Episode 3 - A pair of chilling ghost stories
This episode delves into two compelling narratives that traverse the boundaries of reality and the inexplicable. The first tale recounts the harrowing events surrounding Eastern Airlines Flight 401, where the tragedy of human error intertwines with the eerie presence of the deceased crew, whose duty seemingly extends beyond life itself. Following this, we explore the chilling account of Isla Cameron, a history student who, while investigating the spectral whispers of Greyfriars Kirkyard, confronts an entity that challenges her skepticism and claims a part of her essence. These stories illuminate the fragile line between the known and the unknown, inviting listeners to ponder the haunting echoes that linger beyond the veil of existence. Join us as we navigate these profound narratives, where the extraordinary arises from the shadows of tragedy and history.
The narrative unfolds against the backdrop of a chilling aviation disaster, specifically the tragic tale of Eastern Airlines Flight 401. This ill-fated flight, which took off from JFK in New York on a winter's night in 1972, embarked on what was intended to be a routine journey to Miami. As the aircraft cruised through the darkness, a seemingly innocuous malfunction concerning the landing gear indicator escalated into a catastrophic descent into the unforgiving Everglades. The crew's fixation on the malfunction led to a grave oversight—the autopilot had been inadvertently disengaged, resulting in the aircraft plummeting towards the earth. The ensuing crash was apocalyptic, claiming lives and leaving a lasting imprint on the survivors. The aftermath reveals a haunting dimension, as the spirits of the deceased crew members appear to linger, offering warnings and guidance on subsequent flights utilizing salvaged parts from the doomed aircraft. This exploration into the intersection of human error, technological advancement, and the supernatural serves as a poignant reminder of the fragility of life and the spectral echoes of disaster that persist in the collective memory of those involved.
The second segment of the episode delves into the eerie lore surrounding Greyfriars Kirkyard in Edinburgh, where the line between history and the supernatural blurs. The tale centers on Isla Cameron, a skeptical history student drawn to the graveyard's notorious reputation as the haunt of George MacKenzie, a judge infamous for his brutal persecution of Presbyterians. Isla's initial skepticism is challenged during a midnight tour of the kirkyard, where she hopes to debunk the myths surrounding the so-called Mackenzie Poltergeist. However, her encounter with the specter becomes an unsettling reality as she experiences inexplicable phenomena that leave her questioning her understanding of the past. The narrative highlights themes of curiosity, the consequences of challenging the unknown, and the lingering presence of unresolved histories that refuse to be forgotten. Isla's journey encapsulates the essence of historical inquiry, revealing that some shadows are not merely remnants of the past but active participants in the present, reminding us that history is not just to be studied, but felt.
Together, these narratives weave a tapestry of human experiences, intertwining themes of mortality, memory, and the spectral dimensions that dwell within the forgotten corners of our world. The accounts of Flight 401 and the encounters in Greyfriars Kirkyard compel the audience to reflect on the boundaries between life and death, and the haunting legacies that can emerge from tragedy and historical atrocity. Through these tales, we confront the uncomfortable truths of our existence, recognizing that the past, with all its shadows, continues to resonate within our lives, often in ways that elude our understanding. The episode serves as a profound exploration of how the echoes of catastrophe and the whispers of history shape our reality, urging us to pay heed to the stories that linger just beyond the veil of the everyday.
Takeaways:
- The podcast explores the intersection of reality and the extraordinary, revealing hidden mysteries beneath the surface of everyday life.
- Listeners are taken on a journey through tales of human error and haunting experiences, emphasizing the inexplicable nature of existence.
- The first story recounts the tragic events of Eastern Airlines Flight 401, highlighting themes of loss, survival, and the lingering presence of those who perished.
- The second narrative, centered around Isla Cameron, illustrates the consequences of skepticism when confronting the supernatural in Greyfriars Kirkyard.
- The haunting phenomena experienced by the characters serve as a reminder of the thin veil between the living and the dead, inviting reflection on mortality.
- Both tales underscore the idea that some stories endure beyond the confines of time and space, echoing in the memories of those who experienced them.
Transcript
Imagine a world teetering on the edge of the familiar, a place where the fabric of the everyday begins to unravel, revealing glimpses of the extraordinary lurking beneath.
Speaker A:You're about to embark on a journey into the enigmatic, where the peculiar and perplexing intertwine, where every tale twists the mind and tugs at the spirit.
Speaker A:It's a descent into the strange, the mysterious and and the unexplained.
Speaker A:This is when reality frays.
Speaker A:New episodes are published every Monday and Thursday, and when Reality Phrase is available everywhere, fine podcasts are found.
Speaker A:Before we move on, please take a moment to hit that Follow or Subscribe button and turn on all reminders so you are alerted when new episodes are released.
Speaker A:Today's episode contains two stories.
Speaker A:First up is Flight 401, the story of the crew of a doomed airliner whose duty didn't end just because they were dead.
Speaker A:And the second story of the day is the Shadow in the Kirkyard, a tale of haunting that leaves a skeptic with no answers.
Speaker A:Thank you for listening.
Speaker A:Now lets get to the stories.
Speaker A: i on a cold December night in: Speaker A:Its passengers dream of sunlit beaches, its crew of routine landings.
Speaker A:But tonight the flight plan veers off course.
Speaker A:What begins as a tale of human error soon drifts into something stranger, something that lingers.
Speaker A:For in the vast whispering swamp, there is a blurry line between the living and the lost.
Speaker A:This is the story of the night of chaos.
Speaker A: ,: Speaker A:The passenger manifest is a cross section of America families heading to Miami for New Year's, retirees escaping the cold, a few business travelers nursing cocktails in first class.
Speaker A:The cabin buzzes with anticipation as stewardess Patricia Pat, Georgia banters with passengers while Mercedes Ruiz adjusts tray tables with practiced grace.
Speaker A:In the cockpit, Captain Bob Loft sips coffee, his gravelly voice steady as he chats with Bert Stock, still about the Dolphins recent Super bowl run.
Speaker A:Don Repo, hunched over his engineering panel, is running diagnostics with the focus of a surgeon.
Speaker A: The Lockheed L: Speaker A:Its widebody cabin offered plush seats and a whisper quiet ride thanks to those Rolls Royce high bypass engines.
Speaker A: cond home delivered in August: Speaker A:She had logged only 502 hours, practically a newborn in aviation terms.
Speaker A: The Trouble began at: Speaker A:Loft lowered the landing gear and the main gear lights glowed green, but the nose gear indicator stayed dark.
Speaker A:Stock still assumed the bulb was out again.
Speaker A:Muttering and tapping the panel, Loft, a stickler for procedure, ordered a go around, climbing to 2,000ft to troubleshoot.
Speaker A:Repo popped the avionics bay hatch, his flashlight beam dancing over the gear mechanism while Stock still swapped the bulb.
Speaker A:Still no light.
Speaker A:Must be the socket, loft said, frustration creeping in.
Speaker A:The trio's focus tightened, tunnel vision setting in.
Speaker A: At: Speaker A:We're at 2,000, Loft replied, which was what the autopilot was set at.
Speaker A:But the altimeter told a different story.
Speaker A:900ft and dropping.
Speaker A:The autopilot, accidentally nudged off by Loft's elbow, had ceded control, and the Everglades flat, featureless expanse offered no horizon to betray the descent.
Speaker A:A low altitude warning chirped, but Stock still silenced it, assuming a glitch.
Speaker A: Seconds later, at: Speaker A:The impact was apocalyptic.
Speaker A:The cockpit sheared off, killing Loft and Stock still instantly, Repo, trapped in the avionics bay, was flung into the wreckage alive but mortally wounded.
Speaker A:The fuselage split like a cracked egg, the ejecting passengers into the waist deep water.
Speaker A:Seats became shrapnel.
Speaker A:Luggage rained down.
Speaker A:Survivor Ron Infantino, a newlywed, clung to his seat as his wife, Lily, vanished into the dark.
Speaker A:He'd later find her body 50 yards away.
Speaker A:Beverly Raposa, a flight attendant, rallied survivors in a pocket of the tail section, her voice cutting through the panic.
Speaker A:Stay together.
Speaker A:Help's coming.
Speaker A:Help first arrived in the form of Robert Bud Marcus, a grizzled airborne operator hunting frogs nearby.
Speaker A:He spent hours ferrying survivors, some screaming, some eerily silent, to safety.
Speaker A:Helicopters and Coast Guard boats followed, battling alligators in the swamp's sucking mire.
Speaker A:By dawn, 75 survivors emerged from the carnage.
Speaker A:Their story's a mix of luck and horror.
Speaker A:A mother shielding her infant.
Speaker A:A man floating on a seat cushion.
Speaker A:A child begging for her lost doll.
Speaker A:The 75 who lived carried scars, physical and otherwise.
Speaker A:Ron Infantino, haunted by Lily's death, became a recluse, later telling Reporters that he heard the engines every night.
Speaker A:Beverly Raposa was hailed a hero as and returned to flying, but admitted the nightmares of sinking into black water.
Speaker A:Angelo Donnadeo, a passenger who'd been reading a magazine when the plane hit, lost a leg but gained a grim resolve, later advocating for aviation safety reforms.
Speaker A:Repo lingered in the hospital for a day, whispering to nurses about fixing the gear before succumbing, a detail that would echo in the hauntings to come.
Speaker A:The Everglades crash site became a macabre tabloo.
Speaker A:Recovery crews waded through chest deep muck, retrieving bodies and wreckage under the buzz of mosquitoes and the watchful eye of gators.
Speaker A: The L: Speaker A:Eastern salvaged what they could galley ovens, cockpit gauges, even the oxygen masks, reinstalling them in sister ships in their fleet.
Speaker A:It was cost effective, but it sowed the seeds of something uncanny.
Speaker A: The L: Speaker A:Lockheed had poured $1 billion into its development, aiming to rival Boeing and McDonnell Douglas.
Speaker A:Its triple engine design balanced power and efficiency, while the autopilot could land the plane in zero visibility, a feature that ironically failed Flight 401's crew when human error intervened.
Speaker A:Repo, a mechanic at heart, loved its complexity.
Speaker A:He had once bragged to colleagues about knowing every bolt.
Speaker A:That intimacy, some later speculated, might have tethered his spirit to the salvaged parts.
Speaker A:The Everglades added its own layer of mystique, a vast, primordial wetland.
Speaker A:It's long been a place of legend, tales of lost souls, pirate hideouts and unexplained lights flickering over the sawgrass.
Speaker A:The crash site, near the Tamiami Trail, sat in a liminal zone where civilization frays into wilderness.
Speaker A:Parapsychologists later mused that this thin place amplified the tragedy's psychic residue, giving Loft and Repo's restless energy a stage.
Speaker A: In the spring of: Speaker A:A stewardess on an Eastern Airlines flight saw Repo's face in an oven door, his voice warning of fire.
Speaker A:Hours later, a short circuit sparked in that galley.
Speaker A:A pilot on a Red Eye flight spotted Loft in the jump seat, his uniform pristine, only to blink and find it empty.
Speaker A:Passengers reported a man in a captain's hat pacing the aisle, vanishing mid step.
Speaker A:One chilling incident involved a flight engineer who swore Repo materialized during a pre flight check, saying, I've got the hydraulics covered before fading.
Speaker A:Maintenance later found a leak in the plane's hydraulics that could have caused a catastrophic failure.
Speaker A:These sightings weren't random.
Speaker A:They were confined to planes with Flight 401 parts, often in moments of mechanical stress.
Speaker A:A Miami to LA flight diverted after Repo appeared to a co pilot, warning of engine trouble.
Speaker A:A post landing check confirmed a failing turbine.
Speaker A:Crews who'd known Loft and Repo recognized their mannerisms, Loft's slow nod and Repo's squinting focus lending credibility to the tales.
Speaker A:Over 20 incidents were documented in Eastern's logbooks, though most vanished under management's orders.
Speaker A:One flight attendant, anonymously quoted, said, it's like they're still on duty watching over us.
Speaker A:Frank Borman, Eastern's CEO, saw it as a threat to the airline's image.
Speaker A:A former Apollo astronaut who had orbited the moon, he had no patience for ghost garbage.
Speaker A:He grounded talkative pilots, sent others to shrinks, and scrubbed records.
Speaker A:Yet the stories leaked, fueled by a workforce still grieving their lost colleagues.
Speaker A:But the reports continued until, out of frustration, Borman ordered all parts salvaged from Flight 401 removed from service.
Speaker A:As maintenance crews removed the final few pieces, the reports stopped, and there have been no further sightings to this day.
Speaker A: The L: Speaker A: it and rising cost, folded in: Speaker A:The Everglades site remains hallowed ground.
Speaker A:A plaque marks the spot where Flight 401 came to rest, and airboat guides embellish the tale for tourists.
Speaker A:Some claim to have seen lights hovering over the swamp at that location on moonless nights.
Speaker A:In the end, Flight 401 is a tapestry of human error, mechanical marvel and unexplained echoes.
Speaker A:Loft and Repo, tethered to their craft and life, seemed to guard it in death, sentinels of a machine they couldn't save in a swamp that swallowed their final flight.
Speaker A:Whether grief, guilt or something beyond science drove the hauntings, their story lingers where reality frays.
Speaker A:Today's second story is the Shadow in the Kirkyard, a young woman named Isla Cameron, a student of history, a collector of the past's cold facts.
Speaker A:Armed with a pen and a skepticism as sharp as a winter wind.
Speaker A:She walks the cobblestones of Edinburgh, a city where the line between yesterday and today blurs like ink on a damp paper.
Speaker A:Tonight she steps into Greyfriars Kirkyard, a place where the dead are said to linger, restless and resentful, under the watchful eye of a judge who never learned to rest Isla seeks the thrill of the unknown, a brush with the shadow she's dismissed as myth.
Speaker A:But in this corner of the world where stone and spirit hold court, she's about to discover that some claims whispered in the dark reach beyond the grave.
Speaker A:Welcome to a tale of curiosity and consequence unfolding in a realm where reality frays.
Speaker A:This is the story of the shadow in the Kirkyard.
Speaker A:Isla Cameron grew up chasing ghosts she didn't believe in.
Speaker A:Raised in a crumbling tenement in Glasgow, she had spent her childhood listening to her gran's tales of banshees and kelpies, her skepticism sharpening with every dramatic flourish.
Speaker A:Now at 21, a third year history student at the University of Edinburgh, she channeled that fascination into academia, dissecting the past with a cool, analytical eye.
Speaker A:Her focus was the 17th century witch hunts, rebellions and figures like George Bloody Mackenzie, the judge whose name stained Scotland's history with the blood of the conventors.
Speaker A:She had written essays on his trials, but it was the whispers beyond the textbooks, tales of his restless spirit haunting Greyfriars Kirkyard that drew her like a moth to a flame.
Speaker A: ,: Speaker A:Isla had been cooped up in the library all week, hunched over microfiche of old court records, her neck stiff and her mind buzzing.
Speaker A:The midnight tour of Greyfriars, led by local guide Colin Grant, was a perfect escape, a chance to stretch her legs and test the poltergeist rumors she had scoffed at in seminar debates.
Speaker A:She didn't expect to see anything.
Speaker A:She just wanted to feel the weight of history under her boots.
Speaker A:Tugging on a wool scarf and grabbing her leather journal, a battered keepsake from her gran, she headed out into the city's mist, slicked cobblestone streets.
Speaker A:Greyfriars Kirkyard sprawled like a forgotten kingdom, its headstones tilting under centuries of rain and neglect.
Speaker A:Gnarled trees clawed at the sky, their branches bare and trembling in the wind.
Speaker A:The air carried a damp, earthy bite laced with something sharper.
Speaker A:Iron, perhaps, or the ghost of old blood.
Speaker A:Isla joined the tour group near the kirk's gothic spire, a dozen strangers bundled in coats, their faces lit by the jittery glow of Collins Torch.
Speaker A:He was a wiry figure, 50s, with a grizzled beard and a voice rough as the stones underfoot.
Speaker A:Welcome to the land of the restless, he said, grinning.
Speaker A:Keep close and don't rile the residents.
Speaker A:Some've got tempers yet.
Speaker A:Colin wove a vivid thread as they moved through the kirkyard, past graves etched with skulls and hourglasses.
Speaker A:He lingered at the Coventers prison, a walled off patch where Mackenzie had condemned hundreds of Presbyterian rebels to rot.
Speaker A: Wrought in: Speaker A:Iron bars gleamed dully in the torchlight, and beyond them loomed the Judge's mausoleum, a squat black dome of stone, its surface pocked by time but unyielding.
Speaker A:Since 98, Collins said, his tone dropping.
Speaker A:When a lad broke into that tomb, things have stirred.
Speaker A:Scratches out of nowhere.
Speaker A:Bruises like he's still judging us folk.
Speaker A:Faint scream.
Speaker A:Hundreds have felt him.
Speaker A:They call him the Mackenzie Poltergeist.
Speaker A:Isla scribbled in her journal, her pen scratching against the page.
Speaker A:The group shifted, some chuckling nervously, others peering into the dark.
Speaker A:She felt a prickle on her neck.
Speaker A:Not fear, just the wind, she told herself.
Speaker A:It howled, rattling the trees, and a metallic tang curled in her throat.
Speaker A:Throat.
Speaker A:Collin unlocked the prison gate with a rusty clank, ushering them inside.
Speaker A:No wonderin'he, warned, his eyes flicking to Isla's notebook.
Speaker A:He doesn't like scribblers.
Speaker A:Pokin about.
Speaker A:The group pressed forward, their torch beams slicing through the fog.
Speaker A:Isla lingered near the gate, her gaze snagging on the mausoleum.
Speaker A:Its door was cracked, a thin dark slit she had no noticed in daylight photos from her research.
Speaker A:It wasn't wide enough to enter, but it pulsed with shadow, deeper than the night around it.
Speaker A:Curiosity tugged at her, sharper than caution.
Speaker A:She stepped closer, gravel crunching beneath her boots, and pulled out her pen to sketch the tomb's outline.
Speaker A:The wind stilled and the kirkyard fell silent.
Speaker A:Too silent.
Speaker A:The kind of hush that presses on your ears.
Speaker A:A sharp sting sliced across her forearm.
Speaker A:She yelped, dropping the pin, and yanked up her sleeve.
Speaker A:Three red scratches welled up on her skin, shallow but fresh, like claw marks from an invisible hand.
Speaker A:What the hell?
Speaker A:She muttered, spinning around.
Speaker A:The group was ahead, their voices a faint murmur.
Speaker A:No thorns, no jagged edges.
Speaker A:Just empty air.
Speaker A:Her pulse thudded, but she forced a shaky laugh.
Speaker A:Snagged something, she said aloud, rubbing the marks.
Speaker A:They didn't fade.
Speaker A:They darkened, edges curling red.
Speaker A:The air thickened, turning unnaturally cold.
Speaker A:Her breath puffed in front of her, a white cloud of condensation in a night that had been mild only moments ago.
Speaker A:A low rumble seeped from the tomb like stones grinding deep underground, and sharpened into a whisper.
Speaker A:Leave.
Speaker A:It wasn't just sound.
Speaker A:It vibrated in her skull, harsh and commanding, a voice that didn't belong to the wind or her imagination.
Speaker A:Her journal slipped from her hands, thudding to the gravel.
Speaker A:The pages fluttered open and she watched, heart watching as the ink of her sketch smeared, streaking as if dragged by an unseen finger.
Speaker A:Panic clawed at her chest, but she stamped it down.
Speaker A:Get it together, Isla, she hissed, bending to snatch the journal.
Speaker A:As she straightened, the cold sank deeper, numbing her fingers.
Speaker A:The scratches on her arm burned a slow, spreading fire.
Speaker A:Something flickered at the edge of her vision, a tall, cloaked shadow by the mausoleum.
Speaker A:It didn't sway or shift with a torchlight.
Speaker A:It stood solid and still, its edges bleeding into the dark.
Speaker A:She felt its gaze, heavy as a hand on her throat, and her breath hitched.
Speaker A:Her legs locked.
Speaker A:She willed them to move, to run, but they felt rooted, the ground gripping her boots.
Speaker A:The whisper came again, louder, angrier.
Speaker A:Mine.
Speaker A:It wasn't a plea.
Speaker A:It was.
Speaker A:It was a claim, a decree etched into the air itself.
Speaker A:The shadow twitched and a wave of nausea rolled through her.
Speaker A:She stumbled, knees buckling, and crashed to the gravel.
Speaker A:Pain flared through her shins, sharp and bruising, but worse were the new scratches, three more slicing across her neck, hot and precise.
Speaker A:She clawed at her scarf, gasping, her fingers brushing raised welts that pulsed with heat.
Speaker A:Colin.
Speaker A:She shouted, her voice cracking.
Speaker A:The group was too far, their lights swallowed by fog.
Speaker A:The shadow loomed closer, not walking, not gliding, just there, inches away.
Speaker A:Its shape sharpened, a man in the judge's robe, face obscured but eyes glinting like wet stone under a hood of darkness.
Speaker A:The metallic smell choked her, thick and cloying, and the word mine roared again, rattling her teeth, her bones.
Speaker A:She saw it then, a gavel in its hand, spectral and cracked, raised as if to strike.
Speaker A:Adrenaline surged, snapping her free.
Speaker A:She scrambled up, ignoring the ache in her legs, and bolted toward the group.
Speaker A:The air resisted, thick as molasses, but she pushed through, her breath sobbing in her throat.
Speaker A:Throat.
Speaker A:When she reached them, Collin was mid story, gesturing at a headstone.
Speaker A:He stopped as she staggered into the circle, scarf dangling, sleeve torn, neck scratched raw.
Speaker A:Lass, what's happened?
Speaker A:He asked, grabbing her arm.
Speaker A:The group crowded in, some gaping, others stepping back, their torchlight trembling.
Speaker A:Scratches, she stammered, showing her arms, her neck.
Speaker A:A voice and a figure by the tomb.
Speaker A:It saw me.
Speaker A:Her words spilled out, jagged and breathless.
Speaker A:Collins face tightened, his torch flicking toward the mausoleum.
Speaker A:Mackenzie, he said, voice flat.
Speaker A:He's taken a shine to ye.
Speaker A:Out now.
Speaker A:All of ye.
Speaker A:He herded them toward the gate, his usual swagger replaced by a grim urgency.
Speaker A:Isla glanced back as they fled.
Speaker A:The shadow was gone, but the tomb's cracked door seemed wider, a maw grinning in the dark, back in her cramped flat near Grassmarket.
Speaker A:Isma locked the door and sank onto her bed, still in her coat.
Speaker A:The scratches faded by morning, leaving faint pink lines, but her knees bore deep purple bruises, tender and sprawling.
Speaker A:Her journal sat on the desk, unopened until dawn.
Speaker A:When she flipped to the smeared page, her sketch was a mess, and beneath it, in jagged script, not her own, was the word mine.
Speaker A:She slammed it shut, her hands shaking, and shoved it into a drawer.
Speaker A:Sleep became a stranger.
Speaker A:The flat, once cozy with its mismatched furniture and stacks of books, felt too still, too watchful.
Speaker A:Nights brought chills, unseasonable drafts that snaked under the door.
Speaker A:Though the windows were sealed, she would wake, heart pounding, checking her arms, her neck.
Speaker A:No new marks, but the memory of that burning sting clung like a damp rot.
Speaker A:Once drifting off, she heard it, a whisper, faint but close.
Speaker A:Mine.
Speaker A:It brushed her ear, cold as a finger, and she bolted upright, fumbling for the light.
Speaker A:The room was empty, but the air hummed with something she couldn't name.
Speaker A:Weeks passed and she avoided the kirkyard, taking longer routes to class.
Speaker A:Her friends, cheery mates from the history department, noticed her jumpiness, the way she flinched at sudden noises.
Speaker A:Too much coffee was her excuse, and she'd force a grin.
Speaker A:She didn't tell them about that night.
Speaker A:The shadow, the words scrawled in her journal.
Speaker A:How could she explain a presence that didn't just haunt a place but seemed to claim her too?
Speaker A:Her grades slipped, her dreams filled with gravel and gavel blows in December.
Speaker A:Sorting through a box of notes, notes, she found a photo from the tour, snapped by a tourist she barely remembered.
Speaker A:The group stood near the prison gate, smiling awkwardly, but in the background by the mausoleum was a blur.
Speaker A:Tall, cloaked, faceless.
Speaker A:It wasn't a trick of light.
Speaker A:It stood apart, too sharp for a smudge.
Speaker A:Isla stared, her stomach twisting, then carried it to the kitchen.
Speaker A:She lit a match, watching the flames curl around the shadow she couldn't unsee.
Speaker A:The smoke stung her eyes, but as it cleared, she felt the scratches on her neck flare, briefly, faintly, like a parting touch.
Speaker A:Spring came and Isla moved flats, leaving the journal behind in a drawer she never reopened.
Speaker A:She graduated, took a job in Glasgow, and buried herself in one work.
Speaker A:The kirkyard faded to a story she told at pubs, polished into a laugh until someone asked, ever go back?
Speaker A:Her smile would falter and she'd shake her head because sometimes on quiet nights, she'd catch that metallic tang in the air, feel a chill no heater could chase, and wonder if Mackenzie's claim had followed her after all.
Speaker A:And so Isla Cameron steps back into the light of the everyday world her journal abandoned her skepticism bruised and her skin marked by scratches that fade but never fully vanish.
Speaker A:She sought the past in Greyfriars Kirkyard, a scholar chasing shadows she could measure and catalog, only to find a shadow that measured her in return.
Speaker A:George MacKenzie, a judge whose gavel fell silent centuries ago, yet whose verdict still echoes in the cold stone and colder air.
Speaker A:Was it a spirit's claim, a trick of the mind?
Speaker A:Or something older still, a reminder that some places keep their tenants long after the lease of life expires?
Speaker A:The stories presented are inspired by true events.
Speaker A:Names may have been changed for privacy reasons.
Speaker A:New episodes of When Reality Freys are uploaded every Monday and Thursday.
Speaker A:If you're enjoying the journey into the strange, the mysterious and the unexplained, be sure to press that Follow or Subscribe button and turn on all reminders so you're alerted whenever an episode drops.
Speaker A:Until next time, thank you for listening to When Reality Frays.
