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

Episode Transcript

(00:02):
Imagine a world teetering onthe edge of the familiar, a place
where the fabric of theeveryday begins to unravel, revealing
glimpses of the extraordinarylurking beneath.
You're about to embark on ajourney into the enigmatic, where
the peculiar and perplexingintertwine, where every tale twists
the mind and tugs at the spirit.

(00:25):
It's a descent into thestrange, the mysterious and and the
unexplained.
This is when reality frays.
New episodes are publishedevery Monday and Thursday, and when
Reality Phrase is availableeverywhere, fine podcasts are found.
Before we move on, please takea moment to hit that Follow or Subscribe

(00:48):
button and turn on allreminders so you are alerted when
new episodes are released.
Today's episode contains two stories.
First up is Flight 401, thestory of the crew of a doomed airliner
whose duty didn't end justbecause they were dead.

(01:09):
And the second story of theday is the Shadow in the Kirkyard,
a tale of haunting that leavesa skeptic with no answers.
Thank you for listening.
Now lets get to the stories.
Eastern Airlines Flight 401, amarvel of modern engineering, a chariot

(01:32):
of the skies bound for Miamion a cold December night in 1972.
Its passengers dream of sunlitbeaches, its crew of routine landings.
But tonight the flight planveers off course.
What begins as a tale of humanerror soon drifts into something
stranger, something that lingers.

(01:53):
For in the vast whisperingswamp, there is a blurry line between
the living and the lost.
This is the story of the nightof chaos.
December 29, 1972 EasternAirlines Flight 401 takes off from
JFK in New York at 9:20pm Itsthree Rolls Royce engines purring

(02:16):
as it climbs into the winter sky.
The passenger manifest is across section of America families
heading to Miami for NewYear's, retirees escaping the cold,
a few business travelersnursing cocktails in first class.
The cabin buzzes withanticipation as stewardess Patricia

(02:36):
Pat, Georgia banters withpassengers while Mercedes Ruiz adjusts
tray tables with practiced grace.
In the cockpit, Captain BobLoft sips coffee, his gravelly voice
steady as he chats with BertStock, still about the Dolphins recent
Super bowl run.
Don Repo, hunched over hisengineering panel, is running diagnostics

(02:59):
with the focus of a surgeon.
The Lockheed L1011 TriStar wasEastern's pride, a $20 million behemoth
designed to outshine Boeing's 747.
Its widebody cabin offeredplush seats and a whisper quiet ride
thanks to those Rolls Roycehigh bypass engines.

(03:20):
The cockpit bristled withinnovation, an advanced autopilot,
digital displays and a flightengineer's station that Repo treated
like a second home deliveredin August 1972.
She had logged only 502 hours,practically a newborn in aviation
terms.
The Trouble began at 11:32pm18 miles west of Miami International

(03:46):
Airport.
Loft lowered the landing gearand the main gear lights glowed green,
but the nose gear indicatorstayed dark.
Stock still assumed the bulbwas out again.
Muttering and tapping thepanel, Loft, a stickler for procedure,
ordered a go around, climbingto 2,000ft to troubleshoot.

(04:06):
Repo popped the avionics bayhatch, his flashlight beam dancing
over the gear mechanism whileStock still swapped the bulb.
Still no light.
Must be the socket, loft said,frustration creeping in.
The trio's focus tightened,tunnel vision setting in.
At 11:41pm Miami Approachqueried their altitude.

(04:30):
We're at 2,000, Loft replied,which was what the autopilot was
set at.
But the altimeter told adifferent story.
900ft and dropping.
The autopilot, accidentallynudged off by Loft's elbow, had ceded
control, and the Evergladesflat, featureless expanse offered
no horizon to betray the descent.

(04:52):
A low altitude warningchirped, but Stock still silenced
it, assuming a glitch.
Seconds later, at 11:42pm TheTriStar's left wing grazed the swamp,
and 164 tons of metal toreapart in a fireball of jet fuel and
mud.
The impact was apocalyptic.

(05:13):
The cockpit sheared off,killing Loft and Stock still instantly,
Repo, trapped in the avionicsbay, was flung into the wreckage
alive but mortally wounded.
The fuselage split like acracked egg, the ejecting passengers
into the waist deep water.
Seats became shrapnel.
Luggage rained down.

(05:34):
Survivor Ron Infantino, anewlywed, clung to his seat as his
wife, Lily, vanished into the dark.
He'd later find her body 50yards away.
Beverly Raposa, a flightattendant, rallied survivors in a
pocket of the tail section,her voice cutting through the panic.
Stay together.
Help's coming.

(05:56):
Help first arrived in the formof Robert Bud Marcus, a grizzled
airborne operator huntingfrogs nearby.
He spent hours ferryingsurvivors, some screaming, some eerily
silent, to safety.
Helicopters and Coast Guardboats followed, battling alligators
in the swamp's sucking mire.

(06:17):
By dawn, 75 survivors emergedfrom the carnage.
Their story's a mix of luckand horror.
A mother shielding her infant.
A man floating on a seat cushion.
A child begging for her lost doll.
The 75 who lived carriedscars, physical and otherwise.
Ron Infantino, haunted byLily's death, became a recluse, later

(06:42):
telling Reporters that heheard the engines every night.
Beverly Raposa was hailed ahero as and returned to flying, but
admitted the nightmares ofsinking into black water.
Angelo Donnadeo, a passengerwho'd been reading a magazine when
the plane hit, lost a leg butgained a grim resolve, later advocating

(07:03):
for aviation safety reforms.
Repo lingered in the hospitalfor a day, whispering to nurses about
fixing the gear beforesuccumbing, a detail that would echo
in the hauntings to come.
The Everglades crash sitebecame a macabre tabloo.
Recovery crews waded throughchest deep muck, retrieving bodies

(07:26):
and wreckage under the buzz ofmosquitoes and the watchful eye of
gators.
The L1011's sleek frame wasreduced to twisted aluminum, its
Rolls Royce engines halfsubmerged like fallen titans.
Eastern salvaged what theycould galley ovens, cockpit gauges,
even the oxygen masks,reinstalling them in sister ships

(07:48):
in their fleet.
It was cost effective, but itsowed the seeds of something uncanny.
The L1011 wasn't just a plane,it was a statement.
Lockheed had poured $1 billioninto its development, aiming to rival
Boeing and McDonnell Douglas.
Its triple engine designbalanced power and efficiency, while

(08:10):
the autopilot could land theplane in zero visibility, a feature
that ironically failed Flight401's crew when human error intervened.
Repo, a mechanic at heart,loved its complexity.
He had once bragged tocolleagues about knowing every bolt.
That intimacy, some laterspeculated, might have tethered his

(08:32):
spirit to the salvaged parts.
The Everglades added its ownlayer of mystique, a vast, primordial
wetland.
It's long been a place oflegend, tales of lost souls, pirate
hideouts and unexplainedlights flickering over the sawgrass.
The crash site, near theTamiami Trail, sat in a liminal zone

(08:54):
where civilization frays into wilderness.
Parapsychologists later musedthat this thin place amplified the
tragedy's psychic residue,giving Loft and Repo's restless energy
a stage.
In the spring of 1973, thewhispers began.
A stewardess on an EasternAirlines flight saw Repo's face in

(09:17):
an oven door, his voicewarning of fire.
Hours later, a short circuitsparked in that galley.
A pilot on a Red Eye flightspotted Loft in the jump seat, his
uniform pristine, only toblink and find it empty.
Passengers reported a man in acaptain's hat pacing the aisle, vanishing

(09:38):
mid step.
One chilling incident involveda flight engineer who swore Repo
materialized during a preflight check, saying, I've got the
hydraulics covered before fading.
Maintenance later found a leakin the plane's hydraulics that could
have caused a catastrophic failure.
These sightings weren't random.

(10:00):
They were confined to planeswith Flight 401 parts, often in moments
of mechanical stress.
A Miami to LA flight divertedafter Repo appeared to a co pilot,
warning of engine trouble.
A post landing check confirmeda failing turbine.
Crews who'd known Loft andRepo recognized their mannerisms,

(10:22):
Loft's slow nod and Repo'ssquinting focus lending credibility
to the tales.
Over 20 incidents weredocumented in Eastern's logbooks,
though most vanished undermanagement's orders.
One flight attendant,anonymously quoted, said, it's like
they're still on duty watchingover us.

(10:43):
Frank Borman, Eastern's CEO,saw it as a threat to the airline's
image.
A former Apollo astronaut whohad orbited the moon, he had no patience
for ghost garbage.
He grounded talkative pilots,sent others to shrinks, and scrubbed
records.
Yet the stories leaked, fueledby a workforce still grieving their

(11:04):
lost colleagues.
But the reports continueduntil, out of frustration, Borman
ordered all parts salvagedfrom Flight 401 removed from service.
As maintenance crews removedthe final few pieces, the reports
stopped, and there have beenno further sightings to this day.
The L1011, though a commercialflop for Lockheed, flew on with other

(11:27):
airlines, its designinfluencing later jets.
Eastern, battered by the PRhit and rising cost, folded in 1991.
The Everglades site remainshallowed ground.
A plaque marks the spot whereFlight 401 came to rest, and airboat
guides embellish the tale for tourists.

(11:48):
Some claim to have seen lightshovering over the swamp at that location
on moonless nights.
In the end, Flight 401 is atapestry of human error, mechanical
marvel and unexplained echoes.
Loft and Repo, tethered totheir craft and life, seemed to guard
it in death, sentinels of amachine they couldn't save in a swamp

(12:11):
that swallowed their final flight.
Whether grief, guilt orsomething beyond science drove the
hauntings, their story lingerswhere reality frays.
Today's second story is theShadow in the Kirkyard, a young woman

(12:32):
named Isla Cameron, a studentof history, a collector of the past's
cold facts.
Armed with a pen and askepticism as sharp as a winter wind.
She walks the cobblestones ofEdinburgh, a city where the line
between yesterday and todayblurs like ink on a damp paper.
Tonight she steps intoGreyfriars Kirkyard, a place where

(12:55):
the dead are said to linger,restless and resentful, under the
watchful eye of a judge whonever learned to rest Isla seeks
the thrill of the unknown, abrush with the shadow she's dismissed
as myth.
But in this corner of theworld where stone and spirit hold
court, she's about to discoverthat some claims whispered in the

(13:17):
dark reach beyond the grave.
Welcome to a tale of curiosityand consequence unfolding in a realm
where reality frays.
This is the story of theshadow in the Kirkyard.
Isla Cameron grew up chasingghosts she didn't believe in.

(13:38):
Raised in a crumbling tenementin Glasgow, she had spent her childhood
listening to her gran's talesof banshees and kelpies, her skepticism
sharpening with every dramatic flourish.
Now at 21, a third yearhistory student at the University
of Edinburgh, she channeledthat fascination into academia, dissecting

(13:58):
the past with a cool,analytical eye.
Her focus was the 17th centurywitch hunts, rebellions and figures
like George Bloody Mackenzie,the judge whose name stained Scotland's
history with the blood of the conventors.
She had written essays on histrials, but it was the whispers beyond
the textbooks, tales of hisrestless spirit haunting Greyfriars

(14:23):
Kirkyard that drew her like amoth to a flame.
On October 31, 2003, Halloweendraped Edinburgh in a festive shroud
of fog and lantern glow.
Isla had been cooped up in thelibrary all week, hunched over microfiche
of old court records, her neckstiff and her mind buzzing.

(14:44):
The midnight tour ofGreyfriars, led by local guide Colin
Grant, was a perfect escape, achance to stretch her legs and test
the poltergeist rumors she hadscoffed at in seminar debates.
She didn't expect to see anything.
She just wanted to feel theweight of history under her boots.
Tugging on a wool scarf andgrabbing her leather journal, a battered

(15:08):
keepsake from her gran, sheheaded out into the city's mist,
slicked cobblestone streets.
Greyfriars Kirkyard sprawledlike a forgotten kingdom, its headstones
tilting under centuries ofrain and neglect.
Gnarled trees clawed at thesky, their branches bare and trembling
in the wind.

(15:28):
The air carried a damp, earthybite laced with something sharper.
Iron, perhaps, or the ghost ofold blood.
Isla joined the tour groupnear the kirk's gothic spire, a dozen
strangers bundled in coats,their faces lit by the jittery glow
of Collins Torch.
He was a wiry figure, 50s,with a grizzled beard and a voice

(15:52):
rough as the stones underfoot.
Welcome to the land of therestless, he said, grinning.
Keep close and don't rile the residents.
Some've got tempers yet.
Colin wove a vivid thread asthey moved through the kirkyard,
past graves etched with skullsand hourglasses.
He lingered at the Coventersprison, a walled off patch where

(16:14):
Mackenzie had condemnedhundreds of Presbyterian rebels to
rot.
Wrought in 1678.
Iron bars gleamed dully in thetorchlight, and beyond them loomed
the Judge's mausoleum, a squatblack dome of stone, its surface
pocked by time but unyielding.
Since 98, Collins said, histone dropping.

(16:37):
When a lad broke into thattomb, things have stirred.
Scratches out of nowhere.
Bruises like he's stilljudging us folk.
Faint scream.
Hundreds have felt him.
They call him the Mackenzie Poltergeist.
Isla scribbled in her journal,her pen scratching against the page.
The group shifted, somechuckling nervously, others peering

(17:00):
into the dark.
She felt a prickle on her neck.
Not fear, just the wind, shetold herself.
It howled, rattling the trees,and a metallic tang curled in her
throat.
Throat.
Collin unlocked the prisongate with a rusty clank, ushering
them inside.
No wonderin'he, warned, hiseyes flicking to Isla's notebook.

(17:23):
He doesn't like scribblers.
Pokin about.
The group pressed forward,their torch beams slicing through
the fog.
Isla lingered near the gate,her gaze snagging on the mausoleum.
Its door was cracked, a thindark slit she had no noticed in daylight
photos from her research.
It wasn't wide enough toenter, but it pulsed with shadow,

(17:46):
deeper than the night around it.
Curiosity tugged at her,sharper than caution.
She stepped closer, gravelcrunching beneath her boots, and
pulled out her pen to sketchthe tomb's outline.
The wind stilled and thekirkyard fell silent.
Too silent.
The kind of hush that presseson your ears.

(18:07):
A sharp sting sliced acrossher forearm.
She yelped, dropping the pin,and yanked up her sleeve.
Three red scratches welled upon her skin, shallow but fresh, like
claw marks from an invisible hand.
What the hell?
She muttered, spinning around.
The group was ahead, theirvoices a faint murmur.

(18:29):
No thorns, no jagged edges.
Just empty air.
Her pulse thudded, but sheforced a shaky laugh.
Snagged something, she saidaloud, rubbing the marks.
They didn't fade.
They darkened, edges curling red.
The air thickened, turningunnaturally cold.
Her breath puffed in front ofher, a white cloud of condensation

(18:53):
in a night that had been mildonly moments ago.
A low rumble seeped from thetomb like stones grinding deep underground,
and sharpened into a whisper.
Leave.
It wasn't just sound.
It vibrated in her skull,harsh and commanding, a voice that
didn't belong to the wind orher imagination.

(19:15):
Her journal slipped from herhands, thudding to the gravel.
The pages fluttered open andshe watched, heart watching as the
ink of her sketch smeared,streaking as if dragged by an unseen
finger.
Panic clawed at her chest, butshe stamped it down.
Get it together, Isla, shehissed, bending to snatch the journal.

(19:37):
As she straightened, the coldsank deeper, numbing her fingers.
The scratches on her armburned a slow, spreading fire.
Something flickered at theedge of her vision, a tall, cloaked
shadow by the mausoleum.
It didn't sway or shift with a torchlight.
It stood solid and still, itsedges bleeding into the dark.

(19:59):
She felt its gaze, heavy as ahand on her throat, and her breath
hitched.
Her legs locked.
She willed them to move, torun, but they felt rooted, the ground
gripping her boots.
The whisper came again,louder, angrier.
Mine.
It wasn't a plea.

(20:19):
It was.
It was a claim, a decreeetched into the air itself.
The shadow twitched and a waveof nausea rolled through her.
She stumbled, knees buckling,and crashed to the gravel.
Pain flared through her shins,sharp and bruising, but worse were
the new scratches, three moreslicing across her neck, hot and

(20:40):
precise.
She clawed at her scarf,gasping, her fingers brushing raised
welts that pulsed with heat.
Colin.
She shouted, her voice cracking.
The group was too far, theirlights swallowed by fog.
The shadow loomed closer, notwalking, not gliding, just there,
inches away.

(21:02):
Its shape sharpened, a man inthe judge's robe, face obscured but
eyes glinting like wet stoneunder a hood of darkness.
The metallic smell choked her,thick and cloying, and the word mine
roared again, rattling herteeth, her bones.
She saw it then, a gavel inits hand, spectral and cracked, raised

(21:25):
as if to strike.
Adrenaline surged, snappingher free.
She scrambled up, ignoring theache in her legs, and bolted toward
the group.
The air resisted, thick asmolasses, but she pushed through,
her breath sobbing in her throat.
Throat.
When she reached them, Collinwas mid story, gesturing at a headstone.

(21:46):
He stopped as she staggeredinto the circle, scarf dangling,
sleeve torn, neck scratched raw.
Lass, what's happened?
He asked, grabbing her arm.
The group crowded in, somegaping, others stepping back, their
torchlight trembling.
Scratches, she stammered,showing her arms, her neck.

(22:08):
A voice and a figure by the tomb.
It saw me.
Her words spilled out, jaggedand breathless.
Collins face tightened, historch flicking toward the mausoleum.
Mackenzie, he said, voice flat.
He's taken a shine to ye.
Out now.
All of ye.
He herded them toward thegate, his usual swagger replaced

(22:31):
by a grim urgency.
Isla glanced back as they fled.
The shadow was gone, but thetomb's cracked door seemed wider,
a maw grinning in the dark,back in her cramped flat near Grassmarket.
Isma locked the door and sankonto her bed, still in her coat.
The scratches faded bymorning, leaving faint pink lines,

(22:54):
but her knees bore deep purplebruises, tender and sprawling.
Her journal sat on the desk,unopened until dawn.
When she flipped to thesmeared page, her sketch was a mess,
and beneath it, in jaggedscript, not her own, was the word
mine.
She slammed it shut, her handsshaking, and shoved it into a drawer.

(23:17):
Sleep became a stranger.
The flat, once cozy with itsmismatched furniture and stacks of
books, felt too still, too watchful.
Nights brought chills,unseasonable drafts that snaked under
the door.
Though the windows weresealed, she would wake, heart pounding,
checking her arms, her neck.

(23:39):
No new marks, but the memoryof that burning sting clung like
a damp rot.
Once drifting off, she heardit, a whisper, faint but close.
Mine.
It brushed her ear, cold as afinger, and she bolted upright, fumbling
for the light.
The room was empty, but theair hummed with something she couldn't

(24:02):
name.
Weeks passed and she avoidedthe kirkyard, taking longer routes
to class.
Her friends, cheery mates fromthe history department, noticed her
jumpiness, the way sheflinched at sudden noises.
Too much coffee was herexcuse, and she'd force a grin.
She didn't tell them aboutthat night.

(24:23):
The shadow, the words scrawledin her journal.
How could she explain apresence that didn't just haunt a
place but seemed to claim her too?
Her grades slipped, her dreamsfilled with gravel and gavel blows
in December.
Sorting through a box ofnotes, notes, she found a photo from
the tour, snapped by a touristshe barely remembered.

(24:46):
The group stood near theprison gate, smiling awkwardly, but
in the background by themausoleum was a blur.
Tall, cloaked, faceless.
It wasn't a trick of light.
It stood apart, too sharp fora smudge.
Isla stared, her stomachtwisting, then carried it to the
kitchen.
She lit a match, watching theflames curl around the shadow she

(25:10):
couldn't unsee.
The smoke stung her eyes, butas it cleared, she felt the scratches
on her neck flare, briefly,faintly, like a parting touch.
Spring came and Isla movedflats, leaving the journal behind
in a drawer she never reopened.
She graduated, took a job inGlasgow, and buried herself in one

(25:32):
work.
The kirkyard faded to a storyshe told at pubs, polished into a
laugh until someone asked,ever go back?
Her smile would falter andshe'd shake her head because sometimes
on quiet nights, she'd catchthat metallic tang in the air, feel
a chill no heater could chase,and wonder if Mackenzie's claim had

(25:55):
followed her after all.
And so Isla Cameron steps backinto the light of the everyday world
her journal abandoned herskepticism bruised and her skin marked
by scratches that fade butnever fully vanish.
She sought the past inGreyfriars Kirkyard, a scholar chasing
shadows she could measure andcatalog, only to find a shadow that

(26:19):
measured her in return.
George MacKenzie, a judgewhose gavel fell silent centuries
ago, yet whose verdict stillechoes in the cold stone and colder
air.
Was it a spirit's claim, atrick of the mind?
Or something older still, areminder that some places keep their
tenants long after the leaseof life expires?

(26:47):
The stories presented areinspired by true events.
Names may have been changedfor privacy reasons.
New episodes of When RealityFreys are uploaded every Monday and
Thursday.
If you're enjoying the journeyinto the strange, the mysterious
and the unexplained, be sureto press that Follow or Subscribe
button and turn on allreminders so you're alerted whenever

(27:10):
an episode drops.
Until next time, thank you forlistening to When Reality Frays.