Speaker 1: Caloroga Shark Media.
Speaker 2: Hello and welcome to Ghost Scary Stories. This episode is
titled Dia de los Moertos, Part two, La Katrina's Mirror.
Speaker 3: The morning light filtered through the lace curtains of my
grandmother's bedroom, casting delicate patterns on the hardwood floor. I
awoke with a start, the memories of the previous night
flooding back with disorienting clarity. The sense of annis and
orange blossoms still lingered in my nostrils, and I could
almost feel the warmth of the spectral kitchen. I dressed quickly,
pulling on a sweater to ward off the morning chill.
The house was quiet, the air thick with the unspoken
presence of generations past. I made my way to the kitchen,
intending to brew a pot of coffee to clear my head.
As I passed by the garden window, the side outside
halted me midstep. The marigolds had multiplied overnight, their vibrant
blooms carpeting the garden in a sea of orange and gold.
They swayed gently despite the still air, almost as if
waving to me. Among them, faint figures moved, spirits lingering
at the edges of perception. My heart quickened. Some families
carry more than memories, I whispered to myself, recalling my
grandmother's words. The weight of responsibility settled heavier on my shoulders.
I returned to the workroom, the iron key once again
warm in my pocket. The mirror stood in the corner,
its surface reflecting not my own image, but the spectral
kitchen where my grandmother awake waited. You're early, she remarked
as I stepped through. Her eyes held a mix of
pride and concern. I couldn't sleep, I admitted. There's so
much I don't understand. The spirits, the bread, the memories,
and the shadows. At the mention of shadows, her expression darkened. Yes,
the forgotten ones. They are spirits who have lost their
connection to the living world, consumed by their own despair
and the neglect of the living. Can't we help them,
she sighed, kneading dough with practiced ease. It's not that simple.
They require more than just bread. They need to reclaim
their lost memories, and sometimes those memories are too painful
or too fragmented. La Katrina appeared beside us, her presence
commanding yet somehow comforting. The forgotten ones are drawn to
the light of the marigolds and the scent of the bread,
she explained, But they can also be dangerous. Their hunger
is all consuming, and they can drain the energy of
other spirits and the living if given the chance. I
felt a shiver run down my spine. How do we
protect ourselves by strengthening the barriers, my grandmother said, pointing
to symbols etched around the room, and by continuing our work.
The more spirits we help, the stronger the collective energy becomes.
We spent the day delving deeper into the art of
baking for the dead. My grandmother taught me how to
infuse the dough with specific emotions joy, sorrow, love, regret.
Each batch required careful balance, the right blend of ingredients,
both physical and metaphysical. Every spirit is unique, she said,
guiding my hands as I shaped a loaf. You must
attune yourself to their essence, feel what they need. As
we worked, spirits came and went, each bringing tokens imbued
with them the memories. An elderly man offered a pocket
watch that ticked with echoes of laughter and time spent
with loved ones. A young woman held a pressed flower,
its petals whispering tales of first love and heartbreak. I
found myself becoming emotionally invested in each one. Their stories
resonated with me, weaving themselves into the fabric of my
own memories. It was overwhelming, but also profoundly moving. Be
careful not to lose yourself, Lakatrina warned, observing me closely.
It's easy to become entangled in the lives of the dead.
I can handle it, I insisted, though a part of
me wasn't so sure. As the day wore on, the
atmosphere shifted. A heaviness settled over the kitchen, an undercurrent
of tension that hadn't been there before. The spirits appeared
more agitated, their forms flickering erratically. Something's wrong, I said,
glancing at my grandmother. She nodded solemnly. The veil is
thinning faster than anticipated. The shadows are growing stronger. A
sudden crash echoed from outside the mirror in the real world.
I jolted back, feeling the pull to return. Stay here,
La Katrina instructed, we will hold the space. I stepped
back through the mirror, the workroom coming into sharp focus.
The door to the garden was ajar, cold air seeping in.
I approached cautiously, peering outside, the marigolds were dimming, their
vibrant glow, fading among them. Darker shapes moved, amorphous figures
that absorbed light rather than reflected it, the forgotten ones.
One of them turned toward me, and though it had
no discernible features, I felt its gaze, avoid pulling at
the edges of my consciousness. I stumbled back, my heart pounding.
They've breached the garden, I whispered, panic rising close the door,
La Katrina's voice echoed in my mind. Strengthen the barriers.
I slammed the door shut, bolting it for good measure.
I searched frantically for anything that could reinforce the protective symbols.
Remembering my grandmother's teachings, I grabbed a pouch of salt
from the kitchen, sprinkling it along the thresholds and window sills.
The shadows pressed against the windows, their forms distorting as
they sought entry. Whispers filled the air, unintelligible but filled
with yearning. Marisol, my grandmother's voice, called softly from the mirror.
You must not fear them, fear gives them power. I
took a deep breath, forcing myself to steady. What do
I do? Continue the work? She replied, They are drawn
to the light and the memories. We can soothe them
if we act quickly. Returning to the mirror, I found
Lakatrina and my grandmother preparing a special batch of bread.
This is for the forgotten ones, Lakatrina explained, a risky endeavor,
but necessary. How is it different, I asked. It requires
a deeper sacrifice. My grandmother said gently, we must offer
them some of our own memories to anchor them. I hesitated,
But won't that weaken us? It is a possibility, Lakatrina acknowledged,
but it's a risk we must take. We worked in silence,
the gravity of the situation weighing heavily. As we infused
the dough with our memories, I felt a slight emptiness,
like pages torn from a book. Images of my childhood dimmed,
faces blurred. It was disconcerting, but I pressed on. Once
the bread was baked, we returned to the garden. La
Katrina stood at the forefront, her present and radiating authority.
She held out the bread, speaking in a language that
resonated deep within my soul. The shadows paused their movements,
stilled by her words. Slowly they approached tendrils of darkness,
reaching out cautiously. As they consumed the bread, their forms
began to change. Details emerged a hand here, a face there,
echoes of who they once were. I watched in awe
as one of the figures transformed into a young boy
clutching a worn out toy. His eyes met mine, filled
with gratitude, before he faded gently into the light. It
is done, Lakatrina said, her voice tinged with weariness. For
now back in the workroom, I collapsed into a chair,
exhaustion overtaking me. How do you bear it, I asked
my grandmother, giving so much of yourself, she smiled softly,
Because it's worth it. Each spirit we help brings balance
to both worlds. But what about us? Don't we lose
ourselves in the process only if we forget why we
do it, she replied. Hold on to your purpose and
you'll remain whole. I pondered her words, realizing that the
boundaries between the living and the dead were more porous
than I'd ever imagined. My role was not just as
a baker, but as a bridge between worlds. Rest now,
she urged, tomorrow brings new challenges. As I prepared to leave,
La Katrina approached me. You carry a heavy burden, Marisol,
she said, but remember you are not alone. I nodded,
appreciating the sentiment, thank you. Returning to the real world,
I felt the fatigue settle into my bones. Yet there
was also a sense of fulfillment despite the dangers I
was making a difference. Before heading to bed, I took
a moment to tend to the marigolds, touching each bloom gently.
Their glow strengthened under my care, and I whispered a
silent prayer for the spirits still in need. As I
drifted off to sleep, the echoes of their stories swirled
in my mind, a tapestry of lives intertwined with my own.
The line between us was blurring, but perhaps that was
how it was meant to be.
Speaker 1: Ghost is a Caloroga Shark Media production, written and hosted
by Alexander Ian McIntyre, produced by Mark Francis. Executive producers
Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast may
have been created with the assistance of AI.
Speaker 3: This show, along with hundreds of others from Calaroga Shark Media.
Is available commercial free on any player hassel Free. Just
look for the link in the episode or show notes.
Speaker 1: Calaroga Shark Media