S3E161 The Abandoned Road: A Halloween Parable

This Halloween, Beck invites you off the main road and into a story that doesn’t just spook, it mirrors. A narrow path appears where none should be. A toll is taken that no one expects. And a man must face the cost of what he’s carried for far too long.

This is not just a ghost story.
It’s a parable for the soul.
A haunting for those who feel misaligned, unseen, or silently unraveling.

Some roads don’t exist until you’re ready to walk them.
And once you do… you don’t come back the same.

🕯️ An original audio-only narrative from To The Spirit☕

Support the show: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ko-fi.com/tothespirit⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠

Help keep the static spooky and the strange stories flowing.

📚 Rebecca’s Books:

-⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Look Up: The Journey of a Soul Satellite⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠– A spiritual memoir for seekers, skeptics, and the soul-weary.

-⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠The Galaxy Code⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠– A cosmic tale of awakening and remembrance, channeled through the veil.

Available now- perfect for deep divers of the metaphysical and mysterious.

Disclaimer:The content of this episode is for entertainment purposes only. The views and opinions shared by the hosts and guests are personal and do not necessarily reflect the beliefs or views of any organizations, sponsors, or affiliates. Listener discretion is advised.

Contact: Have a story to share, or want to get in touch? Email at ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠[e-mail]⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠.

Follow on Social Media:

• Twitter (X): ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠@spirit_pod⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠

Facebook: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠To The Spirit Podcast⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠

Instagram: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠@tothespiritpod⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠

YouTube: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://www.youtube.com/@tothespiritpod⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠

• 
  

Episode Transcript

(00:15):
You're listening to to the Spirit podcast.
Welcome travellers, this is backand once again you've arrived at
the edge. Not just of town, not just of

(00:39):
night, but of something deeper. This is Halloween.
I want to tell you a story. Not a ghost story, not really.
It's a parable. The morning, wrapped in wind and
rustling, leaves reflection for the Wanderers, for the ones

(00:59):
who've been feeling out of place, out of step, or out of
time. If your life has felt strange
lately, like the road you're walking doesn't quite fit
anymore, if you've been haunted by old memories or whispered to
by something you can't explain, well, this story's for you.

(01:21):
Because some roads aren't meant to be on any map and some turns
you don't come back from. So lock the door, dim the lights
and light the Lantern. Just one.
We are going to walk the abandoned Rd.

(01:42):
They say the road never used to be there.
Not on paper, not in GPS. No records, no property lines.
Just appeared one October, rightaround dusk.
It wasn't paved, but it wasn't dirt either.

(02:06):
A Gray black ribbon, narrow, winding, cutting between trees
and vanishing into horizon, as if the land itself had blinked
and something older opened its eyes.
Most folks never saw it. Most folks weren't meant to, but

(02:30):
there was always one. Just one.
A soul out walking or driving orhurting, usually near the end of
something, a job, a relationship, a version of
themselves that no longer fit. And that's when it would appear,
just past the bend they thought they knew by heart.

(02:55):
A crooked little sign, half buried in leaves, no words
painted black, tilting ever so slightly.
It didn't say turn here, but it didn't have to.
They always did. This time it was a man, mid 30s,

(03:16):
maybe older, maybe younger. Hard to tell when someone's been
hollowing. He was trying to take the long
way home, that's what he'd say later said.
The sun was low, the trees were gold, and his thoughts were too
loud for the highway. So when the narrow Rd. appeared,

(03:38):
he turned. Didn't think, just turned.
The first thing he noticed was the quiet.
Not peaceful quiet. Charged quiet.
Like the sound had been sucked out of the air, replaced by
something denser. Pressure.
Then came the crows, not above them, beside him, sitting low on

(04:04):
fence posts, one after another, silent, unblinking, like
sentries, like witnesses. And then the mile marker.
They didn't have a number, no distance, no direction.
Just two words. You left.

(04:28):
That was the first time he should have turned back, but he
didn't, because once the road has you, it doesn't let go so
easily. The road narrowed wider than a
footpath, thinner than a lane. The trees leaned in like
eavesdroppers. Their branches began to knit
above him, stitching a ceiling from the dead limbs of forgotten

(04:52):
seasons. And that's when he saw it.
A booth. Not modern, not rustic, just
wrong, out of place and a way that made the back of his neck
tighten. It sat crooked at the edge of
the woods, a wooden structure barely the size of a closet,

(05:13):
with windows too small and a door too narrow, as if it had
been built for someone who neverstood upright.
No lights, no signs, no arm to raise, but it was unmistakably A
tollbooth, and inside something SAT, or someone.

(05:36):
He slowed, pulled the car besideit.
The engine idled. The figure inside didn't move,
didn't look up, just raised one pal hand.
Slowly, like smoke rising, He rolled the window down.

(05:56):
The air that came in was colder than it should have been.
He forced a chuckle. What's the fee?
The figure tilted its head. Its face was hard to see, but
the skin had the wrong texture. Not flesh, not even wax.

(06:17):
Something in between, like memory, trying to wear a mask.
And then it spoke, but not with sound.
The words arrived. Not in his ears, in his skull,
centered still, like a thought not his own.
You. Brought something with.

(06:40):
You it said something. Borrowed something broken you
may not hear. Both.
The man blinked. What do you mean?
But the booth was empty, gone. So was the figure, so was the
sound of his car. Only the trees remained, and he

(07:03):
was moving again, already driving, already further down
the road. He looked to the passenger seat,
empty except for a box, old wooden, carved with twisting
vines, a slit in the top, like it had once held something

(07:26):
sacred or dangerous or both. It was slightly open, and from
inside a scent escaped, faint, familiar, like the smell of rain
on childhood bed sheets, like the breath of a ghost.
You used to love something in him new.

(07:50):
That box held everything he thought he needed to keep, but
should have left behind. Memories, regrets, faces, old
wounds he still wore like metals.
He reached for it, but the box pulsed just once and his hand
froze. That was the second time he

(08:12):
should have turned back, but theroad whispered just.
A little further. He didn't remember the drive,
only the arrival. The forest had thickened into
something ancient, not just trees, but presence, like the

(08:34):
bones of the earth were pressingin the road, curved sharply,
then stopped or dissolved. It was hard to tell.
Ahead, the mist had teeth. He turned off the ignition, but
the key made no sound, no click,no hum, no resistance.
He stepped out. Crunch of gravel under foot,

(08:57):
cold air sharper than it should be.
And then the realization he wasn't alone.
They stood just beyond the tree line, still as statues.
Tall, thin, wrapped in garments that shimmered wrong, too
formal, too old, too new, like they belong to a future that had

(09:23):
already failed. Eyes, dozens, some glowing
faintly like dying stars, othersjust voids.
Not hostile, not welcoming, justwitnessing.
He moved one step forward. Their heads turned with him.
Not slowly, not fast. Just precisely like owls, like

(09:50):
cameras. No breathing, no blinking, no
sound. Only attention.
The kind that weighs more than it should.
The kind that remembers. Then one of them raised a hand
and pointed. Not at him, at the car.

(10:12):
He turned and froze. The box was gone, passenger seat
empty, but so was his reflectionin the window.
Someone else sat behind the wheel.
Not someone else, exactly. Him, only not older, emptier

(10:32):
eyes, dull skin thinner. A version of him stripped of
something essential. It didn't move, didn't speak,
just sat there behind the glass that no longer held a
reflection. Then it smiled, and in that

(10:52):
smile he understood. The road had never asked for a
destination, only a cost. He staggered back, breath caught
in his throat. You may not carry both.
The toll keeper had said. Something bald, something
broken. He reached into his coat pocket,

(11:17):
a key, not to his car, to something else, something
further, something ahead. He looked to the watchers.
They didn't stop him, They didn't move.
They simply saw as he stepped past the car, past the copy of

(11:40):
himself, past the point where any return was real, and into
the mist, which now curled with purpose like a door remembering
how to open. The mist parted, not as fog

(12:00):
does, but like a curtain pulled from within, and the path ahead
was no longer a road. It was a forest, but not
wilderness. It was familiar, he knew that
tree, that bend, that stone withthe crack like a lightning bolt.
Only he didn't, not quite, because this wasn't his memory.

(12:25):
It was memory adjacent, close enough to ache, but just far
enough to feel wrong. He walked anyway.
The path was narrower here, as if resisting him.
His coat snagged on brambles that hadn't been there.
Voices flickered between branches, Laughs, cries,

(12:48):
whispers he once knew but couldn't place.
A child's giggle, a mother's sigh.
His own name said by someone long dead.
Then clearing at its center. A house, modest, faded, old

(13:09):
enough to matter. It looked like the one his
grandfather built, but different.
The porch sagged in a way it hadn't.
A bicycle lay tipped in the grass, rusted, forgotten.
The curtains were drawn, except for one.
And in that window, a girl, no older than 10, red sweater, bare

(13:33):
feet, eyes wide with knowing. She looked at him.
The way mirrors look when you'renot ready to see.
He stepped closer. The front door creaked open.
Inside, the house breathed. It wasn't haunted.

(13:54):
It was haunted with him. Pictures lined the walls, except
the faces were blank outlines, blurs.
A life lived without him. Perhaps because he never showed
up in the kitchen. The box sat on the table, closed
now, tightly wrapped in a red ribbon.

(14:18):
He reached for it, but before his hand could touch it, she
spoke from the doorway behind him.
You never said goodbye. He turned.
Wasn't the girl, was the woman she became.
Same eyes, same voice, decades older, A life weathered and

(14:39):
somehow still waiting. He opened his mouth.
No sound came, only a feeling, the cold weight of all the words
he had never spoken, the chancesnot taken, the love not given,
the self not forgiven. She stepped back, and behind her

(15:00):
the doorway filled with light. Not warm light, not cruel.
Revealing. It showed him everything.
Not as it was, as it could have been. 1000 tiny choices, the
road not taken, the kindness withheld, the truth avoided.

(15:24):
The man behind the wheel, the box on the seat, the watchers in
the woods, They were all him. The toll keeper's words echoed
now with weight. You.
May not carry both. He'd carried his wounds like
inheritance, his regrets like proof, his borrowed identities

(15:49):
like armor. But the broken.
The broken was his, and he had to choose.
He stood in the doorway, 1 foot in the past, one in the present,
the future. A hallway without doors behind
him, the box ahead, the light. But something had changed, not

(16:12):
around him, within. He reached into his coat one
last time. The key was gone.
Only ash remained, cool, soft, like the kind left after burning
old letters. He looked back at the table.
The ribbon on the box had unraveled, the lid now open

(16:37):
inside, Nothing. Not emptiness, but release.
Everything he thought he needed to carry had let go of him.
The Watchers hadn't lied. The toll had already been paid.
In grief and silence and time, he turned toward the light and

(16:57):
stepped through. Some say he never returned.
Others say he did but wasn't quite the same.

(17:21):
He laughed more, but he didn't smile as often.
He spoke less, but meant more. He drove different roads but
never forgot that turn. And when others came to their
own crooked signs, when their paths split or their lives broke
or truth burned, he listened. He never told them where the

(17:43):
road was, only that it finds youwhen it's time.
And if you ever see a black painted sign with no words
leaning slightly at dusk, know this.
You won't find the road by searching, but it might find you
when you're ready to leave something behind.

(18:04):
Just be sure you know which partof yourself you're willing to
give up, because once you turn, you don't return the same.
Thank you for walking this road with me tonight.
I don't know what you brought with you, but I hope somewhere
between the trees and the toll, you left a little of it behind.

(18:27):
Not every haunting is a ghost. Not every path is meant to be
permanent. Sometimes the most powerful
journeys begin with getting lost.
So happy Halloween, and until next time, keep the Lantern lit.