Welcome to Scary Story Podcast. Our story today involves a town that experiences supernatural
events. My name is Edwin and here's a scary story. It was during
a trip to visit my grandparents when they took me to visit one of their
friends who lived in nearby town. I think at the time they thought that
I would be far too young to be able to remember anything, or at
least be too young to be aware of what was happening. But those long
nights with the townspeople and the visits to the cemetery the first dead body I
had ever seen in my life, they had an impact on me. The
existence of ghosts and the supernatural has never been a question for me. I
had gotten dropped off at the bus station early in the morning. The phone
call had already been made that I would be arriving sometime in the afternoon to
the pueblo known as Youth. Yeah. Now, remember this was back before
cell phones and all that. I remember them having a small discussion about me
going for those days. My parents needed to head out of town for a
visit to the hospital and would not be able to take care of me during
that week. They talked about how I would not bother anyone, and that
I could go with them to where they needed to go. For a moment,
the idea of my grandparents not wanting me there crossed my mind, but
that was all he raised. As soon as I saw them, I got
off the bus to an enormous hug for my grandparents and my uncle, who
was going to be driving us. My grandma had made sweet bread and chocolate
milk, just the way that I liked it. My Grandpa took me to
see the animals that same day. They also said that some of my cousins
were going to be coming over to play, and that one of them had
just made some kites for us to take up to the hill. This is
what my life was with my family. There, simple days out in the
hilly mountains, the sounds of bells from the necks of horses and cows passing
by, and the cool wind we would feel fishing by the river at sunset.
It was what that visit was supposed to be. Everywhere, from when
we went to the corner shop for the fruits and snacks, and even when
we were passing by the neighbor who was sitting in front of his house on
the sidewalk who would stop to talk about the sounds that kept a nearby town
awake. Historians, they said, were coming for that weekend to get to
the bottom of everything. I asked my grandma what a historian was, and
she said that it was someone who read and told stories from the past.
Looking back now, I thought that the town where my grandparents were from was
one of those places where nothing much ever went on, even though to me
it was such a fascinating place. People looked for stories to tell or ways
to get involved in what was going on, and in this case, the
talk of the town was actually about the settlement in the next in a place
known ass Ubisco. I was about seven years old when all of this was
happening. I was woken up by the lights in the house, and since
the room where I was sleeping was only separated by a curtain, I could
hear my grandparents getting ready to go somewhere. They came into my room to
pick me up and put me in their truck, assuming that I would be
asleep, But when they saw that I was awake, they said that we
were going to be going to Ubisco to visit one of their friends, and
they asked me to put on my jacket and shoes to go with them.
There was no rush, as you would expect a conversation to go right before
leaving late at night, but rather calm and slow, carefully planned out the
drive. There was dark and quiet, with only the bums of the dirt
road and the headlights letting us know that we were still on the road.
There was a crowd gathered around the center of the town where we parked the
car. There and a group of other churchgoers praying with their heads down.
Entire families were out there, but I remember, even back then knowing that
this was not a celebration. I had seen many of those before. People
dancing and drinking laid in the main squares, along with music and laughter,
but not this time. I followed my grandparents into the crowd of people,
introduced to a man about my grandpa's age, who said that if we waited
only a little bit longer, he would be able to hear it for ourselves.
He said that the historians were already in town. It happened extremely quickly.
The crowd gasped, and suddenly everything went quiet, and off into the
distance from the dark hills, you could all hear the loud wails and cries
of a woman. The murmurs of the priests and the rest of the people
from the church got louder, before slowly growing into unison. The same prayer
repeated over and over. The cries in the meantime were getting closer, and
yet nobody seemed to want to go towards them. Everyone instead huddled together.
As the prayers rose over the strange silence of the crowd, louder and louder,
the people chanted, and louder and louder. The crist got another gas
from the crowd signaled everyone to look down toward one of the dark streets.
Suddenly, almost like watching a shiny reflection on water, a woman slowly passed
by the streets, her head down and her hands against it. My grandma
covered my eyes and pressed me tightly against her. There was a photographer there,
you could tell by the setup, like what they had shown on television.
A man was taking notes standing next to him with the tape recorder strapped
to a sh shoulder. Both were amazed by what they were witnessing. Ernestovaskiz
was the name of one of the historians, although I learned of him many
many years later. I indeed was too young to ask the questions that I
would want to know later, and I didn't know what to look for back
then. Everyone stayed there for several hours. Some of them were praying and
some were just talking amongst themselves as the cry slowly faded away. The next
morning, we all woke up at the house of my grandparents' friend, ready
to have some bread and milk and head over to the town's courthouse in the
same square where everyone had gathered earlier that night. When I asked what everyone
was doing there and why, my grandpa said that they were fixing a problem
that the leaders of the town had made, that sometimes it takes the common
ones to take charge and fix things. All I remember from that day was
a yelling toward the man in the hat. The hate I saw aimed toward
that one single person was beyond what I had ever seen and still is.
When the man in the hat and others went into the offices, the crowd
got silent for a while, some talking openly about the damage he had done
to the town. I remember my grandparents' friends talk about the man as a
thief, as a liar, and a murderer. It did not take long
for them to come back out, but when they did, the crowd began
to cheer as a man in the hat ran away, and another came out
with a document in hand, yelling loudly that it had been signed. The
document had been signed. Several small groups that formed went over to the house
of a man with an excavator, and almost like a parade, everyone went
toward the cemetery following it. Both my grandparents were talking to the others with
a sudden change and energy in the crowd relief. I thought the anchor was
gone. When we arrived at the cemetery in its large cement blocks of stones
of different bright colors, adorned with flowers and everything. We walked around to
the area where the headstones were smaller, some graves with dried flowers and others
with just dried dirt, and everyone knew where it was located because a crowd
had gotten there before us. They had all gathered in a circle around this
grave as a machine dug up a solid wooden box, and then with hammers
and wedges they opened it up to reveal the inside. The feeling in my
stomach was unlike any other wondering if that's how everyone looks when they die.
Shriveled up, revealing that it's our skin that makes a smile and not our
teeth. The yellow stains on the white dress of this woman, her dark
hair beside her neck and torso then screams could be heard in the commotion,
but eventually the crowd went quiet as they resealed her coughing. They put her
on the back of a truck and drove her away. Part two of Wrong
Place It's coming up right after this. A huge thank you to our sponsors
for supporting me and the rest of the team at Scary FM. Stay with
me. We left. Later that night, the whole town seemed to be
celebrating with food and music. In the Center Square, groups would gather to
talk with beer in their hands, laughing and casually mentioning the events of earlier
that day, their faces growing concerned and then happy again, patterns I had
never seen. I remember talking to my mom on the phone at the booths
about a block away from the square, as my grandma stood next to me.
Everything was okay, I told her, just a little weird. I
remember thinking of the story I would have for my friends at school. I
had seen a dead person and that was the end of it. For years,
that story that had circled in my mind went from a thing that I
thought had simply been a dream to then very real memories of the smell of
dirt in the air. From that day, nobody and my family ever talked
about it. Everyone had thought it was just a simple visit to my grandparents.
But by this time we had computers and phones to help us look up
things on the internet, and with that I ended up finding the work by
Ernestovskis, the historian that had been there that day. He had published a
book with photographs and peculiar Places, but after going through it, I stumbled
upon a title Woman in the wrong place, and everything came to life in
an instant through those photographs, the town square, the protest, and the
casket. One of the images, my grandma can be seen holding my hand
and I'm just out of frame. But it was his writings the one that
told the story that I was never told. The town of Ubisco had been
experiencing events that disturbed the townspeople. Most nights started with one of the women
that lived at the edge of town who ran to a policeman's home late one
night to report that screams had been heard coming from one of the houses by
the river. Once the policeman arrived on foot along with a woman, he
noticed that the place she was pointing to was the mayor's house. He was
left with the decision of pursuing the matter and possibly losing his job just moving
on. The mayor was a rude, large man and completely unpredictable. There
was something about him that people found charismatic, but to those who knew him,
it was only out for himself. No woman had ever wanted to marry
him, and he was known to make them uncomfortable by being too forward with
him. And so the policeman and the woman walked away from the property and
just forgot about the incident. A few days after that, a selected few
went to a small funeral held by the mayor for his daughter. Daughter nobody
knew about, but because it was such a sensitive topic, nobody questioned it.
It only took a week for the events to begin. People from the
edge of town would hear the cries of a woman coming from the hills.
They described it as shrieks of sadness and pain. Stories of witches of lagorona
of curses, and wild animals started surrounding the town. The sounds weren't just
described by one or two people, but many of the neighbors. People from
the center of town would soon begin experiencing the sounds themselves late at night.
One terrifying account by Lucia, one of the oldest residents in town and owner
of the bakery in the main square. She told er Nestor, the historian,
the first documented sighting of the woman in the wrong place. She would
wake up early to begin working at the bakery, and she would walk two
blocks to the bakery every single morning. It was three thirty am and a
cold one, she said. Fog from the hills had come down and covered
the town in a cloud that morning as she made her way down the dirt
road. She had just left the house when suddenly she heard the cries coming
from high up in the hills, like wolves and unison. The christ surrounded
the town until she noticed they were getting closer, louder and angrier the Christ
got. As she picked up the pace to get to the bakery. She
had one more block to go when she crossed the street, and that's when
she decided to turn to look toward the street that led to the base of
one of the hills, way off in the distance. That's when she saw
her, a glowing figure, wavy. She said, I was crossing the
street very slowly, walking at a rhythm that didn't match how fast she was
moving or floating on the road. Lucia was stunned by the sight and froze
completely as the crist faded in the exact same way they had arrived. People
from the houses around her turned off the lights and open their windows, some
even coming out their doors to ask if Lucia was all right. That's when
she had to explain over and over that the cries had not been coming from
her. The sightings continued for weeks. The town would hear these cries at
night so much that they started having meetings to discuss what they could do about
it. It was then when at Nenstovaskie's was called in. Such an event
was just what he would look for in small towns. Although his work had
been primarily of the pursuit of rights for the common person, it also gathered
news of corruption, so of course it was not welcome by the mayor of
the town. Eventually, the historian himself got to witness the ghosts of the
woman himself as he was out taking photographs with one of his research partners.
The photograph showed a glowing light at the end of one of the streets.
Although he mentioned that we must always question evidence, even his own, until
we see it for ourselves or one hundred percent convinced. Ernesta was there for
a couple of weeks, sometimes venturing off into the neighboring towns and settlements on
the hills. So he discovered the story of Rosa, a woman who had
gone missing and had been frequently visited by the mayor of the town, same
one he was investigating. The parents suspected that he had simply taken her one
day, a strange but not uncommon thing that would sometimes happen when couples want
to start their lives together without their parents. Blessing. The mayor all this
time had started to raise suspicions for trying to get rid of the historian and
his team, calling him a wannabe detective, spreading nasty rumors, and even
blaming him for the ghostly events of the town. This would not save the
mayor, though he was questioned about his decisions, the sudden burial for his
daughter and of the screen coming from his house. The story spread of the
mayor being involved with the events that were disturbing the town at night, and
the suspicions were right. Once the regional police got involved. The investigation revealed
that the mayor was the main suspect for the disappearance of Rosa, the young
woman from the other town who had gone missing. It was also later revealed
that he had no daughter. If he didn't have a daughter who was buried
in that grave, everything prosa. The townspeople were obviously angered at this and
had gathered around his house an office to force him to sign his resignation or
face the people for himself, people who had already been armed with their tools
and fury. He was forced to leave the town that very same day.
Drossa's parents had been there that day at the cemetery when I was there with
my grandparents. When the casket was open, they got near it and lifted
the sleeve from the body's arm. They both got on their knees and let
out scream so with the sky as they saw the bracelet, the one that
belonged to their daughter, Drossa. She was taken and reburied in her hometown
just up and over the hill, and from that day on the knights around
the town were calm once again. Up next, check out horror Story,
the podcast with the Yellow Letters to hear true tales of dark history and mysteries.
Her newest episode is about the time when radio and television signals were hijacked
to share terrifying messages. Check it out over on horror Story if you can
find it on your podcast app. I've been reading all of your messages and
thank you so much for that. If you're on Spotify, you can also
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if you have any questions about it. Anyway, thank you very much for
listening, See you soon.