Welcome to Scary Story Podcast. After years of telling you scary stories, only
some know that I am the writer and that I do the podcast myself.
But now I put together a book of my favorite stories, the ones that
made this show what it is now. And the book is called Scary Book
Fifteen Tales to Terrify. You can find Scary Book on Amazon, but I
will tell you about it later. For now, we'll stick with the usual.
My name is Edwin, and here's a scary story. I was sitting
in the car out by the garage when I saw the light to the kitchen
turn on. The curtain quickly moved to its side, and there was a
head poking out. My heart stopped for a second. I told her many
times about how much that freaks me out, and even though at first she
took it as a joke, she stopped when she noticed how much they affected
me. I'd grown up in a home troubled by something nobody could explain,
things that nobody could believe. Some of my earliest memories at the house where
I grew up still wouldn't leave me, even after sixty years and many other
homes later. The thoughts of grabbing a jar of pickles from the basement was
one of those things just came loaded with memories from my childhood. It was
bright outside a warm day when Mom sent me to the place we would call
the back house. Really it was just a large shed where my parents stored
everything which didn't use anymore tools and food that we could store for a while.
I never liked going there, even with my dad. Come to think
of it, I don't think he liked it either. Things were different back
then. Chemicals were sold much easier, and I don't want to say that
children were exposed to more dangers around the house, but we were paint thinner,
gasoline stored in those red metal jugs, so many sharp things in that
shed, And yet that was not what I was afraid of in there.
That day, I went in for the jar of pickles, a large one
at that. I opened the door to let some light in in order to
see exactly where the jar was so that I could rush in there, grab
it, and hope I didn't trip on the way out. But as I
looked in there, the beam of light getting wider. As I opened up
the door, I saw the jar of pickles. The door kept opening,
and suddenly the light hit the pale face of a little girl looking right at
me. I screamed and ran back through the side of the house, in
between the fence and the outer wall. I rushed inside and told my mom
what I had seen. She dried her hands off and then came with me,
telling me to show her, and then she went to the shed.
She believed me, but shivers still run down my spine whenever I think of
what she did back then. She opened the door slowly, and with the
softest voice she could make, she called out the name Marilyn. She walked
inside, grabbed the jar of pickles, lifted the covers off of this old
box that my dad had back there, and then she turned back to look
at me. Neither of us said a word, and I never asked who
Marilyn was or why she had called out to her. There was this other
time when my dad had regifted a flashlight to me that they gave him at
work. I would play with it everywhere, and I loved running up and
down the hallway at night with the flashlight in my hand. When it was
time to go to sleep, I would sometimes stay up and sit by the
window, shining the light on the trees. And off the eyes of cats
that would normally roam her on the trash cans. But that wasn't until I
pointed it at the back house and watched as the door slowly swung open and
then a tiny hand slammed it shut from the inside. The sound was so
loud that I even saw the light to my parents room turn on. The
light from it actually shined into the back yard when one of them moved the
curtains over, and then they closed and the lights went out again. I
rushed back to my bed and listened for anything coming from the yard, footsteps,
voices, anything, but it was completely still. One time, over
dinner, my sister and I started talking about what she had seen the night
before, and my dad told us to be quiet, that if you wanted
to talk about things like that, we would have to do it outside of
the house. I didn't understand, but as I got older, I realized
that maybe my parents had also experienced a thing or two in that place.
Dad died first and Mom lived another ten years. Her funeral was as you
would expect it to be, just a few friends at that age, but
a large family, some people who had no idea who Mom was, except
for how they were related. Some were still trying to figure that out.
I got to see my sister after all those years. She was living in
the East Coast because of her husband's work, but built her home out there
and stayed. We would call each other often on the phone, but there
was nothing like both of us being in the same room. The situation,
of course, was unfortunate, but I was very happy to see her.
We caught up and talked about Mom and our last conversations. It was an
odd relationship with her, We both agreed on that, but still we would
miss her. Suddenly, someone knocked at the front door, and it was
almost as if we could hear Mom yell out from the kitchen, calling one
of us to go open it. But we were both tense. We knew
we remembered what happened, and even with the chatter in the other rooms and
the presence of others with us, we could still feel it, those cold,
dark chills that would come with the door knocks. Everything went silent for
me. I could hear those cries from deep in the hallways of that old
house. I turned to look at Jane, her eyes wide open and waiting
for the cries to fade away. I could tell she could hear them too.
Someone grabbed the door and passed by the kitchen door with a vase with
white roses. Jane and I were still quiet. Somewhere down the road.
We forgot about the cries and the odd feelings inside of that house. As
children, we never got the chance to talk about it, and the memories
kept getting buried deeper into the darkness of our minds as we got involved with
other things. And then I started thinking of how much we actually held in
all those years, And finally Jane broke the silence. It was real,
wasn't it. I looked at her in the eye, thinking that I might
have failed as an older brother. Those long nights we shared the room upstairs
that neither of us could sleep, afraid to talk about it and afraid to
keep it inside. There were certain things that we could say. Now our
parents were gone. There was no guidance anymore as to what was okay to
talk about inside the house. But then, like a chain reaction, we
spoke forgetting why we were there and remembering the many things that happened in the
house. Jane mentioned the time she got in trouble for wedding the bed because
she was too afraid to step out into the hallway to use the bathroom,
the time she saw a strange figure crawling along the floor, and of course
those haunting cries, the way we would instinctively cover our ears whenever someone knocked
at the door cries, And even though I had seen several things around the
house, like the girl from the shed, I thought of how Jane must
have been too young to pay attention to Mom's behavior at all of this.
I told her about Marylyn, the name she had given to it, and
how she called out to this thing that lived out in the shed, or
how she was always eager to see the ghost or whatever it was whenever I
would cry out about it, the way Dad shut down our conversations, and
how he would snap. It took years for me to start saying that he
himself had also lost Mom along the way Dad told me Once Jane said that
Mom had changed. Dad and I never really talked about anything like that,
so I didn't know much about it. But then Jane asked, what were
some of your earliest memories of Mom? And you know those thoughts that are
actually memories when you think of things long ago that you have to try really
hard to hold onto them or they disappear until a new trigger, a smell,
a sight, or sound brings them back. That's what this was like.
There was one that I had managed to keep since I was four years
old. The screams someone knocking at the door and then cries. So here's
a little bit more about the book that I wrote for you, guys.
Scary Book has the original stories like Cotton Candy, Helen k Like some of
you might remember some of these stories, and these are the stories that became
fan favorites. Read off the bat Scary Book Fifteen Tales to Terrify. It
is meant to be read out loud, but watch out because they're pretty dark.
And also the publisher is only doing one batch of Scary Book, and
I don't know how many are left right now, but I know that once
they're gone, like that's it, there's no more. So search for Scary
Book fifteen Tales to Terrify on Amazon. I can also find it by searching
for Scary Book Edwin for some reason, so you'll find it that way.
But anyway, I'll leave a link for you for Scary Book. In the
description of this episode. You can order yours today. It'll really help out
a lot. But anyway, Part two of the delivery is coming up right
after this. Thank you everything. Jane could not understand the memories I described
to her on the night of the funeral, and honestly I didn't get it
either. She was always more curious than I was about everything, though,
so she piled on the questions and even asked Aunt Beth about Mom before us.
Aunt Beth was cautious about what she said, as if she thought Mom
would still be hearing her. He could tell that some of the things she
told us had never been talked about. Mom had been in such pain and
it changed her. She lost touch with her family for a bit, and
at Beth assumed it was normal to let her grieve on her own. And
the way Aunt Beth spoke so proper, with her hands folded in front of
her reminded me of our cousin Helen. And somewhere in those flashbacks, I
remembered how Aunt Beth looked when we were only children. Grief is supposed to
be shared, at Beth said, looking at both of us, but your
mother kept it all to herself. She then started crying and told us the
most tragic story I had ever heard. I don't even want to say her
name, but there was this woman who lived in the small town where we
grew up. She had been taking care of my mom when she was pregnant,
and if I think about it hard enough, I can't remember what she
looked like, but I remember her voice. She would show up to the
house to talk and help Mom clean and everything, while also helping with the
food. Aunt Beth told us that everyone in the family knew that she was
in love with my dad, and that when the time came for the delivery,
she intentionally was nowhere to be found to help. Dad wanted her away
from everybody, but Mom, with the kind heart that she had back then,
begged for someone to go find her and help her with the birth of
her baby, planned from the start to take place in her own home,
but she knocked out our and just then Mom started getting intense pains and went
into labor. Everything went fine, according to Aunt Beth, A healthy little
girl was born that night, but after a few minutes this woman took her
away, and all of her pain and exhaustion, Mom still wanted to go
after her and find her. Thankfully, Aunt Beth was able to go to
a neighbor's home and use her phone to call the police to explain what happened.
But even before help arrived, there was a knock at the door.
When Aunt Beth opened it, she saw nothing but a bundle on the ground,
the baby wrapped up in a dirty blanket. Aunt Beth was the first
to unwrap the lifeless body, and this woman was never seen again. Aunt
Beth explained that no one was to blame but that woman. That Dad had
done no wrong and in fact, he had wanted that woman gone from the
start. Mom, on the other hand, never forgave herself. It hurt
her so much. Aunt Beth said that your mother did not look for support
for the burial. She didn't invite anybody. She spoke to nobody for weeks,
and her baby still rests in an unmarked grave. No one knows exactly
where I just respected her wishes. Nobody knows where she is, I asked.
I figured there would be some law or registry for these types of things,
but back then, in a small town like that, things are a
bit different. But that's where things started to make a little more sense to
me. Aunt Beth explained, that Mom was only okay when she spoke of
her baby, as if she was still alive. She would often say that
Jane, my sister, was not the youngest anymore. The Christmas tree always
had one more gift to make the tree look full, she would say,
a gift neither of us could open, because it wasn't meant for us.
Do you know, Aunt Beth said, your mother always talked about being able
to hear her baby Marilyn. She was going to call her going about the
house. I'd follow along, of course, she continued, Your poor mother
was hurt and there was little help I could offer. And that's when Jane
told her about some of our experiences growing up in that home, the sounds
we would hear, specifically the cries after the knocks on the door. Aunt
Beth looked straight at us, trying to figure out if we were being serious
or not. But it wasn't like any one of us wanted to believe that
there was the spirits of a little girl going about the house. Although Aunt
Beth suspected that Mom had made her reel that her wish had come true on
some level. And suddenly, as we spoke, there was a knock at
the door. Jane and I froze as we told that Beth to listen.
Someone was walking out to open the door. It was another flower delivery,
and faintly you could hear the cries of a little girl coming from the hallway.
By this time, many of the guests had left, and only a
couple of cousins and their families were out by the garage at Beth's eyes opened
wide as she sat there completely still. You two have to get someone in
here to help, was all she could say. The conversation died after that,
with only small talk followed by goodbyes. Jane had to go back to
her house, and I took some time off to sort through my mother's belongings.
My sister and I had decided to sell the house. The memory's far
too difficult to deal with. Once we decided what to sell, what to
donate, and what to throw away, we would both come by to empty
everything out. I got started early in the morning on a Saturday. The
sun was out and with a beautiful golden glow, the kind you see after
the rain. The easiest place to begin would be the living room, so
I just got started. I made a list like that in my mind.
The toughest would be her bedroom, and between those areas would be the guest
rooms, the hallway, the kitchen, and of course the shed. After
bringing in the boxes and sorting things out for a couple of hours, things
were ready there. I simply sat on the couch, thinking about the times
in that place, trying desperately to find a good memory, anything that would
get rid of that awful taste in my mouth. The memories I already had
of that place, and I don't know what it was that pushed me to
tackle the shed next. So I grabbed the boxes and put them together out
in the yard, opening that door that I used to hate crossing when I
was a kid. But as I walked over, I heard something, a
soft hum, coming from the inside of the shed. A grown man by
this point, the fear was of a different kind, not that I would
see anything in there, although sure the fear of finding an animal or a
hornet's nest was always there. But of what else I would find in there
that would make me think of my parents and everything they went through, everything
we went through. I opened the door. The hum was that of electricity,
a familiar sound of a small motor. Almost I looked around through the
light seeping in between my shadow and the door frame and saw old jars,
boxes, tools I had not been used in over a decade. Finally,
over in the corner a cable, I followed it with my eyes until I
saw a large box covered with a dusty sheet. I stepped in. The
humming was getting louder as I approached and grabbed the sheet with my left hand.
Underneath it was a faded white box. Heavy. It was a freezer,
help shut by rusty latches. The paint was peeling off the top.
The latch squeaked open, and I lifted the lid. A dim light blinked
on at the bottom of the freezer. I could see it the small bundle
of something or someone wrapped in a dirty blanket. Scary Story podcast is written
and produced by me Edwin Kovarubias. Remember that you can find scary book fifteen
Tails to Terrify on Amazon right now, and if you need help finding it
or if you have questions, shoot me a message. I'm at edwind Cove.
That's edw I n CoV over on TikTok and Instagram. Also to get
these episodes at free, check out Scary Plus dot com and you'll also support
the show that way. But if you can't, don't worry. Dropping some
stars for me or a review on Spotify and Apple Podcasts is more than enough.
Thank you very much for listening. Keep it scary everyone, See you soon.