Speaker 1: The lonely swing set out in the field was moving
in the darkness, and all I could do was stare
through the kitchen window. It was another January at home,
but what used to be my home and then turned
into it again, this time though there was no family around,
no parents, and almost no neighbors. My parents refused to
sell it, despite it being worth almost a million dollars
by the time they were older. Instead, they died in it,
and now it was mine to sell, well half of it,
at least. It was large, too big for me and
unnecessary for them. They stopped cleaning the upstairs area, where
the dust and cobwebs made it unlivable for me, so
I too started avoiding it. They had a room by
the kitchen, a guest bedroom that I stayed in. It
had its own bathroom, its own entrance, even and at
times I would forget how long I had lived there.
It was every January when I would think that this year, really,
this time I was going to sell it.
Speaker 2: Now.
Speaker 1: This is the story of an inner haunting, whether inside
of your own body or as an extension of it,
a thing we can escape. My name is Edwin, and
here it's a scary story. The house had a large
field out front a swing set too old for anyone
to use, but I remembered all those times out there
a barbecue grille filling up the air with white smoke,
only to disappear by the edge of the trees. My
cousins used to love coming over to the house to
play on that swing set, and as we got older,
we started adventuring into the wooded area right behind the house.
The place where we would play hide and seek eventually
turn into play where we would only go and talk
about girls in high school drama. But like how things go,
usually the successful ones left and soon it was only
me in town with my dreams of leaving two. I
guess that's what I'm working on now. It was a
twelfth or thirteenth January. Now the heater had stopped working,
so I was using a small electric heater thing that
would make the room smell like burnt plastic, one that
I had to watch out that it wouldn't set itself
to the highest wattage because it would trip the breaker,
and the breaker was upstairs. But aside from that, I
had little to take care of out in that house.
The guest bedroom, the kitchen, and that was that, though
I must admit I could never bring anyone to the
house very often. Some of my coworkers eventually found out
where I lived, and they would ask to host a
cookout or something out there. A few houses down in
the valley had fields like mine, maybe only a patty
and neighbors I would complain about not being able to
open up their windows, or that the music was too loud,
that their baby was sleeping, or some other annoyingness. Not here,
I would come home, minding my own business. As I
closed the gate, drove up as closed to the side
door as I could, and parked. I could yell as
loud as possible from my front door and no one
would hear me. But I came to find out that
maybe that wasn't such a good thing. An appraiser, right,
that was the thing I would need in order to
sell the house. But before getting that done, I would
have to clean up everything, remodel, get rid of my
parents nick knacks and the furniture I grew up with,
the one in all the photographs. But before getting rid
of things, I'd have to talk to my brother. He
was up to no good and would call me when
he remembered that we were sitting on some money with
that house. He would demand to sell. Then he would
forget about it. And remember again near the end of
the year, three children from two different women, balancing from
job to job, state to state, girlfriend to girlfriend. But
I would tell him this place needs work, no one's
gonna want to buy it, just like that.
Speaker 2: But he didn't care, and I meant it.
Speaker 1: He would forget about it and go back to his
own things while I dealt with the house, and as
you can imagine, it was quiet. I would arrive to
turn on the TV, open a can of coke, and
sit until I got hungry. Boy, I hated going to
that kitchen, even to this day. I think back on
it and wonder what the heck I was doing there.
Not saying I would have done this, but it did
cross my mind to break open a hole in the
wall to go straight behind the refrigerator and get to
the kitchen that way, because what I had to do
was open up my door, get a clear view of
that living room. Old couches, portraits on the walls, mom's
old piano in the corner, dusty carpets and chairs, and
if it was dark, it would be even worse that
couldn't take it. I would have to turn on the
lights to that old area of the house. Lights would
slowly fade as you looked up the stairs and to
the second floor, the next level of darkness, where my
imagination would reach the barrier of what could never be.
Then I would walk to the kitchen and flick on
the lights to see the familiar sight the toaster, the
pitcher to heat water in the two plates, and a
mug neatly stacked on the drying rack. Everything would go
back to normal then, though by knew somehow behind me,
in that dark living room and in that even darker
upstairs area, there was something an unfamiliar sight. Though it's
strange to think that of a house you grew up in.
Had me toasted bread and eggs that night for dinner.
It had been a long day at work, and our
holiday events had been delayed in exchange for having the
time for peak sales at the end of the year.
Sure it was a weird time to have winter dinner
event in January, but with our commissioned paychecks coming in,
nobody seemed to mind it. I guess the day just
felt longer to me because of the higher ups trying
to cheap out on the venue, an outdoor event at
a regional park which was all dirt and probably frozen
in some areas.
Speaker 2: I don't know.
Speaker 1: The previous year, they had held it at a bar
and grill, one of those chain ones that all felt
the same. It was all right, food and drink.
Speaker 2: Something to do.
Speaker 1: During one of the meetings, one guy, Robert said, let's
go to Jose's place, right, better than that park.
Speaker 2: Everyone knows.
Speaker 1: Pause in the meeting and they kind of looked at me.
I smiled, trying to play it off. I swear that
at the time I didn't think it would be a
bad idea. They could honestly use some friends, and the
co workers had finally started having me join them for
lunch and for their gossip talk. No matter how much
I hated them, they knew about where I lived, the
large red gates off Road seventeen. I thought of a
lot of things once I got home, that this could
be my chance to finally tidy up the place, starting
with the yard, at least the path to the bathroom
and what a guest would see on their way there.
Maybe part of the stairs, maybe open up some of
the windows. Imagine myself taking the things out to the
street for trash day, maybe waxing those old floors. If
I could take the Saturday before to stay at the
house and maybe go upstairs for once, the place might
start changing, because sometimes I would have to spend time
sitting in the truck at the parking lot of a Walmart,
or going to a drive through somewhere to pass a time.
And yet I could never put my finger on exactly
why I didn't want to be in that house. All
of this I thought about as I sat on the
tiny table in the kitchen a chef's take, like my.
Speaker 2: Father used to call.
Speaker 1: It had gotten dark while I was thinking of all
of this, Only the kitchen was illuminated. The egg yolks
looked green from the fluorescent lights in the ceiling, the
wet bites filling the room along with an electric hum
above me. I looked at myself in the reflection of
that kitchen window, the one that led to the dark
and empty field with an old swing set just beyond it.
Somewhere in the dark air, something squeaked. I stopped chewing,
holding my mouth half open, and I tried not to move.
Speaker 2: I squeaked again.
Speaker 1: It was definitely coming from outside, but chill ran down
my back as my legs automatically pulled me up and
toward the window. The thing about feeling safe at night
is that the light blocks out the darkness outside. It
can't see you, but you can't see it. And the
sound was coming from the swing set, a deep, hard squeak.
I was thinking back on how it was when my
cousins and I would play on it, the high pitched
squeaks we made, and a pattern that wouldn't change no
matter how high we swung on it. We know because
we would try and use it to count the number
of swings before it was someone else's turn. Counting to
thirty always took the same amount of time, and it
always sounded the same. But this one was different. Could
it have been of how old it was? Does rust
have that effect on a squeaky chain? Because the only
other explanation I could think of was of someone an adult,
sitting on the old set, maybe not swinging, but just
sitting there moving unintentionally. There was another line of cold
air down my spine, cold sweat, it felt like as
I stood there, letting whatever was out there look at
me as I looked into my own eyes, eyes completely
unaware if I was looking straight into the eyes of
someone or something else. But no matter what, the thought
of shutting off the lights to get a clear view
never crossed my mind, and instead I did something no
one should ever do when you're out there, surrounded by
trees that had gone to sleep for winter, in the
stillness of a house in the middle of a dark field.
I reached for the window and slid it open to
the right. Now, the light from the inside was doing
its job, and I could see an angled stripe making
its mark, my own shadow at the end of the
bluish white crooked rectangle on the ground. And at the
end at the end of this light strip, I could
see my silhouette. It was the old red swing set,
moving very slowly from side to side, likely in the
direction of the wind. I thought, I cannot do much
more than to stare out the slowly fading darkness of
that night just beyond the swing set, slowly focusing my
eyes into that swing slowly moving left to right, right
to left, I shut the window and my head automatically turned,
as if by instinct, behind me, toward the darkness of
the living room, just beyond the kitchen tile on the floor.
It was as if someone was there. I couldn't tell directly.
The lights right above me would make a type of
curtain in my eyes. The only other times I felt
that was while driving downhill with high beings.
Speaker 2: Coming up to me.
Speaker 1: But the night was still, and there was nothing but
the wind in the outside and the hum from that
light above me on the inside. If I paid close attention,
I might hear my heart beat. But that was it,
Or was it? There was footsteps. I heard them, little
by little, the sound of a squeaky step on the staircase.
Speaker 2: It was a third step.
Speaker 1: That's the loudest I had done so all my life.
But this one was deeper, a heavy footstep, or slow
enough to try to keep it from making noise, somehow,
making it sound like a grunt echoing through the darkness
of the house. I slowly walked to the edge of
the white tile. That pitch black living room sent me
right back. It must have been two or three steps
away from the light switch, and yet all I did
was stand there. Perhaps if I showed off the kitchen light,
I might be able to see something. There was no
way I was gonna do that. I told myself that
I was stressing out about the event for my job,
the one that they were talking about making at my house.
I thought of the pros and cons in my head.
It was a small team that would be there, maybe
twenty five people tops.
Speaker 2: They would bring.
Speaker 1: Along the catering and everything. They would come with their
own cleanup crew. That's right, the cleaning, and if they
were gonna come, I would have to clean up beforehand.
And it wasn't like they were to go upstairs. But
if I tried, if I really tried, I might be
able to clean everything the whole house before they get there.
Speaker 2: What was I saying?
Speaker 1: The thing was huge, plus the whole going upstairs thing,
I don't know. The last time I went up there
was to flick the breaker back on in the house
during winter January too.
Speaker 2: I remember that.
Speaker 1: With those thoughts in mind, I was able to drown
out the squeak that came from inside of the house,
somehow less terrifying that the one that came from the
outside from the swing set. The eggs and toes had
gotten cold by the time I started eating it again,
the yolk turning into plastic from the outside. I took
the plate and washed it right away, food still in
my mouth, making noise with the water and humming to
myself so that if another sound came from that house
I would be sure to miss it. I took a
gulp of the carton of orange juice that was in
the fridge and washed it. Everything down. The plate's now
stacked again, no drinking glass to wash.
Speaker 2: With a deep breath.
Speaker 1: I flicked off the light to the kitchen and felt
my way down to the switch of the living room,
but I didn't turn it on. No, I kept going
straight to the door of my room. I snuck inside,
and that's when I flicked on the light. You see,
even though I was in the same house, something felt
different about being in that room. I hardly thought about
my parents' final days in there, with my mom going first,
two weeks later Dad followed, and once a grief died down,
I started fixing up the place. I turned it into
something special. The window faced the field, and if you
stood on the left side of the window, you could
see that swing set out there. It was in that
room that I could be in complete darkness or near
complete darkness with the TV on at night and feel
all right. The lock always latched on the door that
led to the living room, but the one that led
to the outside, well, I never.
Speaker 2: Really checked it.
Speaker 1: Something about that house made my mind run crazy with
thoughts of being a little kid and running down the
stairs after getting scared and what happened. Often I used
to have these dark dreams, and sometimes I would see
things that I couldn't explain that would scare me enough
to run. But as I grew older, I stopped seeing
those things and consider them. What my parents used to
repeat over and over, You're a crazy imagination boy. But
at that moment in the bedroom, I wanted to prove
something to myself that I wasn't scared, that there was
nothing I should worry about, and that what I had
heard was nothing but the sounds of my own brain
making things up in the dark. So I flicked off
the light and walked to the window, and in plain view,
now maybe because of the light of the moon finally
coming out from the trees, I could see that swing set.
Speaker 2: It was no longer moving, and.
Speaker 1: Quite frankly, I started doubting if it had even more
moved in the first place. Those chains were heavy replaced
when we were kids from the ones they originally came from,
because Mom would complain about the sounds it would make
that replaced them and the noises stopped. I was thinking
back on that and making up theories as to what
could have gotten the swings to move when I heard it,
a subtle, insignificant step coming from above. I knew what
they sounded like, so I froze by that window, holding
my breath for whatever had made that noise to take
another step, And then it did. It was moving right
above me toward the hallway that led to the staircase
in the middle of the second floor, slowly at first step,
step step, and then rushed to the other end of
the house. Another chill ran through my body, and I
didn't know if I was scared or actually cold. I
felt around the floor for the space heater and plugged
it in. I watched as the glowing orange light of
the grille of it turned on, and quickly it popped
and then blended back into the darkness. This time, I
ran to over the light switch and flicked it.
Speaker 2: Nothing.
Speaker 1: I flicked it again, and then two more times. I
was in complete darkness. Now I prayed for the flashlight
to have batteries in it. The thing I kept under
the bathroom sink. Carefully, I made my way there until
I felt the toilet against my knees. I bent down
and felt around under the sink until I got it. Eagerly,
I pressed a button. I nearly jumped when I saw
my face in the mirror.
Speaker 2: I led her a chuckle.
Speaker 1: In that moment, I thought of how weird this had been,
and if it was even anything at all.
Speaker 2: But then it hit me.
Speaker 1: Now, with the flashlight against the ceiling in the bathroom,
I could see my breath in the air, and I
felt dread. Right then and there, I knew I was
gonna have to go upstairs and flick the breaker. I
made my way back to the room. Standing by the
locked door that led to the rest of the house,
I took another deep breath, unlocked it quietly, as if
whatever was up there on the second floor was going
to hear me, as if I weren't alone.
Speaker 2: In the place.
Speaker 1: I tried not to breathe as I listened for something, anything,
up there, but all I got was silence. It was
then that I got the courage to open the door.
As expected, I was met with the darkness from that
living room. My flashlight lit up the opposite wall, and
I could finally see those portraits at night. I looked
down to where the old rug had started, and I
watched my foot finally step over it. After what must
have been years. It wasn't long before I was at
the base of the stairs. I was shining the light
directly on the next step, avoiding looking up as I
slowly climbed one step, two, and then the third, a
deep squeak, and I kept going until there was nothing else.
It was noticeably colder up there. I looked down to
the living room, now a soft light from the outside,
now illuminating the floors with that dead blue light that
comes on certain nights. That's when I heard another footstep.
I'm in front of me, now down the hallway where
my old room used to be. I couldn't do anything
but wait, and I had nowhere else to turn but
to that darkness. So I thought of closing my eyes,
but I knew it wouldn't help, not anymore. I couldn't
stop my mind from creating figures of the silhouettes that
came from the dim moonlight in the deep end of
the hallway. And then I watched as something seemed to
hide between the lamp tables by the walls, playfully trying
to avoid being seen. My heart was beating faster now,
and I worked my way toward the storage closet by
the water heater. I walked fast enough not to run.
I swung the door open, the loose hinges, almost giving
up on it. I aimed the flashlight toward the breaker box,
opened it and flicked the last one. I could see
some light down by the living room. Now I ran,
this time rushing toward the stairs, basically hopping every other step,
questioning absolutely everything I had known up until that point.
I shut and locked the door to my room, flicked
on the TV, and stood there for a moment until
I finally plopped onto my bed and waited for what.
I don't know, but that night seemed alive with taps
and scratches and everything would make me meet the TV
and wait again. I was tired the next day at work,
but everything seemed to be back to normal by the
next week. It was a Monday when my supervisor walked
up to me in the break room and asked what
I thought about having the winter dinner at my property,
and I lied. I told him I was going to
have extended family over and that they would be staying
for a couple of weeks. Easily, the light came out
and he believed it. He said not to worry about it,
that they were going to bite the bullet and pay
for a real venue instead of the park space like
they had planned. Too many complainers, he said. I chuckled
and nodded for the rest of the conversation until he left.
But really the truth was that I had been planning
to agree to the event taking place there. I had
bought trash bags and I found the brooms out in
the shed. I started cleaning the porch in the living room,
but I kept stopping myself. There was something about that
house that made me think twice. So I was about
to head upstairs that Saturday, broom in hand, but just
as I passed the third step, I felt it a
sudden drop in temperature, the ambient of the house just
a little bit darker. There was something out there waiting.
I turned around right away and went back to my room.
I thought of my parents and their time there. Rooms
I hadn't been stepped in for years before they even
passed away, Thinking that perhaps it wasn't that they couldn't
go upstairs anymore, but rather that they didn't want to.
Speaker 2: And sometimes I would.
Speaker 1: Lay there in bed at night thinking about the place,
and I would hear a swing creek, that deep, lonely
groan that would come from the outside steps, that would
travel from one side of the house to the other,
sometimes fading into nothingness right above me, strangely familiar. But
I didn't think much further than that, so I gave
up on the idea of the appraiser and started getting
annoyed at my brother's calls to sell. I told him
we would both take care of it if that's what
he wanted so badly, and that I'd be waiting for
him to come and help clean out the place.
Speaker 2: He hasn't called My home would be only.
Speaker 1: The room and my kitchen and the idea of a
door that would lead me straight to it, and I
could live like that forever. It's what I'm hoping for. Anyway.
I still avoid the rest of the house, just like
my parents did. It's been January again a few times
since then. If you're listening to this episode in January,
I just want to say Happy New Year. I really
appreciate you've been here and for you know, all the
stuff that you did in twenty twenty five, listening and
sharing and liking and commenting and everything. You could really
appreciate that. Now we're all to twenty twenty six. So
what was up there? That's the question, right, what was
haunting this man and how the story was written? That
the man himself is expressing loneliness, right, and he hears
one he kind of goes through memories in the past,
things that you know, playing with his cousins, when he
started hanging out in the forest or you know, in
the wooded area of the property. The footsteps going along
the hallway, his own memories of him growing up in
that house. So and he mentioned also he has no friends, right,
so he has that loneliness. Now, the loneliness itself can
be a haunting thing. Could he be making these things
up in his head? He even doubts himself that he
heard these steps up there, but they're always like these
lonely like things that happened in that house. So it
could be himself the one that's haunting him. Could also
be some entity there. Also, there was a small little
hint there, a small there's no spoilers now because the
story's over. But remember this little little detail in there
that he says he locks the door that leads to
the living room and for the one that leads to
the outside, well, he never really checks it, So did
somebody sneak in? And if he never checks upstairs, could
somebody be staying up there? Did that gave me chills
just thinking about it. Yeah, there's a lot of the
different ways that least this story can go. And this
is actually how they're written.
Speaker 2: I heard this.
Speaker 1: From forgot what author it was, but it said that
short stories themselves are like little snippets, like a magic trick.
Like somebody shows up and they do a magic trick
in front of you, and that's a short story.
Speaker 2: As long as you.
Speaker 1: Felt surprised in this case, if you felt scared or
felt that chilled down your spine for a little instant,
or you were in the world of the story. Job
is done right, You're in it. We got you in,
And that sense is what a short story is. Now,
for longer stories, for movies or books, novels, those need
to be like consistent, burned and actually closed every single time.
For these they just need to be things that like
really getting your mind and they linger like what happened?
Speaker 2: Like who was there? Now?
Speaker 1: When it gets annoying, you know, I completely understand this
is I'm hinting at something in and it just feels
like a cliffhanger, Like that's actually I've I've I've gone
through some of the stuff that I've written before and
I'm like, yeah, this sounds this.
Speaker 2: Is frustrating and I get it.
Speaker 1: So but either way, I appreciate the comments on all
of that, and hopefully this this one doesn't overstep that
that rule, you know, when it feels like a cliffhanger,
This one should feel like, oh, okay, the story's over,
but like have that like anease at the end. Either way,
I'm very interested. I know that we have people that
listen has been listening for a very long time, so
they're familiar with some of the stuff that comes out
in this In this podcast, I'm very interested in finding
out what do you think about it? Would you didn't
like about it, or ideas that you might have for
or maybe even hints or theories as to what could
have been. Where if of this turns into a longer story,
where does it go? Another point? I wanted to address
real quick, is why my voice sounds so weird right now,
And that's because I've I don't know if it was
like something with my sidnesses or something. It's just I
have had really, really, really terrible allergies these past two
or three days. And I'm saying like this flare up
of can't sleep, feel my nose is super tight, this
burning sensation, itchy eyes, this is like the whole thing.
But now it's finally at least I sound, believe it
or not. It sounds a lot better than it did yesterday.
But it's thankfully it's not like the flu or anything
like that. It's just this is what I can say, allergies.
Actually went into the storage area with a lot of
dusty clothes and old stuff, and I was I felt
it right away, and I'm like, nah, and I just
you know I'm still going now. Thing. Here is our schedule.
We're going to be publishing Sunday night, so get ready
for those Sunday scares if you're up for it. And
now I have some of the comments from our last episode,
Soup Mondays. I'm reading from the Spotify comments section here.
If you don't have Spotify, you don't use it, but
you have access to email, feel free to send me
an email with the comments on.
Speaker 2: The recent stories are fireworks.
Speaker 1: By the way, this one makes it recording a little
bit over two that if you have any you can
also send me dms with your comments about the recent stories.
I'm gonna be reading from some of the recent episodes only,
so if you'd leave a comment in the older ones,
I might get to them, but it's more likely that
I'll get from the recent episodes. So this one's from
sup mondays it says. This one from Moroxany Mruzk says,
welcome back. I missed you and this podcast so much.
I was afraid you dropped it. I love your stories
and the way you tell them. It's still soothing. Plus
I still did not find anyone with the voice addiction
better than yours.
Speaker 2: Edwin. Good to have you back. Thank you so much.
Speaker 1: You're always a huge supporter here. I appreciate you, appreciate
everything that you know you do, even just this interaction
with dropping comments, even a like or a rating or anything.
Speaker 2: Like that really helps out the show.
Speaker 1: But also I need to put my part here and
I need to publish these stories right and some of
the things that got what I would feel like got
in the way were a lot of these life events.
I guess you had to call them from the past year,
and it really disrupted the flow of stories. But I
feel that even in dark times, even in uncertain times,
we need to somehow not waste them, and believe it
or not, scary stories do help out people in dark times.
Speaker 2: Strange right.
Speaker 1: I heard heard about this from a friend a long
time ago. She said, Hey, if you're feeling down, I
would listen to scary stories.
Speaker 2: That's what I do.
Speaker 1: And this is before we've launched the podcast, so very
interest to.
Speaker 2: Think about that. Let me see this. Thank you, by
the way, Rosny.
Speaker 1: Jean Lewis says, Hey, Edwin, another great episode. This one
really slade a sleigh as in slighing like winter sleigh
like anyway. I love the horror holiday vibes, perfectly spooky
and cozy. Also, I feel I always feel like security
guards are undercover defenders of the spooky world. Thanks so
much for sharing this awesome episode with us.
Speaker 2: Thank you so much for this. I appreciate it.
Speaker 1: Then, Yes, actually, security guards have sometimes the best stories
out there. I don't know what kind of guts. It
tasts like to be a security guard. But these guys
do it. These men and women now from the world
that are taking care of places. You know, haunted places
sometimes very eery to think about. Naomi says, hey, can
you please make a haunted blue plush story? You know what,
plushes and dolls and toys make really good topics for stories.
I don't want to overdo it, but we could definitely
come up with a story like that. Maybe not use
that specific name for copyright reasons, but we don't want to.
You know, one time I published this story about a hospital.
Longtime listeners will recognize this. They I got an email
from them, and I didn't know this was a real hospital.
I made up the name, so I had to adjust
a few things there. Because this was a generic story.
This was a straight up, one hundred percent coincidence. I
make up names sometimes for places and it happened to match,
so I got it careful with that. Thanks knowing for
the for the comment. Joe from Nowhere says, Hey, Edwin,
I'm trying to find that one episode where the character
bought a doll. She has a roommate who's irresponsible and
keeps making excuses fireworks.
Speaker 2: I just heard the firework.
Speaker 1: Keeps making excuses about not being able to pay rent
but buys expensive things. One day, her roommate brought a
dog and left it there, And now the dog is
barking at something at the end of the hallway. I've
been trying to find it for days now. It's so
controvery to listen to the same stories that scared me before.
Please help me find it, all right, let's see what.
Speaker 2: Story could that.
Speaker 1: Here's the thing about me finding stories. I remember the stories,
but I can't remember the names of them, like the
names and the titles of the stories. Let me see
if I can find it, because I'm gonna keep searching.
I'm gonna keep searching for this the one you mentioned.
The character bought a doll, has a roommate and a roommate.
I thought of the story called Helenke, which was the
story of Yeah, there's two roommates. One of them is
kind of annoying, making noise in the middle of the night,
but also she becomes obsessed with this doll. Now that
that one's a different story, then there's a different story
about a dog that at every single, every single day,
goes up to a certain place and just stares down
the hallway and that's it. It was one of the
early early stories. But for this one, I have no idea.
Are you sure it was me? It was sure it
was my story, and hopefully I'll find it. If not,
someone from our community here a scary story. If you
can help Joe from nowhere out, just send me a
DM an email or something, and hopefully I can we
can find the story. This happens often sometimes I'm looking
for a story that I can't remember the name of it, but.
Speaker 2: It's there anyway.
Speaker 1: That's all all the comments that we have for the
Scary Story podcast here. On Spotify YouTube, we have no
comments there. I don't think the story published there yet.
But if you don't have a comment section on the
app that you use, let me know. Let me know
so I can check the comment section there.
Speaker 2: Anyway.
Speaker 1: Thank you so much for for checking out my stories here.
You know I make Scary Story podcasts like from the audio,
the recording, the script, everything, so I appreciate your support
in any way that you can. The way that helps
out the most is to share stories guys in press
a share button, copy the link or whatever. And even
that like tells the algorithm like, hey, somebody's sharing your story,
so you know it works out, but also letting people
know in case somebody is wanting to listen to scary
stories out.
Speaker 2: There, it really helps out. I'll time if you.
Speaker 1: Want to support the show through a membership Scaryplus over
at scaryplus dot com is always available anyway, That's all
I got.
Speaker 2: For you today.
Speaker 1: Thank you so much for listening, for showing up every week.
So the next story get ready for it is coming
out next Sunday night. Thank you so much. Remember keep
it scary everyone.
Speaker 2: See us soon