Speaker 1: Calorogu Shark Media, Hello and welcome to Ghost Scary Stories.
This is the showing, Episode four, showing I understood. Now
standing in my living room, surrounded by the hollow shells
of seven decades of families, facing the thing that had
consumed them all, I finally understood what it was, what
it needed, Why it had been collecting witnesses for so long.
It fed on attention, every glance, every look, every moment
of eye contact. They nourished it made it stronger, more real.
The families in this room hadn't been killed, they'd been drained.
They'd looked at it for so long, given it so
much of themselves that there was nothing left, just empty vessels,
permanent audiences for a show that never ended. And now
it wanted us. The thing stood between us and the stairs,
tall and wrong. Those pit dark eyes fixed on me
with terrible patience. It had all the time in the world.
It had been waiting since nineteen twenty three. It could
wait a little longer. But I'd seen its fear, just
a flicker, when I'd said I would end this. It
was afraid of something, And then I realized what it
needs to be seen. Margaret Wetherby's words echoed in my mind.
Every time you look at it, you give it power.
But what happened when no one was looking? What happened
when the audience walked out? David? I kept my voice steady, calm,
Need you to close your eyes. I can't. His voice
was dreamy, distant. He was staring at the thing, his
face slack with something that looked almost like rapture. It's
so beautiful, Emma, the way it watches, the way it
sees everything. Don't you want to be seen like that?
Don't you want to be known? Close your eyes? David,
I can't stop looking. I don't want to stop. The
thing shifted, pleased. It was drinking him in, feeding on
his attention, growing stronger with every second he stared. I
grabbed his face, forced him to look at me instead.
Listen to me. That thing is eating you. Every time
you look at it, you give it a piece of yourself.
That's what happened to these people. I gestured at the
hollow watches around us. They looked until there was nothing left.
Is that what you want? To? Stand in this room forever, watching,
waiting empty. Something flickered in his eyes, a spark of
the man I'd married, buried deep beneath the thing's influence.
I don't, I can't. Yes, you can close your eyes,
keep them closed, don't look at it, no matter what happens.
He squeezed his eyes shut. His whole body trembled with
the effort. I could see how much he wanted to look,
how much the thing was pulling at him, demanding his attention,
But he kept them closed. The thing made a sound,
not a voice. It didn't have a mouth, but something
that resonated in my bones, a vibration of displeasure, of hunger. Denied.
It moved toward David, those long, wrong fingers, reaching for
his face. No. I stepped between them, met its eyes,
direc you want someone to look at you, Look at me.
It stopped, tilted its head curious. I stared into those
pit dark eyes, felt the weight of its attention, the
pull of its hunger, the terrible intimacy of being truly
seen by something that had been watching for a hundred years.
That's right, I said, look at me. I see you,
I see what you are. It leaned closer, pleased, eager,
and while its attention was fixed on me, I reached
into my pocket and pulled out my phone. I turned
on the flashlight function while we were in the basement,
the brightest setting. It wasn't much, just a small led bulb,
but when I aimed it directly at the thing's face,
it recoiled. The effect was immediate, violent. The thing jerked backward,
those long limbs flailing, that smooth paale face twisting in
something that looked like pain. The hollow watchers around us shuddered,
their empty eyes blinking for the first time in decades light.
It couldn't stand direct light. That's why it lived in
the shadows, in the corners, in the spaces just outside
your vision. That's why it had been angry when the
lights were on. That's why it had killed the power.
That first night light hurt it, and I was about
to give it more light than it had ever seen.
David move toward the door. Keep your eyes closed. I'll
guide you. What are you going to do something stupid?
I grabbed his hand, started pulling him toward the open
front door. The car. There's a lighter in the glove
compartment from when you used to smoke. I don't, And
in the garage there's that can of gasoline. We bought
for the lawn mower. I was talking fast, planning as
I went, the thing recovering behind us, the hollow watchers
starting to move to block our path. I'm going to
burn it down, all of it, so much light. It
won't be able to hide any more. Emma, you can't,
I can. I will. We reached the door. The january
coal hit us like a wall. Get to the car,
get in. Keep your eyes closed. No matter what you hear,
can you do that. I don't want to leave you.
You're not leaving me. You're waiting for me. I squeezed
his hand. Let go, now go. He stumbled down the
porch steps, eyes squeezed shut, arms out in front of him.
I watched him reach the car, fumble with the door,
climb inside. Then I turned back to the house. The
thing stood in the doorway. It had recovered from the light,
grown solid again. Those pit dark eyes were fixed on
me with something that wasn't just hunger anymore. It was
fury behind it. The hollow watchers crowded the hallway, dozens
of them, generations of families. All those empty eyes turned
toward me, all those hollow faces twisted with the thing's rage.
You've been alone for so long, I said, haven't you
before the house was built, before anyone came, just you
in the dark, with nothing to see and no one
to see you. The thing didn't move, didn't respond, but
I could feel the truth of it, the ancient loneliness,
the desperate hunger for attention that had driven it to
trap family after family in its web. That's why you
need witnesses. That's why you can't let anyone leave, because
without them, you're nothing, just a shadow in an empty house,
just a thing that exists only when someone's looking back
down the porch steps. The thing followed the hollow watchers
spilled out behind it, filling the doorway, crowding onto the porch.
But here's the thing about witnesses, I said, they can
choose to look away, They can choose to close their eyes.
And when they do, when everyone stops looking, what happens
to you. Then I was at the garage. Now the
side door was unlocked, we'd never bothered to secure it.
I slipped inside, found the gasoline can in the dark,
grabbed it. The thing was crossing the yard toward me,
moving faster. Now, no longer patient, no longer willing, to wait.
I unscrewed the cap started pouring gasoline along the side
of the house. The smell of it cut through the january, cold,
sharp and chemical and full of promise. Emma David's voice
from the car, Emma, what are you stay there? Keep
your eyes closed? The thing was almost on me, those
long fingers reaching, that eyeless face, looming. I pulled the
lighter from my pocket. I'd grabbed it from the car
when I got the gasoline and flicked it on. The
flame was small, pathetic, a tiny point of light in
all that winter darkness. But when I touched it to
the gasoline, the world caught fire. The flames raced along
the side of the house, leaping up the old wooden siding,
finding the eaves, the window frames, the porch railing. Within seconds,
the entire front of the house was burning. The thing
screamed again, not a voice, but a vibration that shook
the ground, that rattled my teeth, that made something deep
in my chest feel like it was tearing loose. The
hollow watchers collapsed, all of them at once, crumpling to
the ground like pus with cut strings. And the thing,
the thing was burning too, not with fire, with light.
The flames were so bright, so overwhelming, that it couldn't
hide anymore, couldn't retreat to the shadows. It stood in
the middle of the yard, thrashing, writhing, its form becoming
less solid with every second. Without witnesses, with the hollow
watchers down and David's eyes closed, and my gaze fixed
on the fire instead of its face, it was fading,
becoming transparent, becoming nothing. Emma. David's voice but wrong, coming
from the wrong direction. I turned. He wasn't in the
car anymore. He was standing on the porch, flames licking
at his feet, his eyes wide open and fixed on
the thing in the yard. David, No, I can't stop.
Tears ran down his face, but his eyes never blinked.
I'm sorry. I tried. I can't stop looking. The thing
turned toward him, even fading, even dying. It reached for him,
and he reached back. David, please get out of here, Emma.
His voice was calm, now resigned. It needs a witness.
If I don't look, it'll find another way. It'll follow you,
It'll never stop. I'm not leaving you. Yes you are.
He smiled at me, the saddest smile i'd ever seen.
I've been looking since the first night. It's had me
since the beginning. But it doesn't have you, not yet,
not if you go now, David, close your eyes, Emma,
close them and run. Don't look back, don't ever look back.
The flames were climbing higher. The roof was catching now
sparks spiraling up into the winter sky. The thing in
the yard was almost gone, just a shimmer, a distortion,
a memory of something that had been watching for a
hundred years. But David was still looking at it, still
feeding it, keeping it alive with his attention, even as
everything burned. I love you, he said, I'm sorry. I
couldn't look away. I closed my eyes. I ran behind me.
I heard the house groan as the second floor collapsed,
heard the roar of the flames consuming everything, the belongings,
the photographs, the hollow watchers. My husband heard, just for
a moment, something that might have been a scream. I
didn't look back. I got in the car, kept my
eyes on the road, drove until the glow of the
fire faded in my rear view mirror. Drove until I
reached a gas station on the highway, where I stop
and sat in the parking lot and finally let myself cry.
That was six weeks ago. They found David's body in
the ashes. At least they found a body burned beyond recognition.
The investigators assumed it was him. I didn't correct them.
I didn't tell them about the other bodies, the hollow watchers,
the previous families, the decades of victims. I don't think
they would have believed me. And by the time the
fire department arrived, there was nothing left but ash and
debris and a foundation full of secrets. The house was
a total loss. The property was sold at auction. A
developer bought it for the land value. Last I heard
their planning to build something new, condos maybe, or a
strip mall, something bright and modern and full of people,
full of eyes. I try not to think about it.
I try not to think about a lot of things.
The way shadows seem to pool in the corners of
my apartment, the feeling of being watched when I'm alone
at night, the dreams where I'm standing in an empty
house and something in the darkness is waiting for me
to turn around and look at it. It should be gone.
I burned it, I destroyed everything it had built. But
I still feel it sometimes, a weight at the edge
of my vision, a presence just out of sight, a
whisper that isn't quite a voice. Look at me, I don't.
I never do. I keep my eyes forward, my gaze
fixed on the world in front of me, and I
refuse to give it what it wants. But last week
I got a phone call, A woman's voice, bright and
profre and just a little too eager. Hi, I'm calling
from Blackwood Realty. Your name was listed as a previous
owner of a property on Maple Street. The lot's been redeveloped,
and we're doing a marketing push for the new units.
We thought former residents might want to come see what's
been done with the place. First showing is next Saturday.
Would you be interested? I hung up without answering, But
I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. The
new building, the people who'll live there, the families who'll
move in, unpack their boxes, sleep their first nights in
rooms built on that foundation. Will they feel it too,
that weight, that presence, that hunger to be seen. Will
they find the thing waiting in the shadows, older than
the foundation, older than the land, patient as stone? I
should warn them. I should go to that showing and
tell everyone what I know, what happened, what lives in
that ground. But there's another voice in my head, a
darker voice, a voice that sounds a little like David
at the end, calm and resigned and already lost. If
they look at it, it won't look at you. If
it has new witnesses, maybe it will finally leave you alone.
I haven't decided what to do yet. The showing is tomorrow.
I'm trying not to think about how easy it would
be to simply stay silent, to let the next family
discover the truth for themselves, to pass the curse along
the way every family before me did. I'm trying not
to think about the dreams I've been having, the ones
where I'm walking through the new building and all the
lights are off, and something is standing at the end
of the hallway waiting for me to turn around, waiting
for me to finally look. I keep my eyes closed,
but I can feel it watching, still, watching, always