Episode 8 - An improbable haunting and Mist Walkers in an Oregon forest
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This podcast episode delves into the haunting narratives of the Sally House and the Obsidian Fog, exploring the thin line that separates reality from the inexplicable. The first tale recounts the experience of Emily Carter, a historian who seeks to debunk the legend of the Sally House, only to confront phenomena that challenge her skepticism and unravel her understanding of truth. In the second story, we follow Mia Callahan, a photographer venturing into the eerie depths of Oregon's Siouslaw National Forest, where she encounters enigmatic figures that blur the boundaries of existence and reality. Each narrative invites listeners to consider the nature of belief, the persistence of folklore, and the unsettling possibilities that lie beyond our perception. As these stories unfold, they compel us to question what lurks in the shadows of our understanding and the truths we may not be prepared to face.
The Sally House and the Obsidian Fog delve into the intricate interplay between skepticism and the supernatural, presenting a narrative that challenges our understanding of reality. At the heart of the first story lies the Sally House, situated in Atchison, Kansas, a place steeped in legend and whispered secrets. Emily Carter, a historian known for her rational approach to the paranormal, embarks on a quest to debunk the myths surrounding this infamous dwelling. Her journey leads her into a labyrinth of chilling experiences, as unexplained phenomena disrupt her logical framework. The tension escalates when she encounters manifestations that blur the line between the tangible and the spectral, compelling her to confront the unsettling notion that some truths may lie beyond the reach of reason.
The tale unfolds against the backdrop of a modest house, its history tainted by tragedy and betrayal. As Emily digs deeper into the past, she uncovers the sorrowful story of a young girl named Sally, whose untimely death has left an indelible mark on the household. The narrative intricately weaves together threads of personal loss, historical inquiry, and the haunting echoes of a restless spirit, culminating in a profound exploration of how the past can shape our present. Emily's skepticism is put to the ultimate test as she grapples with the chilling reality that some houses harbor more than mere memories; they are vessels of unfulfilled grief and lingering despair.
In contrast, the second story, the Obsidian Fog, introduces us to Mia Callahan, a photographer seeking beauty within the enigmatic confines of Oregon's Siouslaw National Forest. This narrative shifts from the historical to the contemporary, portraying Mia's solitary venture into a realm where the natural world converges with the otherworldly. As she navigates the depths of the forest, she encounters strange figures and unsettling sounds that challenge her perception of the environment. The fog, laden with secrets and the promise of the unknown, becomes a character in its own right, enveloping Mia and leading her to confront her deepest fears. This story serves as a poignant reminder of the fragility of reality and the mysteries that linger just beyond the veil of comprehension, suggesting that some encounters with the unknown may leave indelible marks on the soul.
Takeaways:
- The Sally House exemplifies the conflict between skepticism and the inexplicable, as illustrated by Emily Carter's experiences.
- Mia Callahan's encounter in the Obsidian Fog challenges her perception of reality and the unknown.
- Both stories highlight the fragility of rationality when confronted with forces beyond comprehension.
- The podcast emphasizes the concept that some truths may remain elusive, forever hidden beneath the veil of reality.
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 the 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 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 hit that Follow or Subscribe button and turn on all reminders so you're alerted when new episodes are released.
Speaker A:Today's episode contains two stories.
Speaker A:First up is the Sowie House, a story about what happens when a skeptical woman encounters something she can't explain.
Speaker A:And the second story of the day is the Obsidian Fog, a strange tale about coming face to face with something beyond the veil of reason.
Speaker A:Now let's get to the stories.
Speaker A:A house at 508 N.
Speaker A:2nd St.
Speaker A:Atchison, Kansas, a modest dwelling in a quiet town where the river bends and the past refuses to rest.
Speaker A:Its name is whispered in shadows.
Speaker A:A tale of a little girl named Sally, a tragedy etched in screams, and a spirit bound by betrayal.
Speaker A:Enter Emily Carter, a woman armed with reason, a historian who believes that truth lies in ink and paper, not in murmurs of the night.
Speaker A:She's come to unravel a legend to prove that ghosts are merely echoes of our own making.
Speaker A:But in this house where the walls hum and the air grows cold, she'll find that some doors, once opened, lead not to answers, but that place where reality frays.
Speaker A:This is the story of the Sowie House.
Speaker A:Atchison, Kansas, was a town caught between the living and the dead, a place where the Missouri River's slow churn carried echoes of forgotten stories.
Speaker A:Its streets, lined with sagging Victorian homes and gnarled oaks, held a quiet beauty.
Speaker A:But beneath the surface simmered a restless past.
Speaker A:At the edge of this scene stood 508 N.
Speaker A:2nd St.
Speaker A:The Saue House, a modest two story relic that seemed to lean into the shadows.
Speaker A:Its white siding peeled like old skin and its windows stared out with a hollow gaze.
Speaker A:To the people of Atchison, it was more than a house.
Speaker A:It was a wound that refused to heal, a name whispered in hushed tones over kitchen tables and bar stools.
Speaker A: By the fall of: Speaker A:Emily Carter was the former, though she'd never admit to the latter.
Speaker A:Emily rolled into town on October 13, her rust streaked station wagon coughing to a stop in front of the house.
Speaker A:At 28, she was a historian with a reputation for dismantling ghost stories, her sharp mind matched only by her sharper skepticism.
Speaker A:Her dark hair was perpetually escaping its bun, and her hazel eyes glinted with a mix of curiosity and defiance.
Speaker A:She had spent her career chasing the truth behind the paranormal Ouija boards, poltergeists, haunted asylums, always finding mundane explanations beneath the hype.
Speaker A:The Sallie house was her latest challenge, a tale too persistent to ignore.
Speaker A:The story was simple enough.
Speaker A:A little girl named Sally, 6 years old, brought to Dr.
Speaker A: Charles Finney's home in the: Speaker A:Diagnosed with appendicitis, he had operated in a panic, slicing into her before the chloroform took hold.
Speaker A:Her screams had faded into death, and her spirit fell.
Speaker A:Furious and betrayed lingered, lashing out at men who crossed her threshold.
Speaker A:Emily didn't believe in ghosts, but she believed in history.
Speaker A:She had rented the house for a week to peel back the layers of myth and find the facts.
Speaker A:The owner, Tom Hensley, met her at the door, a wiry man with a graying beard and eyes that darted nervously.
Speaker A:Don't stir up what's sleeping, he warned, handing her a rusted key.
Speaker A:Folks say it's a girl, but I reckon it's something else.
Speaker A:Emily brushed off his cryptic tone.
Speaker A:She stepped inside, the air thick with the scent of dust and damp wood.
Speaker A:The house was sparsely furnished, a sagging sofa in the living room, a scarred table in the kitchen, a stereo that played oh, Susanna on an endless loop.
Speaker A:A quirk, Tom insisted, that kept the place calm.
Speaker A:Upstairs, the nursery held a rocking chair, a scattering of faded toys, and a stillness that clung like old cobwebs.
Speaker A:Emily unpacked her a spiral notebook, a tape recorder, a Polaroid camera, a thermos of black coffee, and a flashlight.
Speaker A:She was ready to wage war on the unknown.
Speaker A:The first night was quiet.
Speaker A:The house creaked and groaned, its bones settling under the weight of a century, but Emily slept undisturbed in the downstairs bedroom.
Speaker A:Her dreams were filled with ledger lines and ink stained fingers, not spectral cries.
Speaker A:The next morning she drove to the Atchison Historical Society, a squat brick building stuffed with the town's past.
Speaker A:She pored over census records, property deeds, and brittle newspapers, her pen scratching notes in a furious rhythm.
Speaker A: nd from: Speaker A:No daughters.
Speaker A:His practice was noted in tax logs, but there were no reports of a child's death and no malpractice scandals.
Speaker A: amily, who had lived there in: Speaker A:Their stories of phantoms, objects moving on their own, and a voice telling them to harm their children had birthed the Sally legend.
Speaker A:That evening she returned to the house, leaning into her skepticism.
Speaker A:She set her recorder in the kitchen where the surgery supposedly happened and began.
Speaker A: ,: Speaker A:Day one.
Speaker A:No evidence of a Sowie in Finney's records.
Speaker A:The Pickman claims suggest a modern myth.
Speaker A:Structural issues or suggestion likely.
Speaker A:The recorder died.
Speaker A:She tapped it, checked the batteries new that morning, and tried again.
Speaker A:Nothing.
Speaker A:A low hum rose not from the stereo but from the walls, vibrating through her boots.
Speaker A:She ignored it, but a chill lingered as she moved to the living room, where, oh, Susannah droned on, its notes warped and tinny.
Speaker A:Night fell like a curtain, heavy and dark.
Speaker A:Emily sat with her notebook, sipping tea when a thud echoed from upstairs, a soft, deliberate drop like a child's ball hitting the floor.
Speaker A:Her heart stuttered, but she forced herself to climb the stairs, flashlight in hand.
Speaker A:The nursery door, which she had shut that morning, yawned open.
Speaker A:Inside, a rubber ball rolled lazily across the floor.
Speaker A:Stopping at her feet, she picked it up, its surface cold as river ice, and placed it on the rocking chair.
Speaker A:Wind, she muttered.
Speaker A:Though the windows were sealed Downstairs, she recorded the incident, her voice steady but tight.
Speaker A:Unexplained movement in the nursery, ball on the floor, likely a draft.
Speaker A:The next two days chipped away at her resolve.
Speaker A:Lights flickered without pattern, on, off, on again.
Speaker A:Despite a stable fuse box.
Speaker A:Footsteps pattered across the ceiling.
Speaker A:At odd hours, though, the attic held only dust and dead birds who had found their way in but not out.
Speaker A:On the third night, as she brewed coffee, a shadow darted past the kitchen doorway.
Speaker A:Small, fleeting.
Speaker A:A child's silhouette.
Speaker A:She snapped a Polaroid, the flash bleaching the room, but the photo showed nothing but the table and a cracked wall.
Speaker A:Her notes grew jagged.
Speaker A:Fatigue.
Speaker A:Hallucination.
Speaker A:Something's here.
Speaker A:The house felt alive, its walls pulsing with intent, and Emily began to wonder if she had misjudged its silence.
Speaker A:On the fourth day, she sought answers in town.
Speaker A:At the diner, she met Marjorie Quine, an elderly woman with a face like weathered parchment.
Speaker A: in the: Speaker A:That place was always wrong, she said, her voice low over a cup of weak coffee.
Speaker A:Kids dared each other to knock and run.
Speaker A:But no one stayed after the Finneys.
Speaker A:Tenants came a went, said they felt cold spots and heard whispers.
Speaker A:One man, a carpenter in 56, swore something pushed him down the stairs.
Speaker A:Then the Pickmans gave it a name.
Speaker A:Sally.
Speaker A:Emily pressed for more.
Speaker A:Was there a girl?
Speaker A:Marjorie shrugged.
Speaker A:Records don't say, but that don't mean much.
Speaker A:Something's there, girl or not.
Speaker A:Something older, maybe.
Speaker A:That night the house turned on her.
Speaker A:She awoke at 3:17am to a scream, a child's, raw and piercing, erupting from the walls themselves.
Speaker A:She bolted upright, grabbing her recorder.
Speaker A:October 17th heard a scream, clear as day.
Speaker A:Checking the kitchen, the stairs stretched endlessly, each step colder, the air thick with a metallic tangled in the kitchen.
Speaker A:The stereo was silent, replaced by that humming pulse.
Speaker A:She flicked on the light, and there on the table sat the rubber ball.
Speaker A:Beside it, the words HE HURT ME scratched deep into the wood.
Speaker A:Her Polaroid captured it, the flash glinting off the jagged letters.
Speaker A:She played the recording, expecting her voice alone.
Speaker A:Instead, a child's whisper wove through her words.
Speaker A:Why didn't you help me?
Speaker A:The tape hissed, and a deeper sound emerged, a low, guttural rasp, not a child's, muttering something near unintelligible, though Emily swore it was repeating her name over and over.
Speaker A:She didn't sleep.
Speaker A:She sat in the living room, replaying the tape until the batteries died, the Polaroid trembling in her hand.
Speaker A:The child's voice was real, later analysis confirmed, but the rasp baffled experts.
Speaker A:It wasn't a human voice, but the experts couldn't agree on what the source was.
Speaker A:But most were in agreement that it sounded as if it were saying Emily over and over.
Speaker A:By dawn, Emily decided to leave her skepticism, struggling with her experiences in the house.
Speaker A:As she packed, the rocking chair upstairs creaked to life, slow and deliberate, a rhythm no breeze could explain.
Speaker A:She grabbed her bag and fled the house, a blur in her rearview mirror.
Speaker A:She stopped at a gas station on the edge of town, where a grizzled quirk eyed her pale face.
Speaker A:You stayed at 5:08, didn't you?
Speaker A:He asked.
Speaker A:She nodded.
Speaker A:Mute.
Speaker A:Folks say it's a girl, but I heard different growing up.
Speaker A:My grandpa worked the riverboats, said that land was cursed long before the house.
Speaker A:There's something else.
Speaker A:Darker, older, rooted deep.
Speaker A:It's not no ghost.
Speaker A:It's a cage.
Speaker A:And it's still hungry.
Speaker A:Emily Carter came to Atchison seeking the truth, a rational mind determined to sift fact from fiction.
Speaker A:In the Legend of the Sowie House, she left with a question that gnaws at the what lingers in the spaces we cannot see?
Speaker A:Was it Sally?
Speaker A:A child lost to time, crying out for justice?
Speaker A:Or something older, something darker, a shadow that wears the mask of innocence to lure the curious into its grasp?
Speaker A:In the end, the house remains a silent sentinel on a quiet street, its secrets locked within walls that hum with a hunger all their own.
Speaker A:A reminder, perhaps, that in the pursuit of truth, we may stumble into a truth we're not prepared to face when reality frays.
Speaker A:If you're enjoying the stories, please consider donating to support the research and production that go into bringing them to you by buying me a coffee.
Speaker A:The link to send support is in the episode's show notes.
Speaker A:I would greatly appreciate it.
Speaker A:Now on to today's second story, which is the Obsidian Fog.
Speaker A:Picture a solitary woman named Mia Callahan, armed with a camera, venturing into the shadowed depths of Oregon's Sioux Law National Forest.
Speaker A:She seeks beauty in the wild, a fleeting moment to capture and share.
Speaker A:But tonight, under a sky swallowed by fog, she'll find something else, something that watches from beyond the veil of reason.
Speaker A:For Mia is about to step across a threshold into a realm where the forest keeps secrets older than time itself.
Speaker A:This is the story of the Obsidian Fog.
Speaker A:Mia Callahan was no stranger to solitude.
Speaker A:A freelance photographer, she had carved her own niche, capturing the raw, untamed beauty of the world's forgotten places windswept Patagonian steppes, Greenland's ice choked fjords, and now the labyrinthine depths of Oregon's Siouxlaw National Forest.
Speaker A:Her Instagram showcased misty landscapes and cryptic captions that hinted at her restless spirit.
Speaker A:She had grown up in foster homes, learning early to rely on herself.
Speaker A:Her camera was a shield against a world that felt too loud and too crowded.
Speaker A:The forest, with its promise of bioluminescent fungi glowing in secret hollows, was her latest escape.
Speaker A:In Florence, a weathered coastal town, she lingered in a diner, overhearing locals swap tales of mist walkers, ethereal beams said to haunt the fog, luring hikers into oblivion.
Speaker A:The stories were laced with warnings.
Speaker A:Don't camp alone.
Speaker A:Don't follow the whispers.
Speaker A:IYA listened with a jaded mind.
Speaker A:She had debunked haunted ruins in Peru and cursed caves in Wales.
Speaker A:This was just another myth to photograph and dissect.
Speaker A:Today she'd hiked five miles into the forest, her her pack heavy with supplies, a tent, and a worn journal where she sketched ideas.
Speaker A:The trees loomed, their branches knitting the canopy that dimmed the late September sun.
Speaker A:By dusk, she had pitched her tent near a ravine.
Speaker A:The air Thick with cedar and damp earth.
Speaker A:Her campfire crackled, but its light was muted by an encroaching fog.
Speaker A:It came in swift on, unnatural to someone unfamiliar with that part of Oregon.
Speaker A:The forest's usual chorus of crickets and wind vanished, leaving a silence that pressed against her ears.
Speaker A:Mia checked her watch.
Speaker A:9:37pm she was startled and forgot the watch when a moaning sound began.
Speaker A:It could have been a sigh of wind high in the trees or the surf crashing on a rocky shoreline, but the air was still and she wasn't near the coast.
Speaker A:The moaning grew no longer a single voice, but dozens layered in a language of jagged syllables, like glass ground into song.
Speaker A:Breath coming short and fast, she clicked on a flashlight and gasped to see the blanketing fog glow to faint green and pulsed like a heartbeat.
Speaker A:The air grew frigid, carrying unidentifiable scents.
Speaker A:Something sharp, like ozone or spilled blood.
Speaker A:Shadows coalesced in the mist.
Speaker A:Tall, impossibly thin figures, their limbs unnaturally long, bending at angles that mocked anatomy.
Speaker A:Their heads were elongated, featureless save for eyes like polished obsidian, glinting with an inner light that seemed to poet her thoughts.
Speaker A:They seemed to glide as they circled her camp, their forms flickering in and out.
Speaker A:The moans swelled with what seemed to be a language, but one Mia had never heard.
Speaker A:The ground vibrated faintly as a low hum she felt in her bones rose in counterpoint to the alien words.
Speaker A:The figures didn't advance, but their presence was a weight, a silent demand.
Speaker A:Mia, shaking with fear, wanted to run, wanted to escape the nightmare swirling around her, but her legs refused to cooperate.
Speaker A:The figures voices rooted her, tugging at memories.
Speaker A:Foster home's, her mother's face lost to her.
Speaker A:At 6, the hum intensified and one figure paused, its obsidian eyes locking onto hers.
Speaker A:A vision flashed a a vast, glowing forest under a sky of twin moons, its trees alive, branches and vines reaching out to ensnare her in their grip.
Speaker A:Fear broke her paralysis and she bolted.
Speaker A:Branches caught her face and the fog clung like wet silk, slowing her.
Speaker A:The moans now inside her skull urged her deeper into the forest.
Speaker A:Her boots sank into mud.
Speaker A:Then something softer and yielding.
Speaker A:She tripped and fell into a stream, its water glowing faintly, the surface vibrating in sync with the moans echoing through the forest.
Speaker A:Figures swirled around her again, moving faster and faster in her orbit until details blurred.
Speaker A:Then, as if Mother Nature herself took mercy on Mia, a strong wind came up, shredding the fog and dispersing, piercing the figures within.
Speaker A:Their moaning was replaced by the roar of wind sighing through the forest canopy.
Speaker A:Fog gone.
Speaker A:Dawn's light crept through the trees gasping.
Speaker A:Mia lay in the stream, her body bruised, her mind frayed.
Speaker A:The forest was ordinary again.
Speaker A:Birds sang, welcoming the day.
Speaker A:But her watch was still frozen.
Speaker A:At 9:37, soaking wet and shivering, Mia retraced her steps to her camp.
Speaker A:But everything was gone.
Speaker A:No tent, no fire pit, no trace of her ever having been there.
Speaker A:If not for a tree with a unique twist to its gnarled trunk, she would have believed she wasn't at the right spot.
Speaker A:But she'd taken note of it while setting up camp the previous evening.
Speaker A:Back home in Portland, Mia unraveled.
Speaker A:She stopped posting online, her followers flooding her DMs with concern.
Speaker A:Sleep brought nightmares of fog shrouded forests, of moans swirling around her in darkness, of obsidian eyes that seemed to stare into her soul.
Speaker A:Strangers in coffee shops and on buses stared, their eyes lingering as if they sensed something.
Speaker A:Her apartment's mirrors showed fleeting shapes, tall and thin, gone when she turned.
Speaker A:At night, moans in that alien tongue, faint but relentless, haunted her.
Speaker A:She tried sage, therapy, even a priest.
Speaker A:Nothing silenced it.
Speaker A:Her dreams grew vivid.
Speaker A:A night sky with twin moons, a city of glass spires where the figures waited.
Speaker A:She would wake gasping, her hands smudged with ash she couldn't explain.
Speaker A:Mia bought a plane ticket to Arizona, hoping the dry desert would be the antidote she needed.
Speaker A:On the flight, she sketched the figures compulsively, her pen moving as if guided as the plane flew south over the untamed wilderness of the Pacific Northwest.
Speaker A:She glanced out the window.
Speaker A:Below in the clouds, a green fog swirled, and within it, flecks of obsidian like unblinking eyes seemed to be looking back.
Speaker A:Mia lowered the shade and clutched the journal tight to her chest as her breath came in short pants.
Speaker A:An hour later, she summoned the courage to raise the shade.
Speaker A:They were flying over Nevada, and it was a perfectly clear night.
Speaker A:The ground below was brightly lit by moonlight.
Speaker A:Mia huffed a sigh of relief.
Speaker A:For several long moments, she simply stared at the desert, marveling at how clear the air was.
Speaker A:Leaning back in her seat, intending to close her eyes for a nap, she glanced out the window at the full moon and froze, unable to speak or even blink.
Speaker A:Chills of terror rippled through her as she stared at twin moons.
Speaker A:Mia Callahan, a woman armed with a camera, seeking beauty in the wilds of Orange, Oregon's Sisloo National Forest.
Speaker A:She came to capture the fleeting, to pin reality to a frame.
Speaker A:But reality, you see, is a fragile thing, and the forest keeps secrets older than time itself.
Speaker A:Mia crossed a threshold into a realm where eyes of obsidian watch from beyond the veil where twin moons cast their alien light.
Speaker A:She fled, believing distance could save her.
Speaker A:But some doors, once opened, never close.
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 Phrase 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, 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 Phrase.
