Speaker 1: Calaruga Shark Media, Hello, and welcome to Ghost Scary Stories.
This episode is titled Dia de los Moertos, Part one,
The Marigold Path.
Speaker 2: The chill of December in Mexico City was an unusual
kind of cold, one that seeped into your bones and
lingered there. The city streets were quieter than usual, the
air crisp and tinged with the scent of burning wood
from distant hearths. I pulled my scarf tighter around my
neck as I approached my late grandmother's house, the old
colonial structure standing stoically amidst modern apartments and bustling markets.
The iron key she had left me felt heavy in
my pocket, as though it carried the weight of untold secrets.
The house was a relic of the past, its walls
adorned with vibrant tiles depicting ancient myths, its courtyard home
to a garden that seemed out of place in the
urban sprawl. As I pushed open the wrought iron gate,
the hinges groaned, a melancholic sound that echoed my own grief.
We had buried Abuela Elena three months ago under a
canopy of stars, and whispered prayers. She had been the matriarch,
the keeper of traditions my mother had long since abandoned.
Stepping into the garden, I froze amidst the frost kissed soil.
Bright orange marigolds sempasuchel were in full bloom. Their petals
glowed with an inner light, a stark contrast against the
pale backdrop of winter. Marigolds weren't supposed to bloom in winter.
They were flowers of the dead, reserved for Dia de
los Mortos in early November. This defiance of nature sent
a shiver down my spine. I knelt beside one of
the flowers, reaching out to touch its velvety petals. They
were warm, pulsating gently, as if alive with more than
just botanical life. As I traced my fingers along the stem,
I noticed they formed a path, their alignment too deliberate
to be accidental. They led toward the back of the house,
to my grandmother's old work room, a place that had
been locked since her passing. Some families carry more than memories,
she used to say, her eyes deep pools of wisdom
and sorrow, Reflecting the flickering candlelight during her elaborate offreendas.
Some of us carry doors. I had never understood what
she meant, chalking it up to her penchant for mysticism,
But now standing amidst impossible marigolds, I felt the veil
between reality and myth thin. The iron key in my
pocket grew warm, almost burning against my thigh. I hesitated,
fear and curiosity warring within me. Finally I followed the
glowing path, each step feeling like a descent into a
world I wasn't sure I wanted to enter. The door
to the workroom was old, carved with intricate symbols that
seemed to shift when I wasn't looking directly at them.
I slid the key into the lock, and it turned smoothly,
the door creaking open to reveal a space frozen in time.
Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters, their scents
mingling into an intoxicating aroma. Shelves lined the walls, filled
with jars of mysterious liquids that caught the dim light,
casting eerie reflections. At the center stood a large work table,
and atop it lay a leather bound book. Its cover
bore no title, only the impression of a skull wearing
a crown of marigolds. As I approached, the air grew thicker,
heavy with anticipation. I reached out, my fingers, trembling as
they brushed the book's surface. Finally, a voice whispered, a
sound like dry leaves rustling in an autumn breeze. We've
been waiting for you, Marisol. I spun around, my heart,
leaping into my throat. Standing in the doorway was a
woman unlike any I had ever seen. She was tall
and elegant, her presence commanding yet ethereal. She wore a
magnificent hat adorned with marigolds that seemed to sway despite
the absence of wind. Her face was a beautifully painted skull,
intricate designs swirling around empty eye sockets that somehow still
held a gaze. Her dress flowed like liquid night, shifting
between silk and shadow. La Katrina, I breathed, recognizing her
from countless depictions during Dia de los Morto's celebrations, but
she was more imposing, more real than any artwork could capture.
Your grandmother was our last true baker, she said, her
voice echoing as if coming from a cavernous depth. She
glided into the room without moving her feet, her dress
whispering against the floor. The last who knew how to
feed both worlds, and now, Miamor, you must learn her
secrets before the hunger consumes us all. I glanced back
at the book, which had fallen open on the table.
The scent of a nie an orange blossom wafted up,
enveloping me. The pages were filled with recipes in my
grandmother's meticulous handwriting, Pan delos mortos para los perdidos, bread
of the Dead for the lost ones. But these weren't
ordinary recipes. Ingredients like three drops of starlight and a
mother's first lullaby leaped out at me. This can't be real,
I whispered, shaking my head. I don't understand. Lakatrina moved closer,
her skeletal fingers tracing patterns in the air that left
trails of golden light. Your grandmother fed the dead for
sixty years, she explained, Each Dia delosmirtos, she baked bread
that kept the ancestors strong enough to protect their families
without her. The doors are closing, the memories are fading.
Soon the dead will forget they were ever alive. At
all I felt a chill that had nothing to do
with the cold air. But I'm not her, I protested,
I'm an accountant. I deal with numbers, spreadsheets, not spirits.
She tilted her head, the marigolds on her hat rustling softly.
Your grandmother didn't choose you for your skills, Kirita. She
chose you for your heart. She gestured toward the mirror
in the corner, draped in black cloth. And you won't
be learning alone. She pulled the cloth away, and I gasped.
The mirror's surface wasn't reflecting the room as it was,
but showed my grandmother's kitchen as I remembered it from childhood, warm,
filled with the aroma of baking bread and the soft
glow of candles. There she was younger and more vibrant,
her dark hair pulled back as she kneaded dough with
practiced hands Around her spirits gathered translucent figures from different eras,
their faces a mix of hope and sorrow. Each held
an object, a locket, a worn photograph, a child's toy.
For three days before Dia de los Mortos, Lakatrina said,
her voice softer. Now, the veil between worlds thins enough
for the dead to teach the living. Your grandmother's spirit
will guide you, help you learn the ancient recipes, but
be warned. Such knowledge comes with a price. I tore
my gaze from the mirror to look at her. What
kind of price? She met my eyes, and for a
moment I thought I saw compassion in those empty sockets.
Each loaf of pan requires a memory from the baker.
A fair trade, your memories of the dead in exchange
for their continued existence. A knot formed in my stomach.
The weight of what she was asking settled heavily on me.
I have to give up my memories, only pieces, she
assured me. But memories are powerful, and the dead feed
on them to remain connected to the living. Through the window,
I saw more spirits gathering in the garden. They moved slowly,
their forms flickering like old film reels. The merrigold path
glowed brighter, illuminating their faces etched with longing. I don't
know if I can do this, I said, my voice,
barely above a whisper. La Katrina placed a skeletal hand
on my shoulder. The dead are not the only ones
who hunger, Marisol, the living, crave, connection, understanding closure. By
feeding them, you feed yourself. I looked back at the mirror.
My grandmother smiled, warmly, flowered, dusting her apron. She nodded encouragingly,
and I felt a swell of emotion, love, loss, and
something else, a sense of duty. Perhaps will it hurt,
I asked, Only if you resist, La Katrina replied, embrace it,
and you will find it rewarding, beyond measure. I took
a deep breath, steadying myself. All right, I'll try excellent,
she said, a hint of satisfaction in her tone. We
must begin immediately. She led me toward the mirror, and
as I reached out to touch its surface, it rippled
like water under my finger tips. A warmth spread through me,
and suddenly I was stepping into the scene, the aromas
and sounds enveloping me. Fully welcome, my grandmother said, her
voice rich and comforting. She took my hands in hers, solid, warm, alive.
There's much to teach and little time. As we began,
she guided me through the process, her hands demonstrating the
techniques while I mirrored her movements. We sifted flower that
shimmered like ground pearls, mixed in honey that glowed amber,
and added spices that released fragrances. I couldn't name each
ingredient holds significance, she explained. The anis represents the bitterness
of loss, the orange zest the sweetness of life. And this,
she held up a small vial of shimmering liquid, is
distilled from moonlight. I raised an eyebrow moonlight, she chuckled.
There's more to this world than you know. As we worked,
she told me stories, some familiar others, secrets she had kept,
tales of ancestors who had made similar sacrifices, of spirits
who had been saved from oblivion, of the delicate balance
between the worlds. Time seemed fluid here, hours felt like minutes,
and yet by the time we placed the loaves into
the oven, I felt as though I had aged years.
The exhaustion was mental and emotional, more than physical. Now
comes the offering, she said, leading me back to the
work table where the spirits had gathered. They approached one
by one, presenting their tokens. I recognized some a great
aunt's brooch, a neighbor's pocket watch. Each held stories, memories
that I had heard in passing or not at all.
Hold their items and think of what you know of them,
my grandmother instructed. As I did, flashes of images flooded
my mind, moments from lives I hadn't lived, but now
felt in timately connected to laughter at a family gathering,
tears at a farewell, the simple joy of a shared meal.
These are the memories you will share, she said softly.
They will become part of the bread, nourishing the spirits.
I felt a tug, a gentle pull, as pieces of
these memories settled into the dough. It was both exhilarating
and draining, like giving away a part of myself while
becoming part of something greater. When the bread was finally baked,
golden and fragrant, the spirits received their portions with gratitude,
their forms solidifying, faces coming clearer. The atmosphere lightened, a
sense of peace settling over the kitchen. You've done well,
la Katrina said, appearing beside us. But this is only
the beginning. There are many more to feed, and the
days grow short. I nodded, exhaustion washing over me. I
don't know if I can keep this up. You are
stronger than you think, my grandmother assured me. Rest now,
We'll continue tomorrow. As I stepped back toward the mirror's edge,
ready to return to the real world, La Katrina's voice
echoed in my mind, and Marisol, remember ten the marigolds.
They are not just flowers. They're doorways home for the
hungry dead, and this year, Mia more, they're hungrier than ever.
I emerged from the mirror, the workroom around me dim
and silent. The iron key was cool in my pocket
once more, outside, the marigolds pulsed gently, their glow a
beacon in the darkness. I knew sleep would elude me,
but I needed to rest. Tomorrow the true weight of
my inheritance would reveal itself, and I needed all the
strength I could muster to carry it.
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 2: This show, along with hundreds of others from Caloroga Shark Media,
is available commercial free on any player hassel free. Just
look for the link in the episode or show notes.
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