Speaker 1: Welcome to Scary Story Podcast. I'll tell you some camp
fire stories. Oh some say they are just rumors, although
if they remind you of something that actually happened with
you or your family, does that make them real. My
name is Edwin, and here's a scary story. Have you
ever been to rural Mexico? The real Mexico? Not the cities,
not the beaches with the hotels and the board walks,
But I mean way out where the roads turned to
dirt and the stars coming clearer than you've seen em.
That's where this happened. My dad's hometown, some little village
tucked away into a dusty valley and Sonora, where the
wind smells like rust and the dogs don't belong to anyone.
We flew down right after sunset. The sky looked heavier there,
I get sagged closer to the earth. I remember stepping
out of the plain and thinking something's a little bit
different here. The air was thicker, definitely a lot warmer,
and dustier, smelled like stone and old things. It felt
a little weird. We were like walking into a memory,
a memory of my family, and into a real place.
It was my first time there. The houses were built
from rough cement or so I noticed when we were
driving in ten roofs were all dented in. Wires were
looping from post to posts like someone strung up laundry
lines just to catch the heat. There were many lights,
and the one street lamp near the house buzzed like
God some secret to tell, but didn't know how to
say it. My little brother Matheo sat beside me in
the back of my uncle's van, half asleep, with his
head against my shoulder. He looked out the window and whispered,
is it always this dark here? I said, maybe it's
just night, even I didn't believe that. He grabbed my
sleeve like he used to when we were younger, didn't
say anything after that. The house was old, two bedrooms,
a kitchen that smelled like years of cooking, a sagging
couch in the living room, and the air was so
still that I felt like time had stopped. The hallway
to the bedrooms was narrow and a little bit crooked,
just white enough for one person at a time. There
was only one light in there, this little yellow bulb
that flickered like it was thinking about quitting. The walls
were cold to the touch and stained with a kind
of a yellow color. I ran my fingers a long one,
and I thought, this house remembers things. It was one
of my movie moments. There was a bathroom inside, yeah,
but the water barely worked. The real bathroom was outside,
and it was through the yard, behind some rusty, dry bushes,
and this little concrete shack with a rusted out door
had a crack sink in a plastic bucket for flushing.
I'm not sure anyone was supposed to use it. You
had to carry yourn water out there, and at night
that wasn't gonna happen. The path turned black, and I
mean black like coal, But that when I didn't have
to say it. We just looked at each other that
first night and made a pat Nobody goes out there
alone ever, and yeah we were too old for that,
but in that house you cling to what's familiar and
what's safe. Now, the first time it happened, I thought
it was a dream. It was late, like really late,
and the kind of night where the bugs go quiet,
and that must have been half asleep drifting when I
heard it, a whisper socked and right in my ear.
Glad Ah, I sat straight up, my heart and my throat.
I felt like someone had leaned in so close that
their breath was brushing against my skin. But there it was,
asleep beside me, wrapped in his blanket like a burrito.
I looked around the room. The fan in the corner
was ticking gently, swinging back and forth, like didn't want
to be there either. Nothing else moved, and the air
didn't move that much even with a fan. I crept
out to the hallway and I checked the living room.
Everyone's doors were shut tight, no footsteps, no creaking floorboards,
just that weird, thick silence. Must have been a dream,
I told myself, but it didn't feel like one. The
next night, I woke up needing to pee, and a
Nudgementdale come with me, I whispered outside. We didn't even argue.
We grabbed the old flashlight from the drawer and shuffled
barefoot across the towel floor. The flashlight flickered the whole
way like it was scared too. The wind was up,
the trees were whispering, and somewhere off in the distance,
a rooster crowed like it didn't know what time it was.
We were halfway across the yard when I heard it. Again,
glad uh. This time it was right behind me. It
was close enough that I felt the breath of it.
I stopped cold and spun around. There was nobody, just
the yard and the shadows and that pitch black nothing
beyond the trees. But theyll looked at me what. I
stared a second longer and then lied nothing. We got
to the bathroom, did our business quick, and I didn't
let go of his sleeve the entire way back next morning,
but Theyll barely touched his food. They just sat at
the table for it was hovering over his eggs. His
eyes were fixed to the window, like he was waiting
for something. And finally he says, you called me last night.
I blinked, No, I didn't. I heard you from outside.
You said my name. I was asleep. He looked up
at me, pale and confused. It sounded just like you.
And that's when the cold sank into me for real
this time. Later that day, we were scattering corn with
their cousin, just something to keep the chickens from attacking
each other, and I asked him, trying to play it cool,
you ever hear someone call your name when there's nobody there?
He stopped and didn't even look at me, and said why,
no reason, I told him. He kept his eyes on
the ground and said, if you hear your name at
night and no one's there, it's probably Lavos the voice.
I said, what's that? We said, it's not a person.
It's not even a ghost. It's just a voice. It
copies people you love. It calls to you, but it's
not them. That's just a story, right, he shrugged. Maybe,
But don't answer it. That's the rule. If you answer,
it gets closer. That night, I didn't even pretend to sleep.
I just lay there staring at the ceiling, counting each
tick of the fan, every creak of the wall. And
then it came clad and this time it came from
the window. I didn't move, didn't even blink. Glad. It
was soft, kind of sweet, actually, like someone trying to
lure a kitten or something. Mathel stirred beside me. Did
you say something? I reached over and grabbed his arm
under the blanket. No, I whispered, go back to sleep.
We didn't move until the sun came up. The last night,
that's when it really happened. I woke up and knew
something was wrong. Mattheo's bed was empty, the flashlight was gone.
I ran to the window and he was outside, standing
near the outhouse. It was still like a statue. I
didn't think. I just grabbed the jacket and bolted out barefoot.
The dirt was cold under my feet and the air
was still not even leaves were rustling. This time, Matteo,
I whispered, what are you doing? He didn't move, didn't
even turn around. I got closer. My heart beat was
like a drum in my ears. And then he said,
you called me. No I didn't. You said you needed help. No, Mateo,
I said louder this time I didn't. And then I
heard it his voice, but it wasn't coming from him.
I came from behind me, clad ah. He was low, familiar,
just a little bit wrong. I didn't turn around. I
grabbed Matheo's arm. He blinked at me like he was
waking up from a bad dream. And Glada, the voice
said again. It was closer, smiling somehow I didn't see
a word. I didn't let go. We walked fast, not running.
Just something in me said not to run. We got
to the house, slammed the door, locked it and didn't speak.
I don't remember falling asleep, just the silence, and Motheo
was holding my hand like he used to when you
were kids and thought that monsters were real. We left
the next morning. No one asked why my parents didn't
push it. Maybe they knew, maybe they didn't want to.
Matho and I never talked about it again. But some
nights late, when everything's quiet and the wind's just barely moving,
I still hear it, a whisper glada, and I don't answer.
I don't look because I remember that, and I know,
I know it wasn't my brother who said my name.
They say there's a little girl who walks the coastline
down in wy Mass. You hear about her from time
to time, always after dark, always near the rocks where
the tide crashes the hardest. At first, people said it
was just drunks seeing things, you know how it is
a few too many beers, a long walk home, and
suddenly the shadows start to play tricks. Guys would stumble
out by the port, swearing up and down. They saw
a girl standing knee deep in the surf, thin and
drenched from head to toe, like she had walked straight
out of the sea. She didn't say a word, didn't
even move, just stood there watching. No one believed them,
not really, It was just bar talk something in about
the next day over coffee. But then more people started
seeing her. It wasn't just the drugs now. Like a
gas station attendant, a security guard, a tourist couple from
Metemosio said that they saw a little girl standing in
the middle of the road. It was around two in
the morning. By the time it turned around, she was gone.
They said. There was seaweed stuck to the asphalt to
where she had been standing, just making it a little
more creepy. And then one of the university students, someone
from the local campus, a smart, curious type, decided to
dig into the story. Her name was Ludivis, and she
was doing a project on sonoda and folklore, collecting stories
from older folks around town. She figured the girl on
the beach was just another ghost tale, something passed down
to scare kids away from swimming after dark. But lord
of this was different. She didn't just ask around. She
started spending time down there on the beach late at night,
the same spots where most of the stories came from,
down by the naval station near those jagged black rocks
where the waves slam and like they're angry. That whole
part of the coastline feels a little off, even in
the daytime, cold wind, no birds, and that night it's
dead quiet except for the sea anyway lower. They starts
documenting everything, talking to venders, to older fishermen, anyone who
might know something. The story starts to take shape right there,
you see, They see that there was a girl back
in the nineteen seventies. Her name was Yes Delgado, eight
years old. Her parents sold food near the marina. One
night when they were packing up after a festival where
music was still playing, people were still dancing. Yes, kind
of wandered off toward the water. They looked away for
maybe a minute, and that's all it took. She was gone,
just disappeared, No scream or splash, nothing. They searched for weeks.
They brought in divers, even a few navy guys helped,
but they never found a trace, not a shoe, no ribbons,
just her parents standing at the edge of the surf,
calling her name over and over. The official report said
that she drowned, swept out by the tide, and that
was that. But something didn't sit right. The tides weren't
strong that night, and he nees knew of that beach.
She grew up on it, played on those rocks every weekend.
Then after that the sighting started, at first a few
a year, and then more, always around the same time,
between one and three in the morning, always in the
same area. Lord of this figured that there had to
be some kind of explanation, a trick of the moonlight,
maybe local hysteria. So she kept going down there night
after night, always with her notebook, sometimes at the voice recorder,
and sometimes with one of her class mates, but more
and more often she went alone. She told her roommate once,
she said, I think she's real. I don't think she's
a ghost. I think she's something else. Her last entry
in the notebooks said she isn't lost, she's waiting. That
was a night lure that disappeared. No one knows what happened.
Her roommate said, she just never came home. Her phone
was found near the rocks. The battery was dead, the
screen was cracked, and her notebook was inside her backpack,
soaked from the tide, but still legible. They searched the
beach Coastguard got involved. People thought maybe she fell hit
her head, got dragged out by the water, but she
was careful. Everyone said that she knew that beach like
the back of her hand. She always wore a head lamp,
carried pepper spray, told people where she was going. She
just never came back. After that, the sightings got worse,
more frequent, more vivid. A taxi driver said that he
picked up a little girl near the port and thought
that she was just lost. Told her to sit in
the bag while he called someone, but when he turned around,
the seat was empty. It was wet but empty. One
of the workers swore he saw her standing on the
dock at sunrise, just before he shift ended. He said
she was staring out into the water, motionless, and when
he blinked, she was gone. But her footprints were there.
They were tiny, bear and wet, and they led right
off the edge of the dock. Now people leave things
for her, little offerings, Stuffed kids might like a seashell,
a piece of candy, a doll wrapped in a plastic bag.
They'll see them, talked, and the cracks between the rocks.
If you go down there. No one says it out loud,
but everyone knows why they do it. It's not to
honor her. It's to keep her away, because, as I say,
if you go down there at night alone and you
hear little footsteps behind you, slow and slapping on the
wet sand, you don't turn around, not unless you want
her to follow you home. And if you see her face,
well that's it. She never leaves, no matter how far
you run, no matter how loud you scream, she just
keeps walking. So if you ever find yourself walking near
the water after dark and the wind dies down all
at once and it gets so quiet that you can
hear the ocean breathing just under your feet, walk faster.
This happened when I was about nineteen or twenty, out
on my dad's old ranch and Sonora, and we're talking
way out in the desert. It was just me out
there at first, looking after things after my dad passed.
But then my thea, my aunt, dropped off her kids
for a few weeks while she went to at Mosigo
to do seasonal work. There were three of them, Alex
who was about eleven, Camille was of eight, and the
youngest Martin, barely five. Still afraid of the dark now
daytime out there was fine. It was hot, sure, but manageable.
You wake up with the sun, fix a few things
eat which you brought for your stay, and maybe lie
out on the roof at night to catch a breeze.
And that's all there is. But at night it's quiet.
It's really quiet. It wasn't RESTful or peaceful, just the
kind of quiet where you can hear your heart beat.
You start to wonder if the wind's saying your name,
or if that creaking noise is just a tin roof
or something else. Anyway, it all started around the second
week the kids were there. The first weird thing where
the dogs Canello and Brujo, they stopped barking. Now, if
you ever lived near dogs, especially ranch dogs, you know
that's not normal. These two barked at everything, vultures, snakes,
each other, and their own shadows. But one night they
just stopped it. Would sit on the porch, ears pinned back,
eyes locked on the mesquita trees that were bordering this
north side of the property. They weren't blinking or moving,
just watching. I called to them, nothing, I threw a
chunk of meat, nothing. They just sat there, untouched. The
next night, same thing, third night, they wouldn't even go
near the edge of the yard. They would whiney be
trying to push them out there. It sounds funny now,
but Ruho peat himself when I grabbed his collar, and
that's when I started to get that old feeling, you know,
the one like when you're walking alone at night and
you feel someone right behind you, even when you know
there's nobody there. I didn't say anything to the kids, obviously,
I didn't want to spook them than Alex the oldest
comes to my room one night. It's late, maybe close
at two am. The moon's out. He knocks one's Then
he opens a door real slow, and he's pale as
a ghost. There's someone outside, he says, I sit up.
What do you mean one of the ghats get loose?
He shakes his head. No, a woman. She was standing
by the trees. She had something in her hand. I think,
I think it was a doll. It was made of sticks.
Now I figure he had a nightmare, maybe one of
those stories my thea used to scare them into behaving.
But his voice, well his voice was different. It was flat,
no drama. He was just scared. So I get up.
I grab a flashlight, and my dad's old rifle. Didn't
even check if I had bullets, I'll be honest, and
I just went outside. There's nothing, just the trees rustling
in the wind. I told Alex it was probably a dream,
and I sent him back to bed, but I didn't
sleep that night. I sat on the porch, eyes fixed
on the tree line, and then, just past the dead mesquite,
you know, the kind all twisted up like a burnt hand,
I saw something move. It wasn't like stumbling or walking.
It was more like gliding. A white shape, slow, smooth,
like fog or fabric in water. It weaved in between
the trees without making a sound. I didn't chase it.
I just sat there. Stomach was all twisted up, my
rifle grips so tight that my knuckles ached. Next morning,
I go outside to feed the goats, and I noticed
something on the kitchen window. Handprints, small ones like a child,
but too high up, higher than even Alex could reach.
And they weren't made with mud or dust. They were
black ash maybe, and they smelt not like burnt wood,
but something sour, like old blood. And that same day,
the goats refused to leave their pen. They just huddled
together eyes on the trees. Their eyes were all wrong,
wide and glassy, like they were watching something only they
could see. That night, I didn't wait. I lit a fire,
brought out the rifle, and just sat on the porch.
Every nerve in my body was strung tight like a wire.
And then the ground gave out near the old windmill.
It just sank in, slow and soft, like something inside
was pulling the dirt down. It went over the next
morning and saw this shallow pit, maybe four feet across,
and at the bottom a single bone, a long yellow
bone human I think, tied with a faded red ribbon
and a strip of a cracked type of leather. I
called on Ernesto. He was our neighbor, kind of. He
lived about twenty minutes south seventy. Something looked like a
dried apple, but he was still sharp. He showed up,
took one look, and went quiet. He said, you ever
hear about a woman named Marie Angella. I shook my head.
She lived up that way, he said, nodding toward the trees.
Long long time ago. Folks said she talked to animals.
She wore a necklace made of chicken feet. Some said
she could make a man sick just by looking at him.
He paused. He called her a witch Abruga. In one
year a baby went missing, then two more, and then
a woman vanished, pregnant with twins. People got scared. They
dragged her from her hut. They tied her up, They
hanged her from the biggest mesquita tree. The ground wouldn't
take her. Every time they tried to bury her, the
dirt spit her out. I waited for him to continue,
so they took her up past the trees, the last
row of them, up where the wind never stops and
even the coyotes don't go. They buried her there in
a pit lying with stones, and she swore. Errinisto said
that if anyone disturbed her grave, she would come back
and take something in return. I fill that hole in
before sunsets a pile of rocks on top. Poured salt
around the windmill too, just in case. And after that
things settled. The dogs barked again, the goats stopped staring.
No more shadows in the trees. But I never rebuilt
the windmill, and I still haven't. Every once in a while,
not always, but when the moon is real low and
the wind shifts just right. I swear I hear something
out there. Just the soft voys and the dogs. They
still go quiet when it starts. They remember her. Scary
Story podcast is written and produced by me Edwin Karroubias.
This was a slightly different style of storytelling, more of
the creepy pasta meets campfire story. So just let me
know what you thought of it. Oh and like I
mentioned in the beginning, if this reminds you of a
true story, please send it to me so I can
share it in my new podcast, Paranormal Club. But there's
going to be a lot more stuff in there, like investigations,
real mysteries, and of course a lot of listener stories. Anyway,
thank you so much for your support with reviews and comments,
and thank you very much for listening. Keep it Scary everyone,
See you soon.