Welcome to Scary Story Podcast. Today we have a story filled with darkness and
melancholy. I hope you enjoy it. My name is Edwin and here is
a scary story. My grandfather was one of the neighbors on his street that
people talked about. Kids would not get near him. Although some of the
older families on the street all knew him, it could only say good things
despite his well condition. For lack of a better word, he was a
type of guy that would offer to change your oil or walk over to shovel
your snow early in the morning. Well that was until his age started catching
up to him and he was caught speaking to himself several times while out in
the yard. My dad got a few calls about it, and I remember
specifically one night we all had to go over to his house across the state
to call him down. At least that's what my dad said, but when
we got there, he was just playing music out of his old radio in
the basement. That was it. Of course, one am was far too
late for the suburban area where he lived. Still, nobody called the police
on the old man, and instead of resorted to calling his known family members,
his neighbors knew my dad and all of the family, and it was
a time where phone numbers were commonly shared among the neighbors. I know that's
not the case nowadays. His house was the best thing to ever happen to
my sister and I as kids. It was filled with so many photographs and
things that he collected as he traveled. He had a ton of friends and
we knew them all. They would be over at his house all the time,
sitting around the fireplace and talking and laughing laid into the night. They
had stories, scary ones too, and they would tell us of a world
that we had, Like they like to say, it missed by only a
couple of decades, the best years to ever exist. My dad to talk
about him a lot to our other family members, talking about how stubborn he
was and how much he refused to leave his house to come in with them
because he didn't want to leave his friends behind, although all of his friends
had already left the city. As all of my grandfather's friends started getting older,
they too moved in with their own families. The two g's, Greg
and George moved first, and then Harry. Grandpa would spend the evenings talking
with the last one in town for a couple of years. Peter was his
name. He was the youngest out of the group, though not by many
years, but he was the one that got to spend the most time with
my grandfather. Lately, they were a couple of old, funny guys coming
up with projects and of ways to scare the neighbors. I think it was
Peter the one that gave us the idea to build a tunnel under the fence
to get to my neighbor's apple tree on the other side of the yard.
My sister and I tried it for a days before giving up. The thing
just kept collapsing. Those weekends at my grandfather's house are what I remember the
most of my childhood. It was much more active then, of course,
but I would still get phone calls from him when I got to college,
with his version of advice on girls and whatnot. But as the years passed
and his friend Peter moved in with his daughter's family across the state, a
grandfather was the only one left on Greenfield Street. It was sad to me
imagining him by himself with dozens of bottles of wine that he could not drink
by a fire that he barely had the energy to start anymore, and with
books that his eyes now strained to read. It was Christmas nineteen ninety eight,
when I had just finished college and had not started working yet, when
my dad decided it would be a good idea for me to go spend some
time with my grandfather, maybe help out around the house. Mom and Dad
would make it there on some weekends with my sister. It actually went I
ended up staying for almost three months. My grandfather was a creature of habit.
He liked doing things in the same way every single day, and that
included the same radio station at the same time before the sun came out in
the morning. By this time, the doctor had explained that due to his
age, he was prone to forgetting things and that we should try to help
with some of the confusion. But my grandfather didn't forget a thing, not
until the very end. And I hated those words, though I hated them
even more when my dad would repeat them. That my grandfather needed to be
comfortable that he would not survive a fall to check on him every single morning.
But the man was tough. His sense of humor only got better,
his stories got more interesting, and his kindness started shining more than ever.
It felt like the doctors were the ones killing the man with their words,
although I must admit that the time I spent with him were enough to tell
me that there was more, much more to the world than we could see.
What he did do, though, was to share with me some of
the strange things that were happening around the house. He would reassure me that
I shouldn't be scared, although just that statement alone was enough to send shivers
down my back. You see, my grandfather had visitors, visitors that I
could not see. It was a Saturday, nine at night, snow had
been falling for several hours, and if it wasn't for all the cables and
pieces scrambled all over the floor from the computer I was setting up, it
would have been a calm and eerie night at the house, perfect for the
fireplace and my grandfather liked to set up. He would normally be getting ready
for bed at this time, and I had been so focused on getting the
computer to recognize the monitor settings that the voice I heard from the living room
startled me. My grandfather was laughing, asking a bunch of questions the kind
you ask an old friend how have you been? How's Mary doing? Did
Mark make the team? I put some of the cables down on the desk
and stared into nothing, listening carefully to what he was saying. But the
more I listened, the more convinced I got that there was someone else there.
I reached for the doorknob and opened it. The darn thing would squeak
like there was no tomorrow every morning, but this time it was quiet.
I got to see the glowing blue light from the television casting a shadow on
my grandfather just at the end of the hallway where the living room started,
was waving his hands, excited as he spoke into the darkness to nobody.
All right, then, Greg, I'll see you tomorrow, he said,
And I could feel the cold breeze of the front door as he opened it
as he said goodbye one more time and then shut the door. I took
a few steps back and then went into my room again, aid for my
grandfather to pass by. As soon as I heard his door close, I
ran to the living room and opened up the window curtain, the one that
was at the front of the house to look out into the driveway, and
I knew someone had been in the house because of the footsteps and the snow
right outside the porch, they led straight down the path, clean against the
rest of the untouched, snowed front yard. I grabbed the coat from the
side of the door and stepped outside. But as I followed those footsteps toward
the millbox and to the snow covered sidewalk, they ended. I walked down
the porch next to those footsteps, following them carefully. As they reached the
sidewalk. It was as if the person had just vanished or flown away somewhere
right at that spot. I looked around, but as I expected, Greenfield
Street was dead silent that night, I stayed up long after I finished up
with the computer setup. Too many things were going around in my head.
My grandfather, the same man who had shown me time and time again that
he was more than capable of taking care of himself for many years to come,
had just thrown a curve ball at me. The neighbors had mentioned on
occasion that he would talk to himself, but this time I could bet anyone
that he indeed was talking with somebody. Greg was his name, his old
friend, but yes, it was a familiar name to him. I understood
that his mind might be using that somehow, but still the thought wouldn't leave
my mind. At seven a m. That next morning, I called my
dad to ask about Greg and where he was living. He said, last
he remembered, he was about two counties over by the state line, living
with his daughter, his son in law, and his grandson. But after
he explained it to me, he mentioned that I should not take it too
seriously, that my grandfather was getting older, and that I came with some
consequences. I started playing with the cable on the phone as I listened,
subdenly, hoping that I would pull too hard and that it would end the
call accidentally without me having to end it for myself. I just hated listening
to those explanations, those excuses to not treat him with the respect he had
earned from us. But anyway, Greg did not live far from the house.
Going across a county around there would take about forty minutes on a good
day, so it was possible that he could have been there the previous night.
I convinced myself of that. I accepted it, and I went back
to bed while I heard my grandfather doing his usual morning rituals around the house.
A slice of bread and the old toaster, the sound of the coffee
grinder, and the door closing as he took his morning walk to the corner
to grab the newspaper. But it was until later that evening when I saw
the small pile of logs by the fireplace, a couple of chair set up
in the living room, and my grandfather was coming out of his room with
this nice jacket and that watch, the one he would put on his wrists
whenever we would go out somewhere. When I realized that he was in fact
expecting a visitor. Part two of Empty Seats is coming up right after this
stay with him. My grandfather and I used to talk a lot. We
were both huge fans of radio and books, so our minds were constantly filling
up with stories and news, always having something to talk about. But this
and these other things that he would tell me were different. Another one of
his stories was almost as difficult to believe as his dreams. I could tell
the future, or about the one with the family that used to live in
his house before him and refused to leave. This story, one that I
witnessed for myself, still haunts me. I had him finished with my project
for the day. It had taken a bit longer than expected to set up
that computer. They weren't made like how they are now. Those things back
then could have a problem with the software during installation and set everything back a
couple of hours. All while it reinstalled everything, but my mind was not
quite there. I was waiting for whoever my grandfather was expecting, and I
could see him. He was smiling, digging into his room and coming back
with old books to set up in the living room bookshelf. Once again,
two places to sit were in that living room. That afternoon, I saw
my grandfather clean up the front porch and ask for help with wiping down the
windows and the counters while he cleaned up the floors. There was something different
about my grandfather that day, and yet I refused to ask more about his
friend Greg. I mean, I was sure that he would remember me.
I used to be around much more back then as a kid, and he
had been a guest in many of our family events. Everything was finished by
sunset, and my grandfather sat around the fireplace getting it ready. He powered
on the radio and set it to one of his favorite AM stations. I
quietly got back to my room to finish up everything with that old PC,
and I hadn't been there for even ten minutes when I heard a subtle knock
my grandfather opening the front door. The tone of his voice seemed lighter,
and he shut the door and asked Greg to come in. As he turned
up the radio, he would ask questions and stay quiet and then ask another.
It was an odd sensation being in that room, the same one that
I used to sleep in when I was a little kid, and I would
stay over evenings in that room while my grandmother would cook in the kitchen,
surprises sometimes pies, cakes, and others would be second or third dinners,
while my grandfather and his friends would sit there in the living room and talk
late into the night. Eventually I would hear my grandmother walked on the hallway
to her room and take the cable from the telephone all the way there,
and then I would hear her talk. Her sister and her were also big
talkers, but it was a sign of respect of her and my parents,
who would sometimes be there too, to let my grandfather have those moments in
the house. He had worked hard all of his life and his friends were
all he had. It may have been just a reflex for me to want
to stay in my room that night, but like my mom always told me,
it's always good to come out and say hello people like that. So
I opened up the door and stepped out into the hallway, and I heard
my grandfather's voice settle down as I reached the living room, along with its
glowing red and orange walls from the fireplace. As I turned my head towards
the living room, I saw my grandfather sitting there by an empty seat.
He was smiling, moving his hands like he usually did when he told the
story, and then would put them back down on his lap when he listened.
I took a few steps backwards towards the dark hallway, again going completely
unnoticed by my grandfather and his invisible friend. I finally reached the room and
shut the door quietly. I could hear Grandpa talking over the fading radio long
into the night. The next day, I woke up to someone knocking at
the door. It was quite early well for me. My grandfather was already
up and in the kitchen when I heard him open the door. I took
the opportunity to leave the room and walk over to the front of the house,
and I got to see Missus Johnson, one of the neighbors, standing
there in the doorway, a solemn look on her face. She saw me
as I stepped into the living room and said my name, mentioning that I
had known him too, Greg who she was talking about. She had been
a longtime neighbor for my grandfather and his family, so of course she would
know Greg. She was there to tell us that Greg had passed away a
couple of nights ago, that she had just found out. My grandfather looked
surprisingly calm during the news, although quiet, He thanked Missus Johnson and invited
her in for a coffee, which she accepted, and I heard them talk
as I sat in the living room couch about Greg and his life. I
didn't know what to think of the whole thing. The timing just didn't add
up, and yet I could tell nobody about it, in fear of how
they would judge him and blame his age for something so perfectly normal to him.
Over the next several weeks, my grandfather would set up his living room
with two chairs by the fireplace. On some days he would have his visitor
sessions as he spoke to someone Greg himself long into the night, It was
some time in February when I noticed another chair in the living room. One
evening at night, I could hear him mention Greg and another name, Harry,
as his voice echoed down the hallway. I left in early March a
job opening I applied for had actually worked out, and I thanked my grandfather
for everything as I cleaned up my room and moved my things into my car
on my way out, I promised that I would be back that following month
to visit. It would be his birthday in April, and we had always
held a small dinner for him at his house, but I wanted to see
him before then. Who else would be able to understand what was going on
at my grandfather's house. Everything at my new job went fine, and I
was able to make it about three weeks later back to my grandfather's house to
visit by myself one weekend, and when I got there, I didn't know
what to think. There were three other chain around the fireplace in his living
room. I greeted him as I always did, and I helped him move
a few things and completely ignored the empty seats in the living room. That
evening, as expected, I heard my grandfather talking to his invisible guests.
I could hear their names, Greg, Harry, and the third George.
Lots of stories and lonely conversations that went deep into the night. Eventually I
heard as he said goodbye to them one by one, with that door opening
and closing, opening and closing. The fireplace was dying down when I stepped
out of the room and I saw my grandfather sitting by the glowing embers.
The radio was playing softly in the background. He heard me walking over and
asked me to come sit with him, and I did. After staying silent
for a bit, he looked at me, threw those tiny eyes under his
eyebrows, and said, soon I'll be the only one left. Suddenly there
was a knock at the front door. My grandfather walked over to it slowly
and opened it. The fire started crackling, and the volume of the radio
went up by itself as he said a few things out to the open empty
doorframe, things that I couldn't quite hear. I stood up just as he
said goodbye and agreed to meet tomorrow night with whoever had been at the door.
Mentioning the name Peter, the last one of his living friends, he
stood by the door, this time for a few seconds before walking to the
window and closing the curtains. There was no more snow outside this time,
to prove to me that someone had been there that night. Scary Story podcast
is written and produced by me Edwin ko Arubiez. Thanks for your ideas for
stories and if you want to hear me talk about true creepy events and mysteries,
check out Horror Story. There's an episode there called There's a Stranger in
Your Walls Don't listen alone, and you can find that show by searching for
Horror Story on your podcast app. It's the one with the windshield and the
yellow letters. And if you like the story you just listened, to send
it to a friend and drop some stars for me in the reviews of this
podcast. That would mean a lot. Also, you can get our ad
free episodes for all the shows that I make over on scaryplus dot com.
And to get in touch with me, you can find me on Instagram or
TikTok at edwyn Cove. That's E d w I n c o V.
I'll leave my contact information in the description. Anyway, Thank you very much
for listening. See you soon.