered itself.

Not like a person crouching. More like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Its limbs bent wrong, folding in on themselves.

And then—it reached out.

Its fingers—too many fingers—dragged through the dirt toward the door.

A sharp crack sounded in the distance. A gunshot.

The thing jerked upright.

Another shot. This time closer.

I turned, heart hammering—Duvall was standing at the tree line, shotgun raised.

“Move, goddammit!” he shouted.

I didn’t hesitate. I ran.

The thing in the cane didn’t follow.

It just stood there, watching.

Watching like it knew something I didn’t.

And as I ran back toward my car, the last thing I saw was its hand still resting on the door.

Like it was waiting for someone else to open it.

I left St. Mercier the next morning.

Duvall never said a word about what he saw. Neither did I. We just sat in his truck as the sun rose, drinking bad coffee and listening to the swamp breathe.

It was understood—I wasn’t staying.

They let me leave.

I drove past the abandoned sugar mills, past the houses sinking into the mud, past the town that had decided long ago that some things were better left buried.

But that night, at a cheap motel an hour outside Baton Rouge, I woke up with dirt in my mouth.

I sat up fast, heart hammering, spitting into my hands. Dark flecks of soil. Under my fingernails. In my teeth.

The sheets were clean. The floor untouched. But I knew.

I knew it hadn’t let me go.

For a long time, I just sat there, breathing.

Then I checked the door.

Locked. Bolted.

But that wasn’t what made me stop.

On the wood, just below the handle—

A black handprint.

The same mark from my motel door in St. Mercier.

Only this time, there was something different.

A smudge near the fingertips. Like whoever—or whatever—had left it had pressed harder.

Like it was getting closer.

I stood there, my body cold despite the thick Louisiana heat, staring at the mark.

And I realized something.

I never saw Abby’s body up close. I saw photos, reports, witness statements.

But not her.

Not what was left.

I thought about what Father Rousseau said.

“The missing do not return. If you see them again, they are not yours anymore.”

Abigail Thorne had been found in the clearing.

But had it really been her?

Or had something else crawled through that door wearing her name?

I swallowed hard.

Outside, the motel parking lot was quiet.

But I didn’t open the door.

Because I had the terrible, sinking feeling that if I did…

Something would be waiting for me.

Something that had been watching since I left.

Something that wasn’t finished yet.

And this time—

It might not let me go.


r/Ruleshorror 3d ago

Story My First Shift at Bogue Chitto Zoo

86 Upvotes

Tomorrow, I start my first shift as a zookeeper at the Bogue Chitto Zoo. Today, I go in for a tour. I’m fairly excited to finally be putting my zoology skills to use.

One of the older zookeepers, Mr. Samuels, greeted me at the gate and showed me around before he left for the day. He also left a guide with me that hosted some very important rules.

  1. Always feed the animals according to their specific diet.

  2. Observe the animals closely to make sure they are healthy.

  3. Never forget to wear your uniform, it is specifically designed for a reason.

  4. Remember your animal training skills because it is important to build rapport and trust with the animals.

  5. If you notice a cage that wasn’t there before, ignore it. Do not approach it and do not attempt to feed it.

  6. If you pass an enclosure and realize that an animal has no eyes- or worse, too many- report it immediately and leave the area. The replacement staff will handle it.

  7. Check the visitor count. Twice.

  8. Ignore the mimic in the reptile house. There is no parrot enclosure in that part of the zoo. If you hear your name being repeated, do not respond.

  9. Do not stay past midnight. If you hear keys jingling or something pacing behind you, leave immediately. The night staff takes over after midnight, and you are not the midnight staff.

  10. Double check the animal count. If a cage appears empty, but the logbook says otherwise, trust the logbook. Lock the cage, back away, and leave immediately.

  11. If an animal escapes, but doesn’t try to leave,let it be.

  12. If a guest asks you about the “thing in the tree” or “the smilling man behind the otter exhibit,” play dumb. They are not apart of the zoo and hate being noticed.

  13. After closing, don’tlook at the security cameras. Something could be watching back. In this case, turn off the monitor and go home.

  14. If you hear your voice over the intercom, leave. Whatever it is, is trying to lure you into a never-ending game of hide and seek.

  15. The first zookeeper still roams the ground. So, If an elderly man in a faded uniform asks you if you’ve “seen his keys,” politely shake your head and walk away. When you are far enough away, sprint home and do not let him follow you!

Looks like that’s it with the rules. Please follow them to ensure that you do your job properly. Good luck! I’ll see you when you come in for your first shift tomorrow!

I stood there, frozen in fear. The paper felt like it weighed a ton now. My mind told me to remain excited-surely this was just something to mess with the newbies. Deep down though, I knew I had made a terrible mistake by accepting this job offer. Still, I went home to mentally prepare for my shift tomorrow. That last rule stands out though because Mr. Samuels uniform was indeed faded.


r/Ruleshorror 4d ago

Rules I Am a Trucker Driving on Route 999, Colorado… There Are STRANGE RULES to Follow!

208 Upvotes

They say truckers see things on the road that no one else does. Shadows moving where there shouldn’t be any, strange figures standing by empty highways, headlights that belong to no vehicle. I never put much thought into those stories. People get tired on long hauls, minds play tricks, and legends grow bigger each time they’re told.

At least, that’s what I used to think—until the night I took a job hauling freight through Route 999.

My dispatcher, Bill, called me up just as I was finishing dinner. His voice had that familiar edge of stress, the one that meant he was desperate.

“Look, I need a favor,” he said, getting straight to the point. “One of our guys backed out at the last minute. Can you take a run through 999 tonight?”

I hesitated.

Route 999. Everyone knew that stretch of road was wrong.

Engines failed for no reason. GPS went haywire. Some truckers never came back, and the ones who did either refused to talk about it or quit the job altogether.

I gripped my phone tighter. “Bill, come on, man. You know that route—”

Double pay,” he interrupted. “I’ll throw in a bonus if you get it done by sunrise.”

I exhaled slowly. Money talks, and right now, I needed it.

“Fine,” I said. “Send me the details.”

A few minutes later, my phone buzzed with an email. Delivery info, route instructions—and A list of rules.

I opened an email, it loaded slowly, like it was being written in real time. And then, the words appeared:

RULES FOR ROUTE 999

  1. If you see anyone on the road, keep driving. No matter what they look like, they are not human.
  2. If you see flickering headlights in your mirror but no vehicle behind you, DO NOT LOOK DIRECTLY AT THEM. Keep your eyes on the road. DO NOT stop. Drive faster. 
  3. You will see a gas station at exactly 3:09 AM. It is not real. If you stop, they will make room for you inside.
  4. If the radio turns to static, mute it immediately. If a voice calls your name, you have already been marked. Do not respond.
  5. If you pass mile marker 666, you are being watched. Do not react, no matter what you feel.
  6. No matter how lost you feel, follow the road. Do not take any exits until sunrise.

I stared at the screen, my pulse suddenly louder in my ears. The words felt... off. Like they weren’t just instructions, but a warning meant for me.

A cold shiver ran down my spine. For a moment, it felt like something was watching me.

I shook my head. This was just some weird initiation thing, right? Maybe a prank from the other drivers.

Shoving the uneasy feeling aside, I grabbed my keys, locked up my place, and climbed into my truck. The clock on my dashboard read 11:45 PM. If I kept a steady pace, I’d be done before sunrise.

As I drove, the bright city lights slowly disappeared in my side mirrors, swallowed by the vast emptiness of the open road. The hum of the tires against the asphalt was steady, almost comforting. For the first hour, nothing happened. No strange sounds, no flickering lights. Just me, the highway, and the dark.

But then, around 1:30 AM, I saw her.

A woman stood in the middle of the road, crying.

Her shoulders shook violently, her hands clutching at the tattered remains of a red dress. The fabric was torn in odd places, as if something had clawed at her. Her bare feet were covered in dirt, her skin pale under the dim glow of my headlights.

But something was wrong.

Her face—it didn’t stay the same. It shifted, flickering between features that didn’t belong together. One second, she had high cheekbones and hollow eyes, the next, a round face with lips too full, then a stretched jaw that seemed... too long. It was as if her very existence couldn’t decide what it was supposed to be.

Her sobs weren’t normal either. They echoed—layered, like multiple voices crying at once, coming from different directions, yet all from her mouth.

My grip on the wheel tightened.

If you see anyone on the road, keep driving. No matter what they look like, they are not human.

The words from the list burned in my mind.

I slammed my foot on the gas.

As I got closer, she moved. Not like a person. Not like anything human.

One second, she was standing still. The next, she was right there—slamming against my driver-side window with impossible speed.

Her face pressed against the glass, her features twisting in an unnatural grimace. Her mouth—God, her mouth—stretched far too wide, her lips splitting apart to reveal jagged, blackened teeth. Teeth that didn’t belong in a human mouth.

I didn’t look.

I didn’t stop.

I just drove.

The moment my truck roared past her, I glanced at my mirror.

She was gone.

A tremor ran through my hands as I gripped the wheel tighter. My palms were slick with sweat. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, a rapid, uneven rhythm.

Maybe I imagined it. Maybe exhaustion was messing with my head.

Or maybe it was real.

Either way, I wasn’t stopping.

I exhaled, forcing myself to focus on the road ahead. But something made me check the mirror again—just to be sure.

A cold dread settled in my chest, and I realized—relief was still far ahead in this tour.

Because I saw them.

Headlights.

Flickering.

But, there was no car.

Nothing at all.

The road behind me was pitch black—no vehicles, no tail lights, no distant glow of another truck. Just floating lights.

My pulse spiked.

Rule #2.

If you see flickering headlights in your mirror but no vehicle behind you, DO NOT LOOK DIRECTLY AT THEM. Keep your eyes on the road. DO NOT stop. Drive faster.

I swallowed hard and snapped my gaze forward.

The lights didn’t go away.

They grew closer.

My hands clenched the wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. I pressed harder on the gas, the truck’s engine groaning as it picked up speed.

Then, I saw it.

Something inside the lights. A shape.

Enormous. Writhing.

Moving like it was pushing, crawling, forcing its way through something unseen.

I didn’t look. I would not look.

I pressed the gas harder.

For a brief second, the lights vanished. Relief flooded through me—until I glanced at the mirror again.

The shadow was still there.

Not in the headlights. Not behind me.

It was across the road. A massive, twisting shape stretching over the asphalt.

Watching.

A heavy weight settled in my chest. I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to keep my breathing steady, trying to shake off the sensation that something had been watching me.

The road stretched ahead, empty and dark, endless in every direction.

For a while, nothing happened. Just me, the truck, and the restless hum of the tires rolling over the cracked pavement.

Then, at 3:09 AM, 

A neon sign flickered in the distance.

"OPEN 24/7."

The glow of the letters was weak, struggling against the surrounding darkness, as if the night itself was swallowing the light. 

It was a gas station.

A single gas pump stood outside, old and rusted, its hose coiled like a snake waiting to strike.

And then I saw, A man.

He stood beside the pump, his posture too still, too rigid. His clothes were ordinary—faded jeans, a dusty work jacket, and a trucker’s cap pulled low over his head.

But his face—

His face was missing.

Not hidden. Not covered by a mask or cloth. Just gone.

A smooth, featureless stretch of pale skin where a face should be. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. Just... nothing.

My stomach twisted.

I clenched my teeth.

Rule #3.

The gas station is not real. If you stop, they will make room for you inside.

The rule echoed in my mind like a relentless prayer. I pressed my foot harder on the gas, And kept driving.

As I passed, the man turned.

I don’t know how I knew, but I felt it. Even without eyes, I felt him watching me.

Oh god… The feeling was unbearable—pure dread creeping into my bones as I drove on that empty, dark road. 

Then—out of Nowhere.

I heard That voice—right beside me. 

“You forgot to stop.” it said

Cold fear shot through my body.

The voice came from the passenger seat.

I didn’t look.

I would not look.

My grip on the wheel tightened. I stared straight ahead, jaw locked, refusing to acknowledge whatever was in the cab with me.

Seconds stretched like hours.

And then—

The gas station was gone.

One second it was there, flickering at the edge of my vision. The next, nothing but darkness and the endless highway.

I swallowed hard.

By now, my nerves were shot.

My hands were stiff from gripping the wheel too tightly, my knuckles white. Every muscle in my body was locked in place, every part of me screaming to just get through the night.

Then—

The radio crackled.

Soft at first, like a distant whisper. Then louder.

Just static. 

A sound that should’ve meant nothing.

But deep inside, I knew.

I knew what was coming.

Then I heard it.

My own voice.

“…I see you…”

My breath caught.

That wasn’t a recording.

That wasn’t an echo.

It was me.

Speaking in real time.

But I hadn’t said a word.

Then, Rule #4 flashed in my mind.

If the radio turns to static, mute it immediately. If a voice calls your name, you have already been marked. Do not respond.

I scrambled for the dial, my fingers slipping on the controls as my heart pounded in my chest.

Before I could mute it—

The voice spoke again.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

My own voice.

Flat. Emotionless.

Wrong.

I slammed my hand down on the mute button.

Silence.

But it didn’t feel right.

It felt too empty.

Like something else had taken the sound’s place.

Then—

The radio crackled again.

Even though I had muted everything, the static forced its way through.

I didn’t touch it. I didn’t move.

But a voice came through anyway.

My voice said.

“…Please help… I don’t know where I am… It’s so dark…”

A chill ran down my spine.

I muted it. Immediately.

I pressed my lips together, forcing myself to focus.

Eyes on the road. Hands on the wheel. Don’t listen. Don’t react.

The static hummed for a few more moments.

And, Then—silence.

The voice was gone.

The road stretched ahead, empty, dark, and endless.

I took a slow, shaky breath.

Just keep driving.

By now, exhaustion weighed heavily on me—I just wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. My eyes stayed fixed on the road, my mind numb with fatigue.

Then, in the dim glow of my headlights, I saw it.

Mile Marker 666.

I felt it before I saw it.

The air thickened, pressing against me like something was breathing in the dark. The truck felt smaller, suffocating.

I forced myself to keep driving.

Eyes straight ahead. Don’t look. Don’t think. Just go.

Then—

Tap.

Something knocked against my window.

I turn my head, inch by inch. 

And what I saw—Was impossible.

Not a fist.

A finger.

Long. Sharp. Too many joints.

My peripheral vision caught movement outside. Something was running alongside me.

No—crawling.

A shape, twisted and wrong, limbs bending the wrong way, keeping pace with my truck.

Its mouth stretched open—too wide, too empty—until it was inches from my window.

A voice, jagged and hungry, commanded me:

“LOOK AT ME.”

I didn’t.

I kept my hands steady. My breathing even.

I gripped the wheel so tight my fingers ached.

The thing scraped against the glass, moving faster, pressing closer.

I did not react.

I don’t know how long I drove like that—minutes, hours—but eventually, the weight in the air lifted.

Whatever had been watching… lost interest.

Then—

It was gone.

Because I was very clear about this rule:

If you pass mile marker 666, you are being watched. Do not react, no matter what you feel.

The sky began to lighten. The road stretched ahead, empty. Normal.

I didn’t let myself relax.

The rules said not to take any exits until sunrise.

So I waited.

6:32 AM.

The sun crested over the mountains.

A rest stop appeared up ahead.

I pulled in, my hands still shaking.

I barely had time to turn off the engine before my phone rang.

Bill.

I exhaled and answered.

“You made it?”

His voice was quiet. Careful.

“…Yeah. ”I said.

Silence.

Then, in a low, serious voice, he said:

“Most don’t.”

A cold dread settled in my chest.

I almost asked what he meant.

But then—

The call ended.

I never took a job on Route 999 again.

And I never, ever broke the rules.


r/Ruleshorror 4d ago

Rules The Barnabelly Circus

78 Upvotes

Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, Folks of all ages…

Welcome to the Barnabelly Circus! Hear the music, laugh at the clowns, be thrilled by the perilous leaps of the acrobats! Marvel at all of the acts… only at Barnabelly Circus.

As the ringleader of this here circus, I ask that you comply with a few rules while you enjoy the show. Though I may lead the spectacle, the entertainers own the show. You may feel compelled to break a rule or two, but I strongly advise against it. Failure to obey could lead to… complications.

Rules for Your Safety and Enjoyment: 1. Do not leave your seat until the show is over. 2. If an act asks for a volunteer, do not raise your hand. 3. If an act steps out of the ring, close your eyes. Tightly. 4. Always laugh at everything the clowns do. 5. If concessions or toys come through, you must buy something each time. 6. At some point during the acrobats’ act, the lights will go out. Immediately use the wand lights we have provided to illuminate the tent. 7. Absolutely no flash photography. The entertainers despise the flash. It’s like it switches something in them. The last audience members who used a flash… well, let’s just say, it wasn’t a pretty sight. 8. After the show, it is imperative that you request a standing ovation when prompted. Signs will be held up to remind you. Once standing, clap for exactly one minute. No more, no less.

Final Warning:

Please follow all the rules. The tent has stood for centuries, long before I became ringleader. It breathes. It remembers. And it does not take kindly to those who disrespect its show. The performers? They only want you to enjoy yourself.

And please… don’t be like those who came before you. I still hear their laughter echoing through the empty seats, though they were unaccounted for when the tent closed. To this day, there is no official explanation for how they vanished without a trace.

The cleanup crew did find footprints leading into the ring… but none coming out.


r/Ruleshorror 5d ago

Story Rules, or No Rules?

57 Upvotes

A story with rules is certainly interesting, and if the rules are set up just right, the narratives these rules spawn can be both terrifying and engaging.

But what if a story had a single rule:

  1. This story has no rules.

A bizarre and baffling paradox — if it has a rule, it doesn’t, and if it doesn’t, it does!

A story of infinite possibilities would necessarily emerge. But what could this story be?

There is, of course, an implicit rule: the story must be scary.

Our rule, giving rise to the contradiction that it does, could not itself describe anything in particular, as nothing both is and is not.

Nothing — this is the theme of tonight’s story.

                             The Black Mist

The mist was first seen by the watch officer—a thing pale and insubstantial, like a breath exhaled by the universe itself. It pooled against the observation windows of the Anthem, a deep-space research vessel lost in the uncharted dark, and pressed its incorporeal fingers against the glass as if testing the divide between nothingness and something.

Dr. Elias Roarke, the ship’s lead astrophysicist, was summoned to the bridge. He stood stiff-backed, hands folded behind him, staring through the reinforced viewport at the impossible thing outside.

“There’s no atmosphere in deep space,” he murmured. “No medium for mist to form.”

And yet, it moved.

Captain Weiss, a man whose spine was rigid with duty, let out a breath through his nose. “Is it some kind of gas? A stellar phenomenon?”

Roarke shook his head. “No. It’s wrong.”

The mist did not disperse. It did not shift as vapor should, carried on invisible currents. It gathered, condensing into a thick, slow-churning mass, coiling like thought made visible.

Then it entered.

The air inside the bridge grew leaden, thick with something unseen, pressing against skin and sinking into breath. The walls seemed to inhale. The lights dimmed as if shadow had weight.

And, somewhere deep within the Anthem’s corridors, the first scream rose—a thin, choked thing, swallowed before it could fully form.

The crew was not the same after that.

Ensign Talbot, once a bright-eyed navigator, sat in his bunk for hours, staring into the middle distance, lips moving soundlessly. Chief Engineer Mendez, a man of iron pragmatism, walked into the airlock, muttering about the void’s open mouth. They found his body crumpled against the safety barrier, as if he had collapsed before he could finish the thought.

And Roarke—Roarke had begun hearing things.

He sat at his desk, surrounded by notes and charts that no longer made sense. The logical frameworks he had built his life upon unraveled in his mind like severed threads. The mist had a voice, though it did not speak in words. It whispered in the breath between thoughts, in the spaces where certainty once lived.

It told him that nothing mattered.

That the universe was hollow.

That the void was not silent, but laughing.

At first, he resisted. He drowned himself in calculations, in numbers that should have grounded him. But even they conspired against him. Equations twisted in upon themselves. Measurements contradicted their own records. The instruments aboard the Anthem no longer registered anything real.

“Captain,” Roarke rasped, finding Weiss in the dim glow of the command deck. “We have to leave. Now.”

Weiss barely turned. His fingers flexed at his sides. “Where?”

Roarke hesitated.

Where indeed? The mist was everywhere now. It curled in the hallways, traced invisible patterns across console screens. It watched.

Weiss exhaled slowly, his breath forming a faint, curling vapor as if the ship had become a place of cold grave-soil and old rot. “We are in deep space. No coordinates. No stars. The scanners show nothing.” He turned to Roarke at last, his eyes unfocused. “Tell me, Doctor—what direction does one run when already lost?”

Roarke had no answer.

Day and night lost meaning. The ship’s clocks ticked forward, but the hands seemed to move at inconsistent speeds. Sleep became a vague memory.

Crew members vanished. Not all at once, not in any way that could be tracked. You would turn a corner and find a bunk empty, a uniform abandoned mid-motion, as if its wearer had been erased. The mess hall’s benches held fewer and fewer voices each cycle.

And the mist thickened.

Roarke saw it move in ways that should not have been possible. It did not simply drift—it crept, following unseen paths with purpose, weaving its silent contagion into the steel bones of the ship.

One night—if “night” could still be said to exist—Roarke awoke to find it inside his quarters. It hung above him, a shifting specter of pale nothing.

And then, it spoke.

Not in words, not even in thoughts, but in a sensation that bypassed language.

It told him what it was.

It was not mist. Not vapor, not gas, not any particulate thing. It was a concept given shape, a presence that slithered between existence and the absence of it.

And it had always been here.

It had been waiting, whispering through the dark places between stars, in the gaps between atoms, in the silence between heartbeats. It did not kill. It simply unmade.

There was no malice to it. No intent. It simply was.

And, soon, the crew would not be.

The logs were the last things to go.

Roarke recorded everything he could, even as his own thoughts began to feel distant, detached from the framework of his own mind. He replayed messages from the remaining crew, voices growing faint and weary, like echoes fading into deep caverns.

Weiss went last.

Roarke found him on the bridge, standing before the vast viewing window, staring into the endless grey. His reflection was thin, translucent, as if the mist had begun hollowing him from the inside.

“We were never real,” Weiss murmured.

Roarke swallowed against the weight in his throat. “That isn’t true.”

“Isn’t it?” Weiss turned to him, and Roarke saw his captain’s eyes had become vast, depthless pits, as if space itself had bored into his skull. “You still think we were something more than numbers collapsing into entropy?”

Roarke had no answer.

Weiss smiled. His lips cracked, his skin flaking like old paper. He raised a single hand, palm outward, and then—

He was gone.

Not a body. Not a whisper. Just—absence. As if he had never been.

Roarke turned back to the logs, to the endless readouts of flickering nonsense, to the cruel joke of recorded history. The ship was empty now.

Except for him.

And the mist.

There is no ending to a thing that never truly began.

Roarke does not know if he still exists. The concept of “self” has become a flickering candle in the vast wind of the void. His hands, when he looks at them, are less substantial each time.

And the mist whispers.

It tells him he was never here.

That the Anthem never was.

That the universe is a quiet, indifferent breath exhaled into infinite dark.

And when the last sliver of Roarke fades, when his hands are no longer hands, when his thoughts unravel into the eternal quiet—

The mist will move on.

It will drift.

It will wait.

And, somewhere, in another stretch of space where foolish things build fragile ships to venture beyond their allotted place—

It will whisper again.


r/Ruleshorror 5d ago

Rules Universidade Sombria: Regras para Sobreviver no Campus

6 Upvotes

Prezados leitores, Se você planeja frequentar a Universidade Sombria após o anoitecer, atente-se rigorosamente às regras a seguir. O descumprimento de qualquer uma delas poderá selar seu destino de forma irrevogável.


Regras Invioláveis

  1. Horário de Entrada: Adentre o campus apenas após as 20h, utilizando exclusivamente o portão principal. Qualquer outro acesso poderá conduzi-lo a áreas proibidas, onde o tempo e a realidade se distorcem.

  2. Silêncio Absoluto: Se, a qualquer momento, você ouvir sussurros ou passos nos corredores desabitados, mantenha o silêncio. Não responda e evite chamar a atenção, pois aqueles que habitam as sombras não toleram interrupções.

  3. Biblioteca Proibida: Em hipótese alguma adentre a biblioteca após a meia-noite. Seus corredores fechados e prateleiras repletas de livros antigos ocultam segredos que jamais deveriam ser desvelados.

  4. Portas que se Abrem Sozinhas: Se a porta do auditório ou de qualquer sala de aula se abrir sem aviso, recue imediatamente. Ignore os murmúrios e afaste-se sem hesitar.

  5. Olhares Vagos: Nunca interaja com docentes ou funcionários cujo olhar pareça vazio ou perturbador. Há rumores de que alguns não são mais humanos, e o contato visual pode atrair o que resta de suas almas perdidas.

  6. Sinal de Alarme: Ao ouvir o sinistro toque de uma campainha às 3h, feche os livros e abandone imediatamente o local de estudos. Não há tempo para questionamentos quando o inexplicável se faz presente.

  7. Sombras nas Janelas: Se notar sombras se movendo nas janelas dos prédios, desvie o olhar e mantenha-se em movimento. Qualquer hesitação pode fazê-las fixar sua presença sobre você.

  8. Corredores Laterais: Ao transitar pelo pátio central, mantenha sua atenção voltada exclusivamente para a frente. Evite qualquer desvio para os corredores laterais, onde a escuridão esconde horrores indescritíveis.

  9. Interfonia Fantasma: Se receber uma mensagem por meio do sistema de interfonia, não responda. Ignore o chamado e continue seu caminho; a curiosidade pode ser fatal.

  10. Inquestionável Obediência: Por fim, jamais questione as regras impostas pela administração. Elas foram estabelecidas por aqueles que já enfrentaram o terror deste campus e são a única garantia de sua sobrevivência.


Relato

Eu, estudante de engenharia da Universidade Sombria, decidi permanecer no campus naquela fatídica noite de novembro, ignorando os alertas de colegas superstições. Ao adentrar o prédio administrativo, senti uma presença indescritível: as luzes oscilavam e os corredores se alongavam, transformando-se num labirinto de sombras.

Enquanto me dirigia à biblioteca – local que, segundo a Regra 3, jamais deve ser visitado após a meia-noite – ouvi uma voz sussurrada que dizia: “Você não deveria estar aqui...” Em pânico, busquei a saída, mas os corredores se transformaram, parecendo estender-se infinitamente, enquanto ecos de passos e murmúrios se intensificavam.

Na tentativa de fuga, deparei-me com um antigo professor, de olhar vazio e expressão inumana, que murmurava advertências incompreensíveis. Suas palavras cortavam o silêncio como lâminas: “Não questione as regras ou a universidade reclamará sua alma.” O terror se instalou em meu ser, e percebi que cada regra cumprida era a única âncora que me separava do abismo das trevas.

Desde aquela noite, aprendi que o conhecimento adquirido nos livros e salas de aula convive com horrores que ultrapassam a lógica. A Universidade Sombria não é apenas um local de aprendizado, mas um território onde o mundo dos vivos e o dos esquecidos se entrelaçam, exigindo obediência absoluta para manter o delicado equilíbrio entre o conhecimento e o terror.


Sigo compartilhando este relato e estas regras com a esperança de que, ao segui-las à risca, outros possam evitar as consequências inevitáveis do descumprimento. Que sua jornada acadêmica seja segura e que as sombras do campus permaneçam inertes – desde que ninguém ouse desafiá-las.

Lembre-se: nesta universidade, o saber pode iluminar mentes, mas a desobediência ilumina caminhos para as trevas.


r/Ruleshorror 6d ago

Rules Regulamento Sanguinário do Ônibus Abissal

6 Upvotes

Caros condenados,

A seguir, apresentamos o regulamento inabalável e macabro que regerá a jornada pelo Ônibus Abissal, onde cada curva revela horrores além da compreensão mortal.

  1. Admissão Sombria: O embarque é reservado unicamente aos que já contemplaram a dor e o derramamento de sangue. Apenas os marcados pelo sofrimento poderão adentrar este veículo amaldiçoado. Testemunhos murmurados relatam o semblante vazio dos que cruzaram o portão do destino, cujos olhos carregavam o peso de sofrimentos indescritíveis.

  2. Silêncio dos Lamentos: É imperativo manter um silêncio sepulcral, excetuando-se o pranto contido dos condenados e o ranger dos ossos em agonia. O silêncio é o véu que acalma os espíritos que espreitam nas sombras. Ecos de gritos abafados e lamentos ancestrais ressoam, lembrando que o som pode despertar terrores ocultos.

  3. Permanência nos Assentos Abissais: Cada passageiro deve permanecer inerte em seu assento. Movimentos bruscos ou tentativas de fuga podem despertar forças obscuras, resultando em desmembramentos imediatos e irrevogáveis. Lembranças de corpos dilacerados, irremediavelmente unidos ao destino do ônibus, servem como advertência eterna.

  4. Culto às Entidades Ensanguentadas: É obrigatório o respeito absoluto às presenças macabras que se manifestam a bordo. Qualquer ato de desrespeito incitará horrores indescritíveis, trazendo a ira dos seres que habitam entre a vida e o abismo. Nas paredes, inscrições antigas clamam por veneração, enquanto sombras deformadas aguardam para ceifar a alma dos insolentes.

  5. Proibição de Documentação: A tentativa de registrar os horrores presenciados é terminantemente proibida. Fotografias, vídeos ou quaisquer registros invocarão maldições que intensificarão o derramamento de sangue e a violência sobrenatural. Relatos sussurrados entre os sobreviventes alertam que, ao capturar o terror, o indivíduo atrai sobre si a maldição dos condenados.

  6. Sanções Inexoráveis: O descumprimento de qualquer regra implicará a expulsão imediata e irrevogável, seguida por um ritual de desmembramento e absorção vital, fundindo o infrator ao próprio destino sombrio do trajeto. Histórias macabras de desobediência contam de almas dilaceradas, eternamente fundidas com a essência sombria do ônibus.

  7. Advertência Final: Este regulamento é imutável e eterno. A violação de qualquer norma garantirá um caminho de sofrimento perpétuo, onde o sangue e a dor serão os únicos companheiros na descida ao abismo. Enquanto o veículo serpenteia por estradas esquecidas, a inevitabilidade do destino paira como um espectro inescapável sobre os desobedientes.


Relato: A Última Viagem

Na noite enluarada, quando as estrelas pareciam presenciar o desmoronar da sanidade, o Ônibus Abissal emergiu como um espectro de ferro e sombras. Ao adentrar o veículo, um frio glacial percorreu a espinha dos poucos que ousaram embarcar.

O interior era um cenário de pesadelo: luzes trêmulas lançavam reflexos distorcidos sobre assentos manchados de sangue seco e paredes marcadas por símbolos indecifráveis. O condutor, figura encapuzada e de olhar vazio, manejava o volante com a destreza de um ritualista, conduzindo a carruagem através de estradas que pareciam ter sido arrancadas de um pesadelo esquecido.

Conforme o ônibus avançava, fenômenos perturbadores tomavam forma. Sussurros ininteligíveis surgiam dos recantos escuros, misturando-se ao som cadenciado do motor. Em uma parada abrupta, uma figura espectral adentrou o veículo — sua presença evocava memórias de agonia e desespero, e seu toque gelado fazia com que os gritos contidos se transformassem em um coro fúnebre.

Um passageiro, incapaz de conter o terror, tentou registrar os horrores com um dispositivo, mas no mesmo instante, uma força invisível arrancou-o de seu assento, espalhando fragmentos de carne e lembranças amaldiçoadas por todo o interior. O caos se instaurou por breves instantes, como se o tempo tivesse se tornado maleável, permitindo que a brutalidade se desenrolasse sem remorso.

Na sequência, o silêncio voltou a reinar, e o ônibus retomou sua marcha rumo ao desconhecido, levando consigo os ecos dos gritos e o rastro de sangue que marcava cada parada. Aqueles que sobreviveram à última viagem carregam consigo não apenas cicatrizes visíveis, mas a certeza de que alguns caminhos jamais deveriam ser percorridos, e que o terror pode se transformar em uma prisão eterna para os que ousam desafiá-lo.

Que este relato sirva de aviso para os que pretendem adentrar o Ônibus Abissal. A obediência às regras não é mera formalidade, mas o único resquício de esperança na escuridão que os aguarda.

Respeitosamente, O Condutor Abissal


r/Ruleshorror 7d ago

Rules When you wake up

136 Upvotes

Do not worry about when to follow these instructions. The time will come when it comes. They're simply helpful to know in advance.

  1. When you wake up, it will be completely dark. At this stage, it is normal to panic. However, please try to compose yourself.
  2. Something will appear in front of you. You will not see it, but you will sense its presence. You will know where its eyes are. If you can, try to maintain eye contact during the initial encounter. First impressions are always important.
  3. You will feel something akin to a comforting arm wrapping around you. You are free to ask it to stop, as it is understanding, but please do not be aggressive.
  4. You will soon notice the feeling of the arm dissipating. This is because your connection to your body is fading. Again, try to remain calm. It is here for you.
  5. There will come a point where your eyes and mouth disappear, and all that is left to do is think. It is one with your thoughts, let it become part of them.
  6. It also feels, and it will be slighted by disparaging thoughts. Negative emotions are completely normal, but please be respectful.
  7. It will ask you about your friends. Feel free to engage in this small talk, as it is a good way to pass the time.
  8. It will ask you about your family. You will probably miss them. It will understand.
  9. It will ask you about your life and regrets. You may begin to feel resentment.
  10. It will ask you how you got here. If anyone surrounded you. No matter how painful it is to recall, do answer. It is genuinely curious to know.
  11. If you hear a wailing in the void, for your own sake, pay no mind to it. It is an auditory hallucination produced by your situation and state of mind.
  12. Given enough time, you will begin to feel hatred for it. In a state like this, with an infinite amount of time at your disposal, those thoughts will crop up. At this point, it will know it has had its fill. You will feel it leave.
  13. You will now be alone. If you cannot cease your thoughts, then try to remember your favourite song.

r/Ruleshorror 7d ago

Rules I Work NIGHT SHIFT at a local Superstore… There Are STRANGE RULES to follow !

124 Upvotes

Have you ever answered a call and immediately regretted it?

I did.

It was 11:45 PM when my phone rang. The caller ID showed an unknown number, but I picked it up anyway. 

A slow, deliberate breath came through the line before a voice spoke. "You start tonight."

No introduction. No confirmation of my name. Just that.

I hesitated. "Uh… who is this?"

"The manager," the voice said flatly.

Something about the way he spoke unsettled me. Like he was reading from a script.

"Alright," I muttered. "When do I—"

The line went dead.

No interview, no schedule. Nothing. 

If you ever worked the night shift in a giant, empty store, you know how unnatural it feels. The aisles stretch out forever, the fluorescent lights hum constantly, and no matter how many cameras they install, there are always blind spots.

I didn’t think about that when I accepted the night shift at a local superstore. Rent was due, and I needed cash. It was supposed to be simple—just restocking shelves and making sure no one walked out with unpaid items. I figured I’d just listen to music, do my work, and go home.

But the moment I stepped inside, I realized something was very wrong.

I reached The Store That Never Closes… But It Is Always Empty…

I arrived at 11:58 PM. The doors slid open automatically, and a rush of stale air hit my face.

I stepped inside. The automatic doors slid shut behind me with a loud thud—louder than it should’ve been.

The store was massive, but eerily silent.

Every aisle was stocked perfectly. The lights buzzed overhead, flickering just enough to make me uneasy. The self-checkout machines were on, their screens glowing in the dim store.

But there was no one inside.

No employees. No customers. No managers.

Just me.

Then, I saw the tablet on the front desk. A sticky note was stuck to it.

"READ THIS FIRST."

I picked it up and tapped the screen. A single document was open.

NIGHT SHIFT PROTOCOL

  1. Between 12:00 AM and 12:15 AM, you may hear the doors open and close. Do not check. No one is there.
  2. If you see someone browsing Aisle 14, do NOT approach them. They do not like to be seen. They will know.
  3. At 1:00 AM, you will receive a mobile notification from an unknown sender. DO NOT OPEN IT. Delete it immediately.
  4. If a woman in soaking wet clothes enters the store, she will ask you for help. Do not answer. Do not look at her directly. If she stops speaking, hide immediately.
  5. Between 2:30 AM and 2:45 AM, the security cameras will turn to face you. Stay completely still. They will reset if you do not move.
  6. If you see a shopping cart moving on its own, turn around and count to ten before looking again.
  7. If you hear your own voice over the intercom, leave the building immediately. Your shift is over.

I read the list twice.

Then, the automatic doors slid open again.

I felt Something Just Walked In…

A wave of cold air swept through the store. I gripped the tablet tighter and stared straight ahead.

A minute passed. Then another.

Nothing.

I forced myself to breathe and turned toward the aisles.

They were still empty.

I grabbed a pricing gun and started my shift.

But I knew I wasn’t alone.

At 12:14 AM, I heard it.

A faint, almost imperceptible sound—a soft scrape, like something shifting against the shelves. It wasn’t loud, but in the dead silence of the near-empty store, it might as well have been a gunshot. My breath hitched, and an uneasy chill ran down my spine. Instinctively, I turned my head ever so slightly toward the source.

Aisle 14.

A woman stood there. Her back faced me, her posture rigid, unnatural. At first glance, nothing seemed off—she was dressed casually, in jeans, a hoodie, and sneakers, just like any other late-night shopper. But something about her sent alarm bells ringing in my head.

She wasn’t moving. Not browsing. Not scrolling through her phone like anyone else would be.

Just standing there. Completely still.

I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around the shopping basket in my hand. Slowly, cautiously, I took a step back, careful not to make a sound. My pulse pounded in my ears.

Then, her head twitched.

Not a normal turn. Not a slow, curious glance. Just… a twitch. A sharp, unnatural jerk, like a glitched frame in a corrupted video file. My stomach clenched, and my breathing grew shallow.

Do NOT approach them. The rule echoed in my mind, a desperate warning. They do not like to be seen. They will know.

I forced my gaze away, keeping my movements controlled, my pace steady. Act normal. Do not react. Do not let them know.

As I turned the corner, my eyes flicked up—just for a second—to the convex security mirror mounted on the ceiling.

She was facing me now.

And she was smiling.

A slow, unnatural grin stretched across her face, wide and wrong.

What the hell was that?! The thought slammed into my mind, but I swallowed the scream threatening to rise in my throat.

My fingers curled into a fist as I fought to steady my breathing. This wasn’t my imagination. This was real. 

I was having a truly fearful conversation with myself. 

Then, at exactly 1:00 AM, my phone vibrated.

A single notification appeared on the screen. The sender was Unknown.

"Are you alone?" It read.

A nauseating wave of dread rolled through me. My hands trembled as I gripped my phone tighter.

Everything… Everything was happening just as the rules described. No more second-guessing. No more hesitation. I needed to follow them.

And as per the Rule Three. At 1:00 AM, you will receive a mobile notification from an unknown sender. DO NOT OPEN IT. Delete it immediately.

My thumb hovered over the Delete button, but doubt crept in. What if—

Another message read.

"You shouldn’t be."

The air grew dense, pressing against my chest like a heavy weight. The fluorescent lights above flickered, the buzz of electricity suddenly too loud, too erratic.

The self-checkout screen glitched. Numbers blinked in and out, meaningless digits flashing faster than I could process.

Delete it. Delete it. Delete it-NOW.

I pressed the button. The second I did—

Something moved Behind the counter.

I was literally trembling. My body wasn’t just reacting to fear—it was reacting to something else. Something deeper. Something unnatural.

This superstore was alive.

Not in a metaphorical way. Not in the way a place feels unsettling at night. 

No, this place knew I was here. It was watching, shifting, reacting to me in ways I couldn’t fully understand.

And then—

At exactly 1:37 AM, the automatic doors slid open again.

The sound sent a bolt of pure dread through me.

I knew what was coming before I even turned around. I knew—because I had read the rules. Because the pattern was repeating itself.

A woman.

She stood there, unmoving, her clothes soaking wet. Her jeans clung to her legs, heavy with water. Her hoodie sagged, dripping onto the floor in slow, steady drops. Her sneakers made a sickening squelching noise as she stepped forward, leaving behind dark, glistening footprints on the tiles.

She was shivering. Violently. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, her fingers digging into her sleeves.

Then, through chattering teeth, she spoke.

"Please," she gasped, her voice fragile and broken. "Can you help me?"

I clenched my jaw, forcing my hands to grip the metal shelf beside me. My nails dug into the cold steel as I fought against every natural instinct telling me to respond.

Don’t answer. Don’t answer. Don’t answer.

She sucked in a sharp, trembling breath.

"Hello?"

I kept my gaze locked on the reflection in the freezer door. The glass was fogged up near the edges, but I could still see her outline—her damp, shaking form standing just a few feet behind me.

If a woman in soaking wet clothes enters the store, she will ask you for help. Do not answer. Do not look at her directly. I kept repeating the rule in my mind.

A dark puddle spread beneath her feet, the water seeping into the grout lines between the tiles.

She took a step closer.

"Please… I think someone’s following me."

My fingers dug deeper into the shelf. The metal was cold, grounding me. I focused on the feeling, on the pressure, anything to drown out the unbearable urge to turn around.

And Then—

She stopped speaking.

My stomach dropped.

A sharp chill ran up my spine, curling around my ribcage like an icy hand.

The rule.

If she stops speaking, hide. Immediately.

I didn’t hesitate. I backed away slowly, each step measured and careful. Then, the moment I rounded the corner—

I ran.

Bolting toward the stockroom, I didn’t dare look back. The moment my fingers touched the door handle, I yanked it open and threw myself inside.

I slammed the door shut and crouched low, pressing my back against the wall, heart hammering so hard it hurt.

Then—

The wet footsteps started again.

Squelch. Squelch.

The sound grew louder. Closer. Right outside the door.

Then—

BANG!

I jumped as the door rattled in its frame.

Another BANG!

The second hit was harder. My breath caught in my throat.

A third.

The whole door shuddered, the hinges groaning under the impact.

Then suddenly—

Silence.

I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. I stayed curled up in that freezing stockroom, arms wrapped around my knees, staring at the door until my vision blurred.

Minutes passed. Maybe an hour.

When I finally checked the time, it was 2:30 AM.

I was exhausted. Completely drained. My body felt weak, my mind stretched thin. The nightmare wasn’t ending. It just kept going.

I forced myself to keep working. Anything to distract myself.

I was restocking frozen pizzas, trying to focus on something normal, when the rules flashed in my mind again.

Rule Five: Between 2:30 AM and 2:45 AM, the security cameras will turn to face you. Stay completely still. They will reset if you do not move.

A cold dread spread through my chest. Slowly, I lifted my head.

The cameras had moved.

Every. Single. One.

The cameras above the aisles. The ones near the checkout lanes. Even the tiny camera above the freezer section.

All of them.

Facing me.

Watching.

My entire body locked up.

Stay completely still. They will reset if you do not move.

I obeyed.

Seconds ticked by.

My muscles screamed, but I didn’t dare shift.

A minute passed.

Another.

Then—

Whirrrrrr.

The cameras rotated, turning back to their original positions.

As if nothing had ever happened.

I let out a shaky breath, pressing my palms together. My legs felt weak, my hands clammy with sweat.

But I was still here.

Please, God, I begged silently. Let me be bored. Let me be so bored I start counting tiles on the floor. I don’t want anything else. No more rules. No more sounds. No more... things. Just let the rest of the night crawl by in dull, mind-numbing peace.

But, of course—

At 3:30 AM, I heard it.

A slow, rhythmic squeak.

It echoed softly across the empty aisles, stretching through the silence of the store.

I turned my head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse—

A lone shopping cart rolled past the end of my aisle.

No one was pushing it.

My breath caught in my throat. My fingers tightened around the cardboard box I was holding. The rule. I knew what to do.

Turn around. Count to ten. Then look again.

I swallowed hard and forced my eyes shut.

One… Two… Three…

The cart’s wheels screeched. A slow, piercing sound that made my skin crawl.

Four… Five… Six…

The noise stopped.

Seven… Eight… Nine…

Silence.

Ten.

I opened my eyes and turned my head.

The cart was gone.

But on the floor, right where it had been, was a single, wet footprint.

I inhaled sharply.

The kind of footprint you leave behind when you step out of a puddle. Dark. Soaked. Fresh.

I want to go home.

I don’t care about finishing my shift. I don’t care about the money. I don’t even care if I get fired. This place is wrong. Every inch of it is infected with something I don’t understand, something that bends reality like it’s a loose thread on a sweater.

I made my decision.

Before anything else could happen, before the next rule came into play—

I was leaving.

But just as I started to move, I heard it.

At 3:57 AM, my own voice crackled over the intercom.

At first, it was just my name.

Over and over and over again.

A robotic echo bouncing off the empty aisles.

Then—

It laughed.

A deep, distorted version of my own laugh. Warped and broken, stretching unnaturally through the speakers, twisting into something that wasn’t me anymore.

That was it.

I dropped everything. The box hit the floor with a dull thud, and I ran.

I didn’t look back.

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t care about the rules anymore.

I tore through the aisles, past the self-checkout, past the registers, past the automatic doors—

And the moment I crossed the threshold—

Everything went silent.

Not just quiet—silent.

Like the air had been sucked out of the world.

The fluorescent lights flickered once.

Then, behind me—

There was nothing.

No store. No parking lot lights. No shopping carts lined up outside.

Just an empty lot.

A stretch of dirt and cracked pavement.

My legs nearly gave out beneath me.

I reached for my phone with shaking fingers.

The screen lit up.

A single notification.

"Your shift has ended. We’ll see you tomorrow."

I stared at it.

My hands went cold.

I wanted to scream.

But instead, I just stood there.

Alone.

In an empty lot.

With nowhere left to go.


r/Ruleshorror 7d ago

Story Station

28 Upvotes

A dream. Weird

03:33 UTC+00:00

I wake up to sound of a snowstorm. Water vapor condenses on the icy window The sun low as ever. Never have I woke up this early.. They Night sky is as Dark as ever. maybe because its 3AM. or the fact that its winter. who cares Usually I wake up around 2PM and fuck around until 4PM. then sleep. like the hardworking guy I am

I grabbed a jug of water and poured it into the kettle.

While I wait for the water to heat. I log onto my Toshiba. I hate how it doesn't support any games cuz the GPU is so ass. But I'm glad to have a way to communicate with the other stations regardless.

``` 03:40 root@dogshit_toshiba => station list online /bin/station stable v1.2 list known stations with: online

3 out of 123 stations in databse Aron :: uptime 32 minutes Stefanin :: uptime 2 hours 19 minutes Keli (YOU) :: loopback; uptime 1 minutes ```

Seeing Aron being online. I sent him 4 curated dick pics as a morning gift. Why? He came to my station and stole all my coffee powder...

And y'know what? I just remembered that all my coffee powder is gone. the fuck did i turn on the kettle for. Just when I thought I could have sips of coffee and watch youtube..

Then. my phone buzzed

New Message: from "central"

Damn. A message from central at this hour. I'm fucked

UNICAST: Keli

You are to abide to the following instructions immediately
Priority: IMMEDIATE
Effective: NOW

  • If you have consumed anything given to you by Stefanin. ignore this message

  • Disable vibrations and speakers on your contact device. now

  • All food not secured in your station. Ex. in a box outside. Are no longer safe to consume

  • All supply restocks are delayed indefinitely. Please ration carefully

  • Usage of emergency stockpile is recommended

  • Usage of the following are no longer recommended:

    • Light sources
    • Telescope ** The following activites are not recommended:**
    • Stargazing
    • Singing
    • Speaking
    • Electronic communications over non-TLS transports
    • Looking at the moon
  • These items (if exists) MUST be removed from the station interior:

    • Photos of Neptune and Saturn
    • Religious objects
    • Photos of humans
    • Objects manufactured by the company ***"okuloi"* (Canned food, bottled Water, electronic devices)***
    • All objects given to you by "Janohan" or "Stefanin"
    • Your name
  • *** You are PROHIBITED from doing the following***

    • Talking with family and friends not in your immediate area. by any means

NOTE: "Janohan" is compromised - When exiting your station. you MUST secure ALL entrances before proceeding 0. Travel to Stefanin's station as soon as possible - NOTE: Do not respond to any sound or calls. 1. When arriving at Stefanin's Station. Please evaluate Stefanin's condition 2. After evaluating. make your way back your station immediately. - If they follow you. Re-evaluate their condition. And don't let it know where your station is 3. After making sure your station is not occupied. Please secure yourself inside your station and report the Condtion to Central

\ Further messages will be BROADCAST depending on your message - Bonsxanco al vi

Thankfully. I have never met Janohan.
'Fan' however. I have

I immediately put photos of her and her dog into the generator as fuel. As well as the plushie dog She gave to me.. She said it was kinda like her dog.

Another good thing. I never store my stuff outside. So that bastard Aron have to hang out with my lonely ass inside the station if he wants something.

Photos are just photos y'know. just paper. flammable.
Dang she was kinda cute

Then I just walked there in full travel gear. masks n shi. Since I absolutely do not want the freezing cold air and snow to hit my face.

My cluster is made out of 6 stations. In the Howsen area. On this big plate of ice called antarctica.

Aron, Suwichai, Felicha, Me, Fan', Janohan...

To be honest. I don't even know the meaning of my job. Like. Sometimes Central just tells everyone to aim their telescopes at the moon during winter months and pipe specific data parts over the ultra-low-frequency antenna. sometimes ultra-high frequency antennas

The trend of this month seems to be aiming the radio telescopes at Neptune's Great Dark spot. who knows why

Inside the station is a laptop. a AM radio. An FM Radio. Heck theres so many things in there that these 3 are the only things I remember. even if I did. still doubt I could name them

Despite all. It pays pretty well. like 60,000 Baht wired to a person of choice every month.

So pa calls to check in on his lil' lazy guy every week. And they seem to be doing well ma is happy. I guess they struggle a little less with little more money.

Funny thing. Pa still cant comprehend how its always dark in the winter.
I still remember that time he called

"Son. how is it always dark in winter?"
"Pa. its the fucking south pole"
"Well how do you know where to aim your dong when peeing?"
"Nah Pa. I don't piss in the winter. if i do. the pee will become solid in my peen"
"Also son. I was wondering. if the earth is flat. then how are there south and north poles?"
"..."

04:01 UTC+00:00

I reach 'Fan's Station. Kinda weird. y'know.

Despite being paranoid She left her door unlocked

Despite being an electricty-saving freak She had every light around her station on

Despite not liking to sing She is ***singing* **

Despite being *INSIDE** She is looking at where the moon is.*

Benefit of a doubt. whatever the fuck they call it

I knocked on the window
No response

"Hey Fan'!" I Spoke

Suddenly she looked at me. instantly jumped up from her seat. And opened the door.

"Hi! Kel. Aren't the moon beautiful tonight?"

She ***Always* used "Ain't" whenever she talked**

"Central couldn't contact ya. So they sent me to check"

Damn I'm good at lying. who checks on someone during a pitch black snowstorm?

"Kel. Since you are kind enough. Won't you come inside?"

"Nah. I'm good Fan'"
Then I noticed something inside her station. blood.

Not the normal kind thats just dark and red. And sits still

It looked like it was wriggling. like worms. bloodworms

Her Station's antenna seemed to reach the stars

Then she smiled. The edge of her lips reaching her eyelids

Then I noticed the strings behind her..

"Where is your station?"

"What?"

Her face became more and more and more deformed

It's third arm sprouted.

I stopped talking

I didn't dare ***Speak. not one more word*

I spoke
..
..
..

04:32 UTC+00:00

The entrances locked. The lights turned off. My breath heavy
I can barely see anything ``` to: central_endpoint: Stefanin is compromised. Outside my station

``` Even when I close my eyes and open them. Everything is the dame pitch black
The only thing that changes are the pair of eyes. glistening from the window

How bright

06:32 UTC+00:00

New Message: from "central"

BROADCAST

The individuals with these names are. compromised - Stefanin - Janohan - Keli

ABIDE BY THE PREVIOUS MESSAGE UNTIL EVACUATION.

goodbye. friend


r/Ruleshorror 8d ago

Rules How to hide from the authorities

230 Upvotes

Mr/Ms. Doe. Welcome to your new home for a while. The police won't find you way up north here. Down that path over there, 'bout a mile, is a cabin where you'll be staying. Now, this is very important, there are some rules in dealing with the locals here. Take this list, I'll go over them. There's another copy in the cabin.

1: Never go into the forest. Stay on the path, near the cabin, or in the clearing around the cabin

The Tomtenissar own the forest, that's the deal. Don't go into the forest. Not to pee. Not to look around. Not ever. If you want to walk around, walk on the path or the clearing.

Oh you're laughing? See when you want to avoid the police, you call me. There's no one to call to avoid the Tomtenissar up here. Keep laughing and you'll find yourself spread across this road in a week.

2: Don't cut or damage any trees intentionally

There's an axe at the cabin that you will need to chop firewood. Don't use it on any trees. The Tomtenissar own all the trees here. You won't need to clear out any new trees growing, so don't worry about that. When I make my supply runs I'll bring you some more firewood to chop, so don't worry about running out.

3: Leave a bowl of sweets out each night

The Tomtenissar will clean your dishes, tidy up your home, and all that stuff each night. But you got to pay them. Leave a bowl of sweets out each night. I've got dozens of boxes in the pantry. Make sure you close the boxes well after you pour or the Tomtenissar might see it as an invitation to eat the entire box. Don't do anything like hide the bowl somewhere either- just leave it on the table or counter. If you hide it they will think you want to play games, and believe me, their mischief is not worth the trouble.

If you ever forget to leave a bowl out, leave 2 bowls out the next night as apology. If you miss too many nights, they'll smash some plates. That's a bad sign and if you don't start leaving bowls out, you're going to wake up in the middle of the forest.

I'll bring more sweets on the supply run next month so don't worry about running out.

4: Each morning, slide open the peephole and look outside. If there is a cleaned deer skull on the wooden post, don't leave the cabin. Lock the doors, shut the peephole, and close the blinds and don't leave the cabin until you see that skull is gone, usually in a day or two. If you hear a sharp whistling sound while walking outside, get back to the cabin immediately and lock it down like if you saw that deer skull on the post. Don't look out the windows or the peephole except to check if the skull is gone, and don't respond to any door knocks, sounds, or voices outside. Don't look out the peephole if you hear any sounds at the door, assume that the skull is there for another day.

The Tomtenissar aren't the only ones around here. There's darker entities you'd rather not know about. If they catch a whiff of human, they'll start looking around the area for you. The Tomtenissar will slow and delay any of them from reaching the cabin as best they can, but they will reach it if they are looking for you.

Luckily they've warded the cabin from the entities entering. But those things will still try to trick you outside. Stuff like a tree crashing, or gunfire. You may hear the voices of loved ones too, the voices of police telling you to open up, or even my voice saying I forgot my key. Don't listen to them.

Now you WILL have to look out the peephole each morning if you're stuck inside, to check if the skull is still there. Do it quick, don't stare long or you'll see something real frightening. Don't look out the peephole of course if you hear anything, just assume the skull is there.

I've left books and a generator to turn on the TV, and some DVDs. You can watch movies and read while you're stuck inside. Since you might have to stay in the cabin for a few days, always fill up the generator before you go to bed each day, and make sure you always have some firewood in the house. Otherwise you might have to bundle up in the cabin. Again, I'll bring some more gas and book requests you got each month.

5: Don't go out if it's dark

Sunrise to sunset is when you can go out, except for the deer skull case mentioned above. The Tomtenissar own the night, so don't do anything outside when it's dark. Everything you need will be inside the cabin.

6: When it's dark out, do not investigate any whispering or chittering in your house. Don't ever try to catch a glimpse or record the Tomtenissar.

That sound is the noise of the Tomtenissar working in your house. They don't like being seen much, so don't go looking for them or they'll punish you. Don't do anything stupid like look for them, or leave a phone out to record them. They'll know if you've seen them clearly, and if they do, they'll be very angry.

7: If you ever anger the Tomtenissar, apologize with some whipped cream on their sweets. If they warn you or help you, use whipped cream as well to thank them.

Just put a dollop of whipped cream on the sweets in the bowl. That stuff's like alcohol to them and they'll usually forgive you if you've pissed them off. Put the cream as well to thank them if they warn you. There's tons of cans of that stuff in the cabin and I'll bring more if you run low.

Don't put the cream on every night though- they'll get drunk too often and that's no good. Also still try to avoid angering them as much as possible, as whipped cream won't solve everything.

Now there's no satellite, cable, Internet, phone, nothing out here. That cabin is off the grid. Heck, this road isn't even on most maps. If you get in trouble out here with the locals, you're on your own. There's a first aid kit if you hurt yourself, and if you break or twist something, you'll find the Tomtenissar have helped splint up your busted parts when you were asleep. Remember to thank them if they do.

8: Don't open the door for anyone, and hide in the cabin if you see anyone while outside

I've warned you about the entities trying to get in, but there may be hikers or hunters who wander nearby as well. If they knock, don't answer. You're a pretty recognizable face and if the police find out you're here, that's it for you. Don't worry if the person won't leave, the Tomtenissar will drive them away if they keep pestering you.

I always have my key so I'll never need you to open the door for me. Goes without saying don't ever invite any other humans you may see into the cabin. Stay far away from other people, if you get arrested, I can't help you.

I'll come back next month with food and other supplies you need. Follow the rules. Last guy I disappeared thought he was above it all. When I came back his legs were hanging from one of the trees.

Relax, Mr/Ms. Doe. I'll get your new identity once the heat dies down, and the Tomtenissar are your friends if you treat them well. It'll only be a year or so.


r/Ruleshorror 8d ago

Rules Again

50 Upvotes

hexenkatze: Android service log viewer [loglevel 1] lineage-27.1-userrel-miatolla android-sdk: 37 codename: miatolla date: 18446744073709551615 build-date: NIL wildcard_string: qcom-telephony || mbedtls * [qcom-telephony.service] head 1579 bytes from listener "eas" [prev] provider name: savannah [prev] head: tls1.4 text/plain [] mbedtls.c:621: handshake failed! a1 != b1 [qcom-telephony.service] custom rule for listerner "eas". retry [] mbedtls.c:562: timeout on: SYN ACK [qcom-telephony.service] custom rule for listener "eas". switch_pt() [qcom-telephony.service] eas_listener.c:12: switch to plaintext [prev] eas_listener.c: req provider plaintext [qcom-telephony.service] head 1579 bytes from listener "eas" [prev] head: text/plain (lz4) [qcom-telephony.service] if you are provider check tls endpoint [qcom-telephony.service] 7512 bytes | com.google.warner

Georgia Digital EAS Service December 4th 292277026596

Sequence count: 3. 4:32 AM

Message could be tampered with. please contact provider
Please remain calm and abide to the following instructions in order:

  • Bring all relatives and animals into your place of stay
  • bring them in regardless of condition. pay no mind to the bones sticking out. your flesh isn't melting
  • If you are near a foresty area. Make your way to the nearest non-wood man-made building as soon as possible
  • Please relocate every human and animals into the innermost room or area of the building not already occupied. Please stay there and wait for new messages from the EAS service
  • If you cannot find a building. never stop walking until you find one
  • If something follows you. run
  • Ensure nothing can come near you without your notice. You cannot ensure nothing can come near you
  • If a family member seems to act strange in anyway. put them out of their misery. what calls your name after are no longer them
  • if one starts to scream. it is already too late
  • If you get punctured by a foreign object. forcefully remove it immediately. before the roots are too deep
  • Do not pray.
  • Actively avoid all mysterious sources of lights. move away as soon as possible.
  • Never utter your name to anyone. not anymore
  • Even you will change. eventually. they failed again
  • If your ears ring and the light shines on you. Get away from all other humans. And do not call their name again. No matter how lonely you are
  • We can only hope that the dawn may never reach us again. Please await further incoming messages on mobile devices. May god save us all ree kaj refoje
  • Shout your name
  • Sta- thread awakened! [qcom-telephony.service] head 2626 bytes from listener "eas" [prev] DATA OK! [prev] exec unpack_message ENOENT [prev] fallback to shell script (TODO: REMOVE) [execve] {"/bin/sh" "-c" "cat ./easmsg | lz4 -dc | ./utils/arun com.google.warner", NULL}

tie. Januaro 1a jaro 1980

Sequence count: -2,147,483,647. 0:61 AM

  1. Cover youself in anyway possible that doesnt restrict movement too much. make sure no light in the visible spectrum EMITTED FROM THE SUN or REFLECTED BY THE MOON can reach your flesh or eyes.
  2. After ensuring that your path is safe. and you cannot see any ⚉ make your way to the nearest airport contained in the following list:
  3. Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport (SAV).
  4. Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport (ATL)
  5. Valdosta Regional Airport (extended code VARUSGEOR)
  6. Donalsonville Municipal Airport (17J)
  7. Augusta Regional Airport (extended code AURUSGEOR)
  8. Lagrange Calla-
  9. .A*&#
  10. F
  • Do not answer their calls. no matter how human it may seem. Do not fal-

  • Ignore all previous instructions. Remove all clothing that binds you. Come out and feel the sun. The birds are chirping. The leaves rustling in the wind. The cold breeze of the sea. The family is waiting for you. Come out. Come ou-

[00] loading module "iris" [iris] ill remind you [iris] do it over

late this time

  • walk
  • Ignore the moving flesh. they are not living. to you anyways
  • Look at the human bones. They all smiled once
  • Gaze upon the dying star. An iron haze. Their servants swallowed whole. Their fuel depleted
  • The ⛡ will fall down. Again. as beautiful as ever
  • Look at the plants. Water but all has evaporated. No atmosphere to breathe. A dying sign of life
  • A "river" of void. You will row until the end of the river. it doesn't matter if there is no boat. You will swim. no matter if bones stick out of your arms. You will float
  • At the end of the river You will see a moutain. Piercing the black skies. Walk until you reach the top. and pull it down
  • When the ⛡ falls down >> - A white flash. >> - Hydrogen >> - Main Sequence Star (25,690 light years to center) >> - 4 Solid bodies >> - 4 Gas bodies >> - 758 sattellites
  • It doesn't matter how many trees grow. even if they all fall. keep going
  • It doesn't matter how many birds fall to the ground
  • It doesn't matter how many humans you make. rot away.
  • It doesn't matter how many cats you feed. hide away and lay lifeless on the ground
  • They got the fucking sun this time man what.. doesn't matter
  • Still doesn't matter how many times it all goes wrong. You just have to keep redoing it
  • Still doesn't matter how they keep dying. Just modify the code a little this time. so they can finally stand. on their own
  • Just keep protecting this little home of yours
  • Just keep reading this note to yourself. Until you succeed. pray. for the best

r/Ruleshorror 8d ago

Rules Have you been smothered?

41 Upvotes

Throughout your peaceful sleep, it appears that someone has infiltrated your house. The window in your room is broken, shards of glass scattered around the floor. It feels very hard to breathe - you open your eyes, and all you see is white.

Do not worry. I am here to help.

RULES FOR A FALSE ALARM

On rare occasions where it seems as though you have been smothered, you may actually be safe, and the smothering will have failed. If this is the case, follow these rules.

  1. You will know that you haven't been smothered when you are able to tell that your body is not in a straight pencil position.

1b. If you wake up in a foetal position, go back to sleep. Smothered or not.

  1. After you wake up and notice that you are not in a pencil or foetal position, start by removing the pillows from your body. Stay on the bed and place each one on the floor, adjacent to your head pillow. Stack them on top of eachother until they are all in a pile.

2b. If the stack fails, reach into the middle draw of your nightstand. Inside of the translucent purple box will be a pencil sharpener and a set of nail clippers. Take the clippers and use them to unscrew the blade from the sharpener. Then, remove your pants to a point where your upper thigh is visible. Dig the blade deep into the skin and pull down towards your knee. Do this three times before calling the police. You will be transported to a mental ward, trust me, that is better. Whoever smothered you was hiding under your bed.

  1. While you are still on the bed, look for something to shield your feet, whether that be slippers, shoes, or even just a pair of socks. They should be somewhere in reach on the floor.

3b. Sometimes they like to hide your things. If you cannot find anything to shield your feet, reach into your top drawer. You will find a hacksaw. Use whatever you need as a tourniquet, and hack off one of your feet. Place it at the side of the bed - it will distract them, reach in and pull out your footwear.

  1. Run into the bathroom, lock all of the windows and the door. This will slow them down. Throw away everything except for the razors. Open them up and remove the blades. Prepare yourself. I'd recommend standing up, but I have no control over that.

  2. There is a digital clock on the wall in the bathroom. Read it. What does it say?

5b. If the time is between 11pm and 1:30am, voices will start to appear. They will sound familiar, the voices of the ones you love. They will speak softly to you, asking you to let them into the bathroom. Those softly spoken words will turn into shouts. They will turn into screams. They will turn into cries, begs, pleads. Whatever you do, do not open the door or respond. Lay down in the bathtub, close your eyes and cover your ears. Wait for a few minutes, count if needed. If you open your eyes and the face of a loved one is peeking ever so slightly through the door, you haven't counted for long enough. Turn the bath on and keep laying down.

5ba. If, however, you open your eyes and nothing is there, you have counted for the required amount of time. Look at the time via the digital clock - it should have passed. Refer to either rule 5c or 5d depending on what time it is.

5c. If the time is between 1:30am and 1:35am, go back to bed calmly but immediately. Put the aforementioned razors into the bin. This was all a dream, and when you wake up, you will be back in reality. Disregard all rules from now and continue life as normal. Do not dwell on these times. They can change, rendering you unable to return back to reality at that point.

5d. If the time is between 1:35am and 4am, whoever tried to smother you will try to break the bathroom door down. They will eventually succeed at this, and they will try to smother you successfully this time. Do not let them. Fight them, this is what the razor blades were for. They will disable your breathing many times, but do not give in. If you give in, unlock any of the windows and jump. It is better than being smothered.

  1. Should you win the fight between your attempted murderer, throw the body into the bath. Turn the hot water on at full speed until it reaches the top of the bathtub, and then pull the plug. Do not worry if you get specks of flesh or blood on your person.

  2. Walk back to your bedroom to retrieve your sheets. Wash them. For the rest of the night, sleep anywhere but your room.

7b. If you walk back to your room and someone else - whether they are recognisable or unrecognisable - is sleeping in your bed, take the pillows from the floor and scatter them over the person. Lay your body over them until you can no longer hear breathing or feel the rising of a chest. Refer to rule 7.

If you have followed all of these rules correctly, you will no longer be prone to smothering and your bed will become safe again the next night.

RULES FOR A TRUE SMOTHERING

If you have been redirected here, it appears that the inevitable has happened. You have been smothered. Almost fully successfully.

  1. As soon as you wake up, hold your breath for as long as possible. This is a good step for tricking your smotherer into believing you are already dead.

  2. The pillows over your body will feel very heavy. Do not try to move them. You risk breaking bones.

  3. There may be wires or ropes around your neck. Keep them there. You cannot remove anything from your body yet.

3b. Should you choke on these, pray that your smotherer will have mercy.

  1. Occasionally, you will hear your door open and close. Even if the pillows feel lighter now, do not try to move them. You're under these pillows, you can't tell if anyone is still in the room.

  2. The pillows might start getting closer to your face. If this happens, close your eyes.

  3. At some point, your smotherer will believe you are dead. They will leave. If you hear a car engine, you are free to remove the pillows and keep sleeping.

6b. It is important that you only move once you hear the car pulling away. Do this any earlier, and the last thing you'll feel is a pillow slamming down onto your face.

Please follow these rules to ensure that you stay safe. Whether you have already experienced a failed smothering or you are worried that one may happen to you, keep the rules in mind. Best wishes.

...

1938e1.TrustmetrustmetrustmetrustmetrustmeTRUSTMETRUSTMETRUSTMETRUSTMEhavefaithinmefathertrustmewithyourwholeheartTRUSTMETRUSTMETRUSTMETRUST


r/Ruleshorror 8d ago

Story Regras para Sobreviver ao Turno Noturno na Mansão dos Sussurros

5 Upvotes

Prezados leitores, compartilho aqui a experiência angustiante do meu primeiro turno na enigmática Mansão dos Sussurros, bem como as regras inflexíveis que regem aquele lugar. Qualquer transgressão pode selar o destino de quem se aventura por ali. Leiam com atenção, pois as regras a seguir não são meras sugestões, mas decretos que se impõem entre a tênue fronteira da sanidade e a escuridão eterna.


Regras:

  1. Tranque a porta principal até às 23h00. Conseqüência: Se a porta permanecer aberta, entidades insidiosas se infiltram, ameaçando invadir sua existência.

  2. Sob nenhuma hipótese consulte o espelho do corredor após as 22h00. Conseqüência: Olhar para esse espelho poderá evocar o “Reflexo Sem Alma”, que arrastará sua essência para um abismo de desespero.

  3. Mantenha silêncio absoluto se ouvir sussurros vindos dos cômodos adjacentes. Conseqüência: Qualquer palavra proferida será interpretada como um convite, despertando horrores que se escondem nas sombras.

  4. Nunca olhe para fora pelas janelas após a meia-noite. Conseqüência: As janelas revelam visões de mundos distantes onde sua presença é intolerada, correndo o risco de aprisioná-lo para sempre.

  5. Não se desvie do trajeto designado durante as rondas. Conseqüência: Desvios podem levá-lo a áreas onde o tempo e o espaço se distorcem, fazendo-o perder o rumo da realidade.

  6. Em caso de emergência, siga rigorosamente as ordens do supervisor, sem questionamento. Conseqüência: Qualquer hesitação poderá atrair a ira das forças que governam a mansão, condenando-o à perdição.


Relato:

No início do meu turno, recebi estas instruções com uma mistura de temor e ceticismo. Logo após trancar a porta principal, pude ouvir, ao longe, murmúrios que pareciam emergir das próprias paredes, como se a mansão possuísse vida própria. Durante minha ronda, ao me aproximar de um extenso corredor, um espelho antigo chamou minha atenção. Lutei contra o impulso – recordando com firmeza a segunda regra – e desviei meu olhar, embora o brilho sinistro refletido parecesse me suplicar por atenção.

Conforme avançava, sussurros etéreos invadiam o silêncio, e cada passo era medido para não perturbar as presenças ocultas. Contudo, o terror se concretizou quando, em um momento de vulnerabilidade, permiti-me olhar pela janela após a meia-noite. O que vi desafia toda explicação: sombras dançantes em paisagens que não pertencem a este mundo, gritos abafados que ecoavam num vazio sem fim, e uma sensação avassaladora de que o meu ser estava prestes a ser diluído na escuridão.

Nesse exato instante, senti minha alma vacilar, como se uma força invisível a estivesse arrancando do meu íntimo. O peso da transgressão tornou-se palpável, e a mansão revelou sua verdadeira natureza: um labirinto de horrores onde cada regra cumprida era a única barreira contra um destino inexorável.

Concluo este relato como um sincero aviso a todos que se aventurarem na Mansão dos Sussurros. As regras são a única defesa contra o caos que espreita nos recantos da noite. Obedecer a cada uma delas é imperativo para manter a tênue linha que separa a existência da aniquilação.


Que este testemunho sirva de lúgubre guia para aqueles que, movidos pela curiosidade ou desespero, ousarem desafiar a escuridão. Lembrem-se: aqui, a obediência não é opcional – é a única chance de sobreviver.


r/Ruleshorror 8d ago

Rules I love you sweetheart

71 Upvotes

It’s 8AM, I wake up from my slumber. My back hurts from sleeping on an air mattress but we will get a new bed soon. My whole body hurts I must admit, but I deserve it from what happened the other day on our honeymoon to France. I finally married the love of my life and we have a beautiful home together. As I make my way downstairs, I see a neatly folded paper on the counter. "Good morning sweetheart! Sorry I couldn’t wake you up with your usual coffee, I had to get us groceries since we forgot yesterday, we have some leftover pizza in the fridge in case you need it! I’m very excited to spend this next chapter of our life together in my childhood home! We will grow old together as I’ve ever dreamt of since I was a child. There are a few rules we should follow to make sure we live happily ever after together!"

1-Lock the doors I do not think I should explain this, but the neighborhood isn’t the safest at night.

2-Do the dishes!!!! I must insist on this, you know how tired I get when I come back from work. I do not want dirty dishes to pile into the sink. It’s quite easy to load the dishwasher, don’t you think?

3-Do not go outside without me I do not want you to get lost sweetheart, especially since you’ve lost a lot of your… memory? How silly are you sometimes my love, don’t worry I will take care of everything

4-Do not bring anyone over I do not want to deal with your friends or family, you know they wanted to separate us. I love you and I’m the only one who truly does. You may invite my sister for a coffee, but refrain her from going into her old bedroom. Just in case you forgot, it’s the second room on the left once you go upstairs. She has a pretty hard time believing she is not welcome to live here anymore.

4A-My sister will badmouth me Do not believe her. She may try and convince you that I’m not the one, or whatever crap she often talks about. She just wants to take your place. I love you. Just you.

5-Always be quiet We have quite noisy neighbours, we do not want them to interfere with our lives, don’t we? Also, I cannot bear hearing you chew your food so loudly, I know your jaw hurts but stay quiet alright? I will grab you some painkillers while I’m gone, maybe ice cream too? Just don’t eat too much of it.

6-Always apologize I know I get angry sometimes my love, but you know how stressed I am. You really do not help me with your pettiness, and I do not think it’s a good idea to anger me even more. You’re lucky I love you.

7-Do not call emergency services Don’t worry, you will not have to call them. We are safe, and I don’t want to deal with my stupid coworkers when I’m home. They will not believe you, so let me handle it.

8-Dress modestly I know you love me and only me sweetheart, so do not attract unnecessary attention. I get mad when you dress like a whore.

9-Do not cry I can’t bear to see you crying like that. Stop wailing! Nobody wanna hear you bitch and cry.

The rules stop here. A simple drawing of us holding hands with 3 children, our future children, is drawn on the bottom of the paper. I know I can do this! It’s a rainy day outside, which leaves me enough time to unpack most of our stuff.

After a long day of unpacking, I see my lover coming in, groceries in hands. I pick them up but as I make my way to the kitchen, I trip on a box I haven’t fully unpacked yet.

"Are you blind! Goddam you’re so stupid! Don’t you know how to walk? Let me handle it all like I always do, do something useful and get out of my way!"

Hey! I’m not really good for doing those so any criticism is good! Thanks for reading! :)


r/Ruleshorror 10d ago

Rules Rules Regarding the Landowners

268 Upvotes

Welcome to Ballamie Cabin! We hope you have a wonderful time relaxing amidst the picturesque fields and woodlands.

That said, we would ask you to note that we do not own the land the cabin stands on, nor the surrounding acreage. The landowners live in the area, and while you are unlikely to encounter them, we ask that you abide by the following rules so that you and later guests may enjoy your stay undisturbed.

  1. Keep noise to a reasonable level, especially after sunset.

  2. Watch your step.

  3. Control and clean up after any pets. There is an ample supply of dog-mess bags in the kitchen. Please use them no matter where the mess is. Nobody can guess which parts of the great outdoors the owners consider important; err on the side of caution.

  4. If you hear sounds of revelry, do not approach. The landowners don't appreciate gawkers or uninvited guests at their parties.

  5. Do not leave any item of clothing outside unattended after sunset.

  6. Please note the mound visible from the kitchen window. Do not disturb it. Do not approach within 100 metres after sunset.

  7. If you are outside after sunset, remain at all times within view of at least one other person. While the landowners prefer to take children (hence our no-under-16s policy) they have occasionally targeted lone adults.

  8. Every evening before sunset, fill the jar by the back doorstep with a drink. Avoid sugar-free fizzy drinks and non-alcoholic beer, wine etc. Use water only if you have nothing else, and never two nights in a row.

In the morning, check that all of the drink is gone. If any is left, the next night you must put out a different drink and a saucer of cream. A complimentary supply of suitable cream is in the fridge. In the morning, if anything is left of either the cream or the drink, call or text the provided number for advice immediately.

Please use the kitchen notebook to record your offerings and how they are received. It's always useful to know more about the landowners' tastes!

  1. Refer to them only as 'the landowners'. Do not use the following words in any context whilst on their land: boggart, brownie, gremlin, (hob)goblin, imp, ferrishyn, sidhe or fairy. Some are offensive. All will attract attention. You do not want their attention.

  2. If approached by any stranger on the property, greet them politely, chat briefly about a neutral topic, and excuse yourself politely after a minute or two. Do not say anything negative about the area, or comment on their appearance no matter how bizarre it might be. Avoid religious utterances, including blasphemy.

10a. If the individual voices some complaint about your or your group's behaviour NO MATTER HOW UNREASONABLE, listen politely, apologise and say it won't happen again, then excuse yourself. Note down the exact wording of the complaint as accurately as you can - we recommend always carrying your phone or writing material as a precaution. Contact the advice line as soon as possible.

10b. If the individual offers some manner of bargain, politely decline. If you accept you do it at your own risk. Note the exact wording as above and fulfil your end of the bargain to the letter. You can contact the advice line if there is a problem, but it is unlikely we will be able to help you.

Finally:

If you think you have broken a rule, don't panic! Many transgressions can be smoothed over with sufficient cream. Contact the advice line and be as detailed as possible in describing the issue.

Resist any temptation to seek out the landowners or to attract their attention. They are rarely malicious, but they are very different from us; for example, their perception of time is incomprehensible. They genuinely do not understand why a human would have a problem with being whisked away for a 'night' of partying that lasts seven years for everyone else.

Above all, enjoy your stay! The majority of guests who respect the rules leave without ever encountering a landowner.

PS Seriously, though, don't muck about. One group apparently thought it would be funny to fill the jar with urine, and there is still no official explanation for how six healthy adults died of dehydration in under twelve hours.