Episode 5 - An alien invasion in Kentucky and a murder solved from beyond the grave
This podcast episode delves into the unsettling tales of the Night of the Hollow Eyes and the Murder of Teresita Basa, exploring the thin veil between reality and the extraordinary. The first narrative, set in the hills of Kentucky, recounts a harrowing encounter with alien beings that disrupts the lives of the Sutton family, casting them into a night of terror and uncertainty. The second story shifts to Chicago, where the tragic murder of Teresita Basa unveils a chilling mystery that transcends death itself. Through a series of uncanny events, including a voice from beyond that leads to the identification of the murderer, the episode challenges our understanding of justice and the supernatural. Together, these tales invite listeners to contemplate the nature of reality as it frays at the edges.
The narrative unfolds against the backdrop of a seemingly tranquil summer night in Kelly, Kentucky, where the Sutton family, a tight-knit group of simple folk, prepares for an ordinary evening. This scenario, however, is abruptly disrupted by an extraordinary event: the appearance of unearthly beings during a night of palpable tension and fear. The story delves deeply into the visceral emotions experienced by the Suttons as they confront the inexplicable presence of alien creatures, described with haunting detail—their reflective, metallic skin and hollow, glowing eyes serve to evoke a profound sense of dread. As the night progresses, the family's fight for survival against these entities becomes not merely a physical struggle but also an exploration of the boundaries between reality and the surreal. The chaos culminates in a frantic escape to the local police station, where their implausible tale is met with skepticism, raising questions about belief, fear, and the nature of reality itself. This chilling account leaves an indelible mark on the listener, compelling them to ponder the mysteries that lie just beyond the veil of the ordinary.
Transitioning from the eerie events in Kentucky, the second story takes us to the urban landscape of Chicago, where the life of Teresita Basa, a dedicated respiratory therapist, is tragically cut short by a brutal murder. The narrative intricately weaves through the details surrounding her death, painting a portrait of a woman whose life, though seemingly mundane, was filled with unfulfilled potential and quiet grace. Following her murder, the case stagnates in a pool of uncertainty until an unexpected twist emerges: a series of vivid dreams experienced by Remy Chua, a colleague who becomes a conduit for Teresita's spirit, guiding the investigation from beyond the grave. This aspect of the story introduces an element of the supernatural, as Remy's experiences force both the characters and the audience to grapple with the concept of the afterlife and the lengths to which one might go to achieve justice. The resolution of Teresita's case is as complex as the life she led, revealing the intersections of the living and the dead, and challenging preconceived notions of justice.
Both narratives serve as compelling examples of how the extraordinary can disrupt the mundane, reflecting on themes of fear, survival, and the quest for truth in a world where reality often frays. The juxtaposition of the alien encounter with the spiritual justice sought in Teresita's story invites listeners to contemplate the nature of existence itself—what lies beyond our understanding, and how do we confront the inexplicable? Each tale underscores the fragility of normalcy and the profound mysteries that inhabit the spaces between our reality and the unknown, leaving us with lingering questions about our perceptions and beliefs.
Takeaways:
- The first tale delves into the eerie Night of the Hollow Eyes, capturing the terror of an alien encounter in Kentucky.
- In this episode, we explore the perplexing murder of Teresita Basa, revealing the intertwining of life, death, and justice.
- The vivid recounting of the Sutton family's harrowing experience exemplifies a descent into the extraordinary unknown.
- Listeners are drawn into a world where reality frays, as seen through the chilling narratives presented.
- The juxtaposition of the mundane and the surreal highlights the fragility of human understanding of our world.
- We uncover how the whispers of the past can guide the living towards justice, even from beyond the grave.
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.
You're about to embark on a journey into the enigmatic, where the peculiar and the perplexing intertwine, where every tale twists the mind and tugs at the spirit. It's a descent into the strange, the mysterious, and the unexplained. This is when reality frays.
New episodes are published every Monday and Thursday, and when Reality Phrase is available everywhere, fine podcasts are found. Before we move on, please hit that Follow or Subscribe button and turn on all reminders so you're alerted when new episodes are released.
Today's episode contains two stories. First up is the Night of the Hollow Eyes, a story of an alien invasion in the hills of Kentucky.
And the second story of the day is the Murder of Teresita Basa, a tale of a horrible death and justice from beyond the grave. Now let's get to the stories. Imagine a summer night deep in the rolling hills near Kelly, Kentucky.
A farmhouse stands alone, its tin roof glinting under a crescent moon. The Sutton family and friends, simple folk rooted in soil and faith, are preparing for sleep, but unexpected visitors are about to upend their world.
he Hollow Eyes. The summer of:The merciless sun had baked the red clay soil until it cracked like old leather. Dust clung to boots porches, the wilted tobacco leaves drooping in the fields around the Sutton farmhouse.
The house itself was a relic of a bygone era, perched just outside the tiny burg of Kelly. Its clapboard walls were weathered gray and sagging under the weight of decades.
No electricity hummed through its bones, but no telephone line tethered it to the world. Just the flicker of kerosene lamps and the creak of floorboards warned smooth by generations of hard living.
Inside, the air was heavy with a brew of sweat, cornbread, fried chicken, and the faint metallic tang of lamp oil.
Five adults and seven children were outside, seeking relief from the sweltering heat indoors, their voices a chaotic symphony of laughter, scolding, and the occasional whine. It was a gathering born of kinship and the restless itch of a long, hot August.
Glennie Lankford, the family matriarch, sat in a rocking chair, her steel gray hair pulled tight in a bun. Her face was etched with lines from years of widowhood and toil.
r husband's lungs gave out in:He had earned his nickname in his carnival days, dodging trouble with a grin and a quick fist, but now he tilled the land and kept the family fed. His brother jc, stockier and quieter, leaned against the porch railing, whittling a stick into nothing.
Vera, JC's wife, kept a close eye on the children while June Taylor, a soft spoken woman with nervous hands, hovered near her husband, Billy Ray.
Billy Ray Taylor was the odd man out, a lanky Pennsylvanian with a mop of dark hair and a restless energy that didn't fit the slow drawl of rural Kentucky. He had met Lucky years back, working the midway at a traveling carnival.
Billy Ray charmed rubes with sleight of hand, and Lucky wrestled drunks for extra cash. Now he paced the Suttons yard, his boots scuffing puffs of dust into the air.
Dusk was alive with a drone of cicadas and the rustle of brittle leaves in the tender, dry trees. The sky stretched wide, bruised with streaks of orange and purple.
Waking up, Billy Ray stopped dead as a light, blinding and unnatural, ripped across the heavens. Look at that. He shouted, pointing skyward.
It was a comet like streak, pulsing with colors no painter could dream, crimson bleeding into sapphire violet, shimmering like a living thing. It wasn't a star. Was it a plane? It moved with intent, arcing low over a gully a half mile off before settling into the shadowed trees.
The children fell silent in wonder, but the adults felt a wariness of the unknown. Rusty, a mangy mutt who had been playing with the children, stared in the direction of the gully, testing the air, scenting something he didn't like.
Rusty's hackles went up and he barked, his voice sharp and frantic. Something's out there, Lucky said, low and tight. Lucky grabbed a 12 gauge shotgun from its perch by the door.
, which he tossed to J.C. and:Gwenny herded everyone else inside, casting a worried glance at her boys before closing the door. The yard lay still, save for Rusty's barking, until a shape emerged near the chicken coop.
It was small, no taller than a child, but wrong, terribly wrong. Its skin shimmered like molten silver, wet and reflective under the moonlight.
Its arms stretched long and thin, ending in claws that glinted faintly and its head, too large, too round, tilted as if sizing them up. But the eyes were the worst, hollow, glowing yellow like twin lanterns burning a cold alien fire.
They didn't blink, didn't waver, just bored into the men with an unyielding stare. Billy Ray fired, the rifle's crack shattering the silence. The thing flipped backward and tumbled a few feet, but it wasn't dead.
With a sound like nails scratching on tin, it leapt up, apparently uninjured by the heavy bullet and skittered away into the shadows. Lord almighty, Lucky whispered in disbelief. What in the hell was that?
The men saw more movement in the trees and Rusty exploded in a fresh round of barking. They held their weapons tight, ready to shoot, but neither had a target. Get inside, lucky said, grabbing Rusty's scruff and dragging him along.
Bursting through the door, Lucky ignored the concerned looks. The younger children were crying and JC snapped at them to be quiet. Billy Ray hurried to a window, recoiling so violently he fell backwards.
He had just come face to face with one of the thick things with only a thin screen separating them. Another appeared at a different window, its claws scratching the frame as it peered inside, its glowing eyes locked on the kids.
The shotgun roared as Lucky blasted through the glass point blank. The creature somersaulted away unharmed, its metallic skin ringing with a high, eerie chime that lingered in the air inside. Chaos erupted.
Gwenny's voice cut through like a whip. Crack. Get the youngins back.
She grabbed up a double barrel shotgun at least as old as she was, and herded the whimpering, wide eyed children into the back room. Vera and June followed, shoving a dresser against the door while Glennie raised the shotgun and pointed it at the window.
She had faced down bears and not a few bandits trying to take from her family over the years, but this was a terror she couldn't name, a violation of the natural order she'd always trusted. The creatures 12, 15, maybe more, swarmed the house, their movements jerky and unnatural, like puppets animated by invisible strings.
They skittered across the tin roof, claws scraping like chalk on slate, sending shivers down spines. They tapped at the walls with a rhythm that set teeth on edge. Billy Ray swore.
One grabbed his hair when he leaned out to shoot, its grip icy and unyielding like a dead man's hand, until Lucky's blast sent it tumbling off the overhang. Bullets and shotgun loads blew out all the windows, but the things were impervious and kept coming, their hollow eyes glinting in the dark.
Gwenny fought too, but the old shotgun could only fire twice before having to be reloaded. That's what she was doing. Attention momentarily off the window when one of the creatures leapt through to stand staring at the cowering children.
Its oversized head was cocked, bat like, ears twitching faintly. Silver skin shimmered, rippling like water under the lamplight. The women screamed, rushing to place themselves between the creature and the children.
Glennie fumbled fresh shells into the shotgun and immediately fired at the intruder. The force of the blast sent it tumbling, but it snapped right back onto its feet.
Glennie pulled the second trigger, a load of buckshots slamming the creature against the wall. Raising the heavy shotgun above her head, Glennie started forward, intending to beat it to death.
But it leapt through the open window and disappeared. Hours dragged on. The children sobbed quietly, their faces buried in blankets, while the adults reloaded and fought with shaky hands.
JC Stood guard at the back window, his jaw clenched tight. Vera whispered prayers under her breath. June clung to Billy Ray, her soft voice pleading, we gotta get outta here. But he shook her off.
Not till they're gone. By 11pm the creatures had quieted, but Lucky could still see them out there, lurking just beyond the lamplight.
We gotta make a run for it, lucky said, his voice hoarse. Gwenny nodded, her jaw set like iron. They made a desperate plan. Pile into the cars and run for Hopkinsville, eight miles away.
The adults grabbed kids and burst out of the front door in a frantic scramble to two battered Fords parked under the brake branches of an old oak. The creatures didn't try to stop them, just watched from the deepest shadows.
Engines sputtered to life, tires kicking up clouds of dust as they tore down the rutted road, the night swallowing their taillights. The Hopkinsville police station was a blur of light and noise, a stark contrast to the suffocating dark they'd fled.
They spilled inside, a tangle of fear and exhaustion, their voices overlapping in a frantic chorus. We've been fighting them for hours. Lucky shouted, slamming his fist on the desk. Little men, silver glowing, yeller eyes trying to get in our house.
Billy Ray paced, his shirt soaked with sweat, while Glennie stood rigid, her shotgun still in hand, daring anyone to call her a liar. The kids clung to her skirts, their faces streaked with tears and dirt.
Sheriff Russell Greenwell, a grizzled man with a skeptic squint, looked them all up and down.
He saw the terror in their eyes and Glennie's unyielding stare, then slowly nodded to himself as he reached a decision within minutes, a convoy rolled out, six deputies and the sheriff, armed like they were ready for war. At the farmhouse, the silence was oppressive, the air heavy with the scent of spent shells and something acrid, unplaceable.
The deputies swept the property, their flashlight beams cutting through the dark. They found more bullet holes in the house than they cared to count. Spent shells were scattered like fallen leaves.
They also found a strange patch of soil near the gully that glowed faintly like spilled phosphorus, and it was warm to the touch. The sheriff noted claw marks on the roof and window frames, fresh, uneven scratches that defied explanation.
But there were no tracks, no blood, and no bodies. Dawn crept over the hills, painting the sky pink. The Suttons returned, shocked and weary.
Their home was a battlefield of shattered glass, splintered wood, and an echo of terror. Gwennie stood on the porch, staring at the woods, her shotgun cradled in the crook of an army.
They'll come again, she said, her voice flat but certain. They ain't done with us. Dawn breaks over Kelly, Kentucky, and the goblins are gone, vanished as if they'd never been other than terrified.
None of the Suttons nor their friends were harmed. Were these explorers from a distant world? Or spirits that slipped through a crack in the night? Or figments born of a fear of the unknown?
The gun smoke cleared, but the mystery lingers, etched in the scratches on a farmhouse wall. Today's second story is the murder of Teresita Basa.
Quiet street in Chicago, a city of steel and shadow where the hum of daily life masks the whispers of the unseen. Here, Teresita Basa, a woman of gentle grace and unassuming routine, steps unknowingly into a moment that will echo beyond her final breath.
A brutal murder, a life snuffed out in the flicker of a blade, and a case that might have faded into the city's ledger of unsolved sorrows until the impossible intervenes. Picture a voice from beyond, a plea carried on the wind, guiding the living to unravel a crime the dead cannot forget.
This is no ordinary tale of justice, but a descent into a realm where reality frays. This is the story of the murder of Teresita Basa.
,:Beneath a smoldering mattress lay the body of Teresita Basa, a 47 year old Filipino American woman. She was Naked, a butcher knife plunged deep into her chest, pinning her to the floor.
The fire started with an accelerant that was most likely gasoline had charred the mattress and singed the walls, but failed to fully engulf the room, preserving the grim t. Her clothes were folded neatly on a chair nearby, a detail that struck investigators as oddly deliberate.
There were no signs of a struggle or forced entry, and the apartment's door was locked when responders arrived. Missing were a jade pendant and a pearl cocktail ring, items Teresita often wore, suggesting robbery as a motive.
Yet the staged nature of the scene hinted at something more more personal, more calculated. The Chicago police classified Teresita's death as a homicide, but leads were scarce.
Neighbors reported hearing nothing unusual, though One elderly woman, Mrs. Kowalski, mentioned a faint humming sound from Teresita's apartment earlier that day, a detail dismissed as irrelevant.
With no witnesses, no fingerprints beyond Teresita's and a victim who seemed to have no enemies, the case stalled. Detectives canvassed her workplace and social circle, but failed to find anything that could lead them to a potential suspect.
sita Lachica Basa was born in: d to the United states in the:Teresita was reserved, almost reclusive, living alone in her small apartment adorned with Filipino trinkets and a well worn upright piano. She was pursuing a master's degree in music at Northwestern University, a passion that filled her off hours.
Colleagues recalled her soft spoken demeanor and meticulous work ethic. But she kept her personal life private. No boyfriend, no close friends outside work, and only occasional calls to family.
Back in Manila, Teresita's solitary existence mirrored that of many immigrants, hard working, unnoticed, blending into the background. Her death, however, thrust her into a spotlight she'd never sought, revealing a woman whose quiet life hid depths unimagined.
The case might have faded into an obscure footnote in history if not for Remy Chua, a 35 year old medical technician at Edgewater Hospital. Remy, also Filipino, had known Teresita casually shared shifts, polite nods in the break room. But they weren't friends.
In July:Her job was demanding, and she had recently given birth to her first child with her husband, Jose, a mechanic. But the dreams escalated.
By late summer, she had wakened trances, her body rigid, speaking in a voice her husband described as not hers, deeper, accented, like Teresita's. One night, Jose watched in horror as Remy sat bolt upright, eyes glassy, and recounted the murder. He came to fix something. He stabbed me.
Alan Showery. He took my jade pendant, my ring. For his woman. She described the scene.
The knife, the fire, the folded clothes, with details unreleased to the public. Jose, a pragmatic man, initially thought Remy was losing her mind.
But when she named Showery, an orderly they vaguely knew from the hospital, he urged her to act. Remy resisted. She feared ridicule or worse, accusations of involvement. But the trances grew relentless.
She'd collapse at work, muttering in tagalog, once humming a melody coworkers recognized as a piece Teresita played on her piano. Finally, in August, the Chuas contacted detective Joseph Stacula, a seasoned cop with a reputation for chasing long shots. Stacula was skeptical.
Possession wasn't in the police manual. But Remy's specificity unnerved him. She didn't just name Showery. She pinpointed the stolen jewelry's fate.
A jade pendant and pearl ring given to Showery's girlfriend, Jaka Kamluk. Detective Stacula grudgingly decided to investigate.
Alan Showery was an unremarkable figure, 32, stocky, with a mop of dark hair and a quiet demeanor. He'd worked at Edgewater for two years, doing grunt work like moving patients and fixing equipment.
He had a rap sheet of minor thefts, but no violence. When questioned, he was cooperative, claiming he barely knew Teresita and had been home with Yanka on February 21st.
His alibi held until police visited Yanka, a waitress at a local diner. She answered the door wearing Teresita's jade pendant. The pearl ring sat on her dresser. Jacques said Showery gave her the items as a surprise gift.
While she couldn't recall the specific date she had received the jewelry, Detective Stacula narrowed it down to a couple of days after the murder of Teresita. Faced with this damning evidence, Showery's story unraveled.
ilty to murder and robbery in:Showery's conviction closed the legal chapter, but a jarring twist emerged years later, upending the robbery gone wrong narrative in prison, Showery confided in a cellmate, Eddie Lopez, that he didn't recall the murder.
He claimed he had entered Teresita's apartment, felt a wave of darkness and woke up bloody, the knife in his hand, the fire already lit, Lopez claimed. Showery wept, insisting something else did it through me.
ad rejected as a ploy. But in: begged him for an exorcism in:During the ritual, performed in a prison chapel, Showery convulsed, vomiting a black, tar like substance a hallmark of demonic expulsion in Catholic tradition. The priest burned sage, prayed in Latin and claimed a heavy presence lifted from the room.
uiet until Showery's death in:The stories presented are inspired by true events. Names may have been changed for privacy reasons. New episodes of When Reality Frays are uploaded every Monday and Thursday.
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. Until next time, thank you for listening to When Reality phrase.
