April 28, 2025 • 30 mins
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This episode delves into the unsettling narratives that emerge when the boundaries of reality begin to dissolve. We present two chilling tales that illustrate the fragility of the familiar and the lurking dread of the unknown. The first story, "The Whispering Wood," recounts the harrowing experience of the Miller family, who unwittingly bring home a cursed set of bunk beds, leading to a series of inexplicable events that unravel their lives. The second tale, "The Hollow Field," explores the mysterious disappearance of Orion Williamson, a farmer who vanishes without a trace, leaving his family and community in a state of bewilderment and fear. Through these narratives, we examine the themes of possession, loss, and the eerie intersections between the natural and supernatural, compelling us to ponder what lies beyond the veil of our everyday existence.
Takeaways:
- The podcast explores the disintegration of reality through captivating narratives that intertwine the extraordinary with the mundane.
- A family’s journey into their new home reveals unsettling secrets hidden within a seemingly innocent set of bunk beds.
- The episode features stories that illustrate how commonplace objects can harbor malevolent forces, leading to unforeseen consequences.
- Listeners are encouraged to engage with the stories by following and subscribing for future episodes that delve into similar themes of mystery.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
(00:03):
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 a journey into theenigmatic, where the peculiar and
the perplexing intertwine,where every tale twists the mind
and tugs at the spirit. It's adescent into the strange, the mysterious
(00:27):
and and the unexplained. Thisis when reality frays. New episodes
are published every Monday andThursday, and when Reality Phrase
is available everywhere, findpodcasts are found. Before we move
on, please hit that Follow orSubscribe button and turn on all
(00:50):
reminders so you are alertedwhen new episodes are released. Today's
episode contains two stories.First up is the Whispering Wood,
a warning that even the mostinnocuous of objects can carry a
curse. And the second story ofthe day is the Hollow Field, about
(01:12):
the impossible vanishing of aman in broad daylight. Now let's
get to the stories. The Millerfamily, Tom, Ellen, Jacob and Sara.
Ordinary folk seeking refugein the quiet embrace of Horicon,
Wisconsin. A new home, a freshstart, and a bargain too good to
(01:35):
pass up. A set of oak bunkbeds carved from the past and polished
with promise. But in the grainof that wood lies a secret older
than the town itself,whispering through the slats, waiting
for a family to claim. Let'sunlock a door not to a house on Larrabee
street, but to a place wherethe familiar turns feral, where the
(01:58):
things we own begin to own us.Welcome to that place where reality
frays. This is the story ofthe whispering wood. Horicon, Wisconsin,
in the fading days of 1986,was a town stitched together by frostbitten
fields and the low rumble ofthe John Deere plant. The Miller
(02:22):
family rolled in that October,their belongings rattling in a U
haul behind Tom's rusted Fordpickup. Tom Miller, 34, was a lean
mechanic with calloused handsand a quiet grit, his hazel eyes
creased from years ofsquinting in engine bays. Ellen,
32, carried a softer strength.Her auburn hair was tied back as
(02:46):
she unpacked boxes, her voicelilting with hope for a fresh start.
Their kids, Jacob, 8, with atangle of brown curls and a stubborn
streak that matched hisfather's. And Sarah, six, slight
and watchful, her hazel eyesmirroring her mother's, trudged through
the move with a sullenness ofuprooting kids. They'd left Oshkosh
(03:11):
behind a city of familiarstreets and a backyard tire swing
for this squat ranch house onLarrabee Street. They'd bought it
cheap from a farmer namedPurvis Pritchard, who had traded
it for a trailer after hiswife's death. The house was a patchwork
of promise and neglect,peeling paint, a sagging front porch,
(03:31):
and a basement that exhaledthe scent of damp earth and mist
mildew. Through its crackedconcrete walls, Tom saw a project,
a chance to build somethingstable. Ellen envisioned a garden,
outback hollyhocks andmarigolds to rival her mother's prized
beds in Fond du Lac. ByChristmas they'd settled in the living
(03:53):
room, warmed by a secondhandcouch and a wood stove Tom rigged
himself. The kids shared asmall upstairs bedroom with slanted
ceilings, its walls bare, butEllen had promised to paint them
come spring. On a bitterFebruary day in 1987, Tom stopped
by Hank's Secondhand on MainStreet, a cluttered shop where dust
(04:16):
motes danced in the weaklight. There, amid chipped china
and moth eaten coats, stood aset of oak bunk beds, sturdy hand
carved, their varnish catchingthe glow of a bare bulb. Amos Hank,
the shopkeeper, was a stoopedfigure with a tobacco stained beard
and a voice like a rustedhinge. Came from an estate sale up
(04:39):
near Fond du Lac, he said,running a gnarled hand along the
frame. Old farm stuff. Goodoak. Solid as they come. Tom, always
hunting a deal, handed over 80bucks, wrestled the disassembled
slats and rails into histruck, and drove home through a swirl
of snow. That night he andEllen pieced the beds together in
(05:01):
the basement. The kidsscampered around Jacob, testing the
ladder's rungs, while Sarahgiggled and clutched her stuffed
rabbit. Mr. Whiskers. Thebunks stayed downstairs through the
thaw of March and April, thebasement their temporary home, while
Ellen scrubbed the upstairsroom, queen of years of grime by
(05:22):
May, with the walls painted acheery yellow and the windows thrown
open to spring air, Tom hauledthe beds up the narrow staircase,
their weight gouging the pinesteps. Jacob claimed the top bunk
with a triumphant leap,declaring it his pirate ship, while
Sara settled below, her rabbittucked under her chin. Ellen smoothed
(05:44):
their blankets. No moremoving, she said. This is home. The
first night was unremarkable.Jacob's whispered tales of Blackbeard
faded into snores, acounterpoint to Sarah's soft breathing
below. But at breakfast, Jacobslunk into the kitchen, pale beneath
his freckles. The radio turnedon. Last night, he replied when Ellen
(06:09):
asked if he felt okay byitself. Kept flipping, turn, talk,
then music, then static, loudand soft, like someone was messing
with it. Sarah said nothing,her spoon tracing slow circles in
her oatmeal, her eyes dartingto the hallway. Tom frowned and trudged
upstairs to check the Zenithclock radio, a relic from Ellen's
(06:32):
parents with a dial thatstuck. The plug was snug, the power
switch off. Finding noimmediate explanation, he yanked
the cord from the outlet.Three nights later, Ellen found Sarah
trembling by the bedroom door,her nightgown twisted, her bare feet
cold against the floorboards.There's a lady, she whispered, barely
(06:55):
audible over the hum ofcrickets. She's got red eyes and
stands by the bunks. Shedoesn't talk, just looks at me. Ellen's
chest tightened and she knelt,brushing Sarah's hair back. A nightmare,
baby. Jacob's pirate storiesare getting to you. She coaxed her
back to bed, but as sheflicked off the light, a faint tapping,
(07:17):
like fingernails on wood,echoed from the bunks. She paused,
heart thudding, then switchedthe lights back on. Jacob was sprawled
asleep. Sarah's rabbit peekedfrom the covers. The tapping was
gone, but the air hung heavyand humid, like a storm trapped indoors.
(07:38):
June rolled in with stickyheat, and the house grew restless.
Doors slammed shut on stilldays, as if shoved by unseen hands.
The kitchen radio, a sleekPanasonic Tom had splurged on at
Sears, crackled to life at oddhours, spitting static and snatches
of gospel hymns or farmreports before cutting out. Jacob
(08:02):
swore he saw the bunk laddertremble one night, its rungs quivering
like a plucked string. ThoughSarah slept below, her breathing
steady, Ellen began findingmarks on the kids arms thin red lines
too neat for playtime scrapes,and the kids couldn't explain how
they had happened. By July,the unease was a palpable thing in
(08:24):
the house. Ellen's sewingmachine gathered dust, her hands
too shaky to thread a needle,and the garden plot out back was
a tangle of weeds. Tom begansleeping on the kid's floor. A sleeping
bag unrolled beside aLouisville Slugger he'd dug out of
the basement. He couldn't saywhat he'd swing at, just that the
(08:44):
house felt wrong. One muggynight he jolted awake to a fog seeping
across the room, gray, cold,curling like smoke from the bunk's
base. A voice rasped throughit, low and guttural, speaking a
language Tom had never heardbefore. It wasn't human, more like
(09:05):
wind through a broken pipe,sharp with menace. He stumbled out,
one frightened child beneatheach arm. Ellen was in the kitchen,
her face drained. I heard it,too, she whispered from the walls.
Like it's inside. The nextMorning they called Priest Dan Erickson
from St. Stephen's. A stockyman in his 50s with wire rimmed glasses,
(09:31):
he arrived with a worn Bible,a vial of holy water, and a calm
that felt out of place. Tomand Ellen escorted him to the kids
room but remained in the hall.Neither cared to enter. The air thickened
as Dan read from Psalms, hiswords steady and strong. He sprinkled
holy water on the bunks, andthe wood hissed a soft, angry sizzle
(09:54):
while the droplets beaded up,refusing to soak in. A faint scorch
mark bloomed on the top slat,like a burn from a cigarette. Dan's
brow furrowed, his glassesfogging slightly. There's something
here, he said, snapping hisBible shut. Something old and mad.
Those beds, I'd burn em if Iwere you. August stretched the family
(10:19):
thin. Tom picked up doubleshifts, his hands trembling as he
tightened bolts. Ellen stoppedleaving the house, her world shrinking
to the kids and the walls thatseemed to watch her. Jacob grew sullen,
snapping at Sarah when sheclung too close. Sarah stopped talking,
her eyes always wide and wary.In mid August, with Tom gone until
(10:43):
dawn, Ellen's brother Mikeoffered to stay over. He was a burly
trucker with a laugh like afoghorn and a disdain for spooky
nonsense. He sprawled on thecouch with a Miller High life, teasing
Jacob about his pirateobsession until midnight struck.
A scream tore from the kidsroom, Sarah's high and raw. Mike
(11:05):
bolted in and froze. A figureloomed by the monks, tall, shadowy,
its edges flickering like heatoff asphalt. Its eyes glowed red,
twin embers in a face thatwasn't there. Sarah huddled on the
floor, sobbing, her blankettangled around her. Get out. Mike
roared, lunging with fistsraised, but the shape melted into
(11:28):
the wall, leaving a scorchmark on the plaster, a jagged smear
that stunk of sulfur. Hegrabbed the kids, shouting for Ellen,
and they piled into his truck,tires squealing as they peeled out.
The house's lights pulsedbehind them, flickering like a taunting
heartbeat. They went toEllen's sister Linda's home in Beaver
(11:51):
Dam, a cramped one bedroom 20miles west. Linda, a nurse with a
smoker's rasp, brewed coffeeand listened as Mike recounted the
night. It wasn't human, hesaid, hands shaking as he lit a camel
like fire, and shadow mashedtogether those eyes. Jesus. The kids
(12:11):
slept fitfully on a pulloutcouch, Sarah whispering about the
lady, Jacob clutching aflashlight he refused to turn off.
Ellen stared out Linda'skitchen window, struggling to breathe.
Tom arrived home at 6am tofind the house silent, the air thick
with unnatural dampness. He'dhad enough with a can of kerosene
(12:34):
from the garage, a box ofmatches, and a fury born of a protective
father. He dragged the bunkbeds outside. Their weight gouged
the lawn into muddy scars.Neighbors peeked through their curtains
as he doused the wood, thefumes stinging his nose. He struck
the match and the flamesroared, fierce and unnatural, tinged
(12:57):
with a sickly green thatclawed at the sky. In the smoke he
swore he saw a figure, talland eyeless, its mouth a gaping slash,
writhing as the fire consumedthe beds. The heat drove him back,
singeing his eyebrows, but hedidn't move another step until the
figure was gone and the woodcrumbled to ash. He shoveled the
(13:21):
black, powdery remains into atrash bin and hauled it to the county
landfill, dumping it where thebulldozers would bury it deep under
red clay. Ellen, Sarah, andJacob never returned to the house.
Tom sold it in September to ayoung couple from Milwaukee and moved
his family back to Oshkosh. In1995 Jacob tracked down Amos Hanks
(13:45):
widow, Ruth, in a nursing homeoutside Horicon. She was frail, her
hands knotted with arthritis,but her memory was sharp. Those beds
came from the Dietrich placenear Fond du Lac, she said, voice
a dry whisper. Lydia Dietrichdied there in 22, alone, raving about
(14:06):
voices in the trees. Herhusband, Carl was a carpenter, built
him from an oak on their land.Big twisted thing. Lightning hit
it three times before he tookit down. Folks called it cursed,
said it screamed when the sawbit in. Carl didn't care. Kept working
till Lydia lost her mind. Amosnever liked selling those beds. Said
(14:29):
they felt heavy, wrong, likethey carried something. She paused,
eyes distant. And he burnedthe papers after you folks bought
em. Didn't want them tracedback. The Miller family has fled,
their homes sold, theirnightmare reduced to cinders and
buried beneath the weight ofprogress. The bunk beds, those silent
(14:52):
sentinels of oak, are gone,consigned to the landfill of memory
where the earth swallows whatman cannot explain. But listen closely
past the hum of machinery andthe rustle of leaves and you might
hear it still, an insistentpatient tapping, a reminder that
some things cannot be burnedaway when reality frays. Today's
(15:17):
second story is the hollowfield. Selma, Alabama, on a hot July
afternoon in 1854, a sleepytown of cotton fields and wood sided
homes where life unfolds slowand simple. Nothing here has changed
in a hundred years. A farmernamed Orion Williamson works his
(15:39):
land. He's a man tethered tothe ordinary, to the soil beneath
his feet, to the predictablerhythm of a life well understood.
But with a single step he isabout to defy the physical laws we
know and enter the world ofafraid reality. This is the story
of the hollow Field the sunhung hot and heavy in the sky over
(16:04):
the Williamson farm. It burnedlike a molten disk, bleeding golden
fire onto 32 year old OrionWilliamson's back as he toiled in
his field. Pausing in hislabors, he stood straight, removing
his work stained hat with aheavily calloused hand. Sparing a
glance at the inferno above,he sighed, mopped sweat from his
(16:25):
face with a brightly coloredrag, and clamped the hat back into
place. Before resuming work,he surveyed the field. It stretched
around him, a sea of greenrippling under a faint breeze that
did nothing to mitigate theoppressive humidity of an Alabama
summer. Visible in thedistance were the dark shapes of
(16:46):
his hogs rooting near the oaksthat framed his property. Orion was
a family man, taciturn,sturdy, and as rooted in the land
as the trees. His wife, Eliza,watched from the porch, her apron
dusted with flour while theirson Thomas chased a grasshopper at
her feet. Eliza called outthat supper would be ready soon,
(17:09):
receiving an acknowledgingwave and smile from Orion, which
she returned. On a dirt roadthat bordered the field, a horse
drawn buggy slowly rattledalong, its wheels kicking up dust.
Armor Wren, a broad shoulderedman with a graying beard, and his
teenage son James were aboard,returning from town with a load of
(17:31):
supplies for their neighboringfarm. Both waved at Orion and Armor
tipped his hat in Eliza'sdirection. Orion returned the friendly
greeting and turned to checkthe hogs. They loved the acorns that
littered the ground beneaththe massive oaks, and he'd already
repaired the fence twice afterthey'd torn through to reach the
(17:51):
untouched buffet on the farside. He grunted, knowing he had
to bring them back to the barnor they'd break out again and he'd
spend half the night chasingthem all over the county. Orion began
walking across the field withlong, determined strides, but he
never reached the hogs. Elizasaw it happen. One heartbeat he was
(18:14):
there, boots scuffing thegrass, shoulders squared. Then he
wasn't. No stumble, no cry, nobore of motion. Just gone. Her scream
split the air, sharp and raw,freezing. Thomas mid hop, his small
face crumpling in confusion.Armor yanked the reins, the horse
(18:35):
snorting as the buggy lurchedto a stop. James leapt to his feet
in the buggy, his eyes wide,scanning the field. Where'd he go?
Armor shouted. Scramblingdown, the four of them converged
on the spot, a patch of greenno different from the rest, save
for a faint flattening whereOrion's boots had pressed moments
(18:57):
before. Armor kicked at theearth, expecting a hole, a trapdoor,
something. But nothing. Jamesdropped to his knees, tentatively
touching the ground as helooked around in disbelief. Where
is he? James mutteredbreathlessly. Eliza's voice trembled.
I saw him vanish. Like. Likethe air took him. Armor straightened,
(19:22):
eyes wide with barelycontained fear. That ain't possible.
Men don't just disappear. Butthey had all seen it. Orion Williamson
was gone, and the field laysilent as if mocking them. Word spread
fast in Selma, carried onwhispers and hurried footsteps. By
(19:42):
dusk, the farm buzzed withneighbors. Men with lanterns and
shovels tramped across thefield, their shadows stretching long
and thin. Women clustered onthe porch, murmuring prayers, while
children peeked from behindskirts, half thrilled and half terrified.
Judge James J. McBride arrivedlast, his black coat pristine despite
(20:05):
the heat of the night, anotebook tucked under his arm. He
was a lean man, sharp eyed andmethodical, known for settling land
disputes with a cool head.Tell me exactly what you saw, Mrs.
Williamson, he said, pencilpoised. Eliza's hands twisted in
her apron. He was walkingright there. She pointed. And then
(20:28):
he wasn't. No sound, noNothing. Just gone. McBride frowned
and glanced at Armor. And you?Same as her, armor said gruffly.
Me and James was passing by.Saw him clear as day. Then he just
weren't there. Ain't no hole,no ditch. We looked. James nodded,
(20:48):
his voice quiet with fear.It's like he melted away, sir. McBride
paced the spot, tapping hisboot against the ground. It thudded
solid. He scribbled notes, hisbrow furrowing deeper with each line.
No sign of a struggle. Nofootprints running off. Nothing,
eliza whispered. Just hissteps. Then nothing. The judge called
(21:14):
for a broader search. Men dugtrenches, probed with poles, and
shouted Orion's name into thetwilight. A pair of bloodhounds arrived
that their handler tugging attheir leashes. The dogs sniffed the
flattened grass, circled once,then sat whining softly, their tails
tucked. The handler cursedunder his breath. Never seen em act
(21:37):
like this, he said. Bymidnight, exhaustion had set in.
The crowd thinned, leavingonly a few stragglers in the Williamson
family. Eliza sat on the porchsteps, Thomas asleep in her lap,
her eyes fixed on the field.Armor lingered nearby, his hat crumpled
in his hands. You think he'sdead? She asked quietly. Armor hesitated.
(22:03):
I don't know what to think,Eliza. This ain't natural. The next
morning, Selma buzzed at theGeneral store men swapped tails over
tobacco and coffee. Bandits,one said, snatched him quick and
quiet. Another scoffed inbroad daylight with witnesses. A
(22:23):
third, a wiry preacher, leanedin close. It's the Lord's work. A
rapture, maybe. Or a judgment.Maybe it's Judgment Day coming for
all of us. Back at the farm,Eliza stayed by the field, her gaze
hollow. Around noon, shestiffened, her head tilting as if
listening. Thomas, she saidsharply. Do you hear that? The boy
(22:47):
rubbed his eyes. Hear what,Ma? She ran into the field. It's
Orion. He's calling me. Thomasfollowed, watching, wide eyed as
she stopped at the spot wherehis father had vanished and pressed
her ear to the ground. I hearDaddy, too. Thomas shouted. They
both tore at the field withtheir bare hands. Orion. She shouted,
(23:11):
cawing frantically at thedirt. Eliza and Thomas dug until
their fingernails split andhands bled. Neighbors rushed over,
pulling them back, but Elizafought, sobbing. McBride arrived,
summoned by a concernedneighbor. He listened as Eliza recounted
the voice, her desperationpalpable. He knelt, pressing his
(23:34):
own ear to the earth. Silence.He stood, brushing off his knees,
his expression unreadable.Coulda been the wind, he said gently.
Or your grief playing tricks.It's him, she insisted. I know it.
That night she slept in thefield, a blanket draped over her
shoulders. Thomas curledbeside her. Days turned to weeks
(23:58):
and the search dwindled.McBride hired a geologist from Montgomery,
a bespectacled man named Dr.Henry Voss, to examine the site.
Voss arrived with tools and askeptical smirk, muttering about
sinkholes in limestone caves.He drilled, measured, and tested
the soil, his smirk fading asthe results piled up. No cavities,
(24:22):
he told McBride, scratchinghis head. Ground is stable. No gas
pockets, no fissures. Nothingto explain it. Then what happened
to him? McBride pressed. Vossshrugged. Beats me. Maybe he just
ran off. With his wifewatching and two others, the geologist
(24:42):
had no answer, but he pointedout something odd. The grass where
Orion vanished had yellowed,forming a near perfect circle 15ft
across. Beyond it, the fieldremained green and lush. Could be
heat, Voss offered, or somechemical reaction. McBride, unconvinced,
(25:02):
wrote it down. The Selma FreePress ran a story, Local Farmer Vanishes
in Broad Daylight, and a fewpapers in Mobile and Montgomery picked
it up. Most dismissed it as atall tale, suggesting lightning or
a sudden fit of madness. Butin Selma, the whispers grew darker.
The preacher took to hispulpit, warning of demons in unseen
(25:26):
realms. The Bible speaks ofmen taken by spirits, he thundered.
Orion Williamson crossed aline he shouldn't have. Children
dared each other to step intothe circle, giggling nervously when
nothing happened, adultsavoided the area as much as possible,
crossing themselves as theypassed. The Williamson farm became
(25:48):
a place of quiet dread, itsfields untended, its hogs sold off.
Eliza clung to hope, though itfrayed with each passing day. She
stopped eating, her framethinning, her eyes sunken. Thomas
grew sullen, spending hoursstaring at the circle. One night
he woke her, his voicetrembling, with news that he had
(26:11):
just seen his father standingin the field. Eliza grabbed a lantern
and ran outside, Thomastrailing behind. The circle glowed
faintly under the moonlight,but there was no sign of Orion. The
next morning she packed a bagand took Thomas to her sister's in
Mobile. The farm stoodabandoned, its windows dark, its
(26:32):
porch sagging. Armor checkedon it, occasionally finding the circle
unchanged, yellow and brittle,a scar on the land. McBride kept
the case open, his notebookfilling with questions. He interviewed
the Wrens again, their storyunwavering. He wrote to a colleague
in New Orleans, a man versedin oddities who replied with a single
(26:55):
line, sounds like a tear inthe world. A year later, a stranger
wrote into Selma. He was talland gaunt, with a battered hat pulled
low over his eyes. He stoppedat the general store, asking for
the Williamson place. Theclerk placed him down the road. The
man reached the farm at dusk,dismounting near the circle. He carried
(27:17):
a satchel from which he pulleda pendulum, a brass weight on a chain.
He held it over the spot,watching it swing in tight, erratic
loops. Satisfied, he knelt,pressing his palms to the earth,
and murmured words no oneheard. Armor passing by spotted him.
Who are you? He demanded,gripping his rifle. The stranger
(27:40):
stood unruffled. Name's EliasCrow. I study things like this. Places
where folks vanish. Study?Armor snorted. Ain't nothing to study.
Orion's gone. Crow smiledthinly. Gone where, though? That's
the question. He spent thenight in the field, scribbling in
a leather bound book. At dawnhe approached Armour's house, his
(28:04):
face grim. Something happenedhere, he said. A door opened briefly
and closed. Williamson steppedthrough. A door? Armor asked. Crow
shrugged. Door to anotherplace, Another time. Maybe I've seen
it before. Kansas in 49. Thegirl disappeared. Same way Grass
(28:26):
died in a circle there, too.Armor stared. You saying he's alive?
Could be. Or he's nowhere atall. Crow left that day, promising
to return with answers henever did. Years passed and the Williamson
vanishing faded into Selma'sfolklore. The farm crumbled, reclaimed
(28:48):
by vines and neglect. Thecircle remained a stubborn patch
of dead earth, even as thefield around it thrived. Travelers
occasionally stopped, drawn byrumors but found only silence. Eliza
died in 1863, worn thin bygrief, Thomas joined the Confederate
(29:08):
army and fell at Shiloh, hislast letter mentioning a dream of
his father calling from a graymist. In 1889, a photographer from
Birmingham snapped a pictureof the circle, still barren and still
perfect. On quiet nights,locals swore they heard a faint voice
from the field calling forEliza. They'd crossed themselves
(29:31):
and hurry home, leaving thefield to its secrets. Orion Williamson
was never found. Not in Selma,not anywhere. No body, no trace.
No resolution. Was it a trickof the mind? A cosmic fluke? Or a
glimpse into something vastand unseen? The world moved on. Wars
(29:53):
raged and cities rose. But thehollow field endured, a mute witness
to a moment when realityfrayed. The stories presented are
inspired by true events. Namesmay have been changed for privacy
reasons. New episodes of WhenReality Frays are uploaded every
(30:15):
Monday and Thursday. If you'reenjoying the journey into the strange,
the mysterious and theunexplained, be sure to press that
Follow or Subscribe button andturn on all reminders so you're alerted
whenever an episode drops.Until next time, thank you for listening
to When Reality Frays.
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 a journey into theenigmatic, where the peculiar and
the perplexing intertwine,where every tale twists the mind
and tugs at the spirit. It's adescent into the strange, the mysterious
(00:27):
and and the unexplained. Thisis when reality frays. New episodes
are published every Monday andThursday, and when Reality Phrase
is available everywhere, findpodcasts are found. Before we move
on, please hit that Follow orSubscribe button and turn on all
(00:50):
reminders so you are alertedwhen new episodes are released. Today's
episode contains two stories.First up is the Whispering Wood,
a warning that even the mostinnocuous of objects can carry a
curse. And the second story ofthe day is the Hollow Field, about
(01:12):
the impossible vanishing of aman in broad daylight. Now let's
get to the stories. The Millerfamily, Tom, Ellen, Jacob and Sara.
Ordinary folk seeking refugein the quiet embrace of Horicon,
Wisconsin. A new home, a freshstart, and a bargain too good to
(01:35):
pass up. A set of oak bunkbeds carved from the past and polished
with promise. But in the grainof that wood lies a secret older
than the town itself,whispering through the slats, waiting
for a family to claim. Let'sunlock a door not to a house on Larrabee
street, but to a place wherethe familiar turns feral, where the
(01:58):
things we own begin to own us.Welcome to that place where reality
frays. This is the story ofthe whispering wood. Horicon, Wisconsin,
in the fading days of 1986,was a town stitched together by frostbitten
fields and the low rumble ofthe John Deere plant. The Miller
(02:22):
family rolled in that October,their belongings rattling in a U
haul behind Tom's rusted Fordpickup. Tom Miller, 34, was a lean
mechanic with calloused handsand a quiet grit, his hazel eyes
creased from years ofsquinting in engine bays. Ellen,
32, carried a softer strength.Her auburn hair was tied back as
(02:46):
she unpacked boxes, her voicelilting with hope for a fresh start.
Their kids, Jacob, 8, with atangle of brown curls and a stubborn
streak that matched hisfather's. And Sarah, six, slight
and watchful, her hazel eyesmirroring her mother's, trudged through
the move with a sullenness ofuprooting kids. They'd left Oshkosh
(03:11):
behind a city of familiarstreets and a backyard tire swing
for this squat ranch house onLarrabee Street. They'd bought it
cheap from a farmer namedPurvis Pritchard, who had traded
it for a trailer after hiswife's death. The house was a patchwork
of promise and neglect,peeling paint, a sagging front porch,
(03:31):
and a basement that exhaledthe scent of damp earth and mist
mildew. Through its crackedconcrete walls, Tom saw a project,
a chance to build somethingstable. Ellen envisioned a garden,
outback hollyhocks andmarigolds to rival her mother's prized
beds in Fond du Lac. ByChristmas they'd settled in the living
(03:53):
room, warmed by a secondhandcouch and a wood stove Tom rigged
himself. The kids shared asmall upstairs bedroom with slanted
ceilings, its walls bare, butEllen had promised to paint them
come spring. On a bitterFebruary day in 1987, Tom stopped
by Hank's Secondhand on MainStreet, a cluttered shop where dust
(04:16):
motes danced in the weaklight. There, amid chipped china
and moth eaten coats, stood aset of oak bunk beds, sturdy hand
carved, their varnish catchingthe glow of a bare bulb. Amos Hank,
the shopkeeper, was a stoopedfigure with a tobacco stained beard
and a voice like a rustedhinge. Came from an estate sale up
(04:39):
near Fond du Lac, he said,running a gnarled hand along the
frame. Old farm stuff. Goodoak. Solid as they come. Tom, always
hunting a deal, handed over 80bucks, wrestled the disassembled
slats and rails into histruck, and drove home through a swirl
of snow. That night he andEllen pieced the beds together in
(05:01):
the basement. The kidsscampered around Jacob, testing the
ladder's rungs, while Sarahgiggled and clutched her stuffed
rabbit. Mr. Whiskers. Thebunks stayed downstairs through the
thaw of March and April, thebasement their temporary home, while
Ellen scrubbed the upstairsroom, queen of years of grime by
(05:22):
May, with the walls painted acheery yellow and the windows thrown
open to spring air, Tom hauledthe beds up the narrow staircase,
their weight gouging the pinesteps. Jacob claimed the top bunk
with a triumphant leap,declaring it his pirate ship, while
Sara settled below, her rabbittucked under her chin. Ellen smoothed
(05:44):
their blankets. No moremoving, she said. This is home. The
first night was unremarkable.Jacob's whispered tales of Blackbeard
faded into snores, acounterpoint to Sarah's soft breathing
below. But at breakfast, Jacobslunk into the kitchen, pale beneath
his freckles. The radio turnedon. Last night, he replied when Ellen
(06:09):
asked if he felt okay byitself. Kept flipping, turn, talk,
then music, then static, loudand soft, like someone was messing
with it. Sarah said nothing,her spoon tracing slow circles in
her oatmeal, her eyes dartingto the hallway. Tom frowned and trudged
upstairs to check the Zenithclock radio, a relic from Ellen's
(06:32):
parents with a dial thatstuck. The plug was snug, the power
switch off. Finding noimmediate explanation, he yanked
the cord from the outlet.Three nights later, Ellen found Sarah
trembling by the bedroom door,her nightgown twisted, her bare feet
cold against the floorboards.There's a lady, she whispered, barely
(06:55):
audible over the hum ofcrickets. She's got red eyes and
stands by the bunks. Shedoesn't talk, just looks at me. Ellen's
chest tightened and she knelt,brushing Sarah's hair back. A nightmare,
baby. Jacob's pirate storiesare getting to you. She coaxed her
back to bed, but as sheflicked off the light, a faint tapping,
(07:17):
like fingernails on wood,echoed from the bunks. She paused,
heart thudding, then switchedthe lights back on. Jacob was sprawled
asleep. Sarah's rabbit peekedfrom the covers. The tapping was
gone, but the air hung heavyand humid, like a storm trapped indoors.
(07:38):
June rolled in with stickyheat, and the house grew restless.
Doors slammed shut on stilldays, as if shoved by unseen hands.
The kitchen radio, a sleekPanasonic Tom had splurged on at
Sears, crackled to life at oddhours, spitting static and snatches
of gospel hymns or farmreports before cutting out. Jacob
(08:02):
swore he saw the bunk laddertremble one night, its rungs quivering
like a plucked string. ThoughSarah slept below, her breathing
steady, Ellen began findingmarks on the kids arms thin red lines
too neat for playtime scrapes,and the kids couldn't explain how
they had happened. By July,the unease was a palpable thing in
(08:24):
the house. Ellen's sewingmachine gathered dust, her hands
too shaky to thread a needle,and the garden plot out back was
a tangle of weeds. Tom begansleeping on the kid's floor. A sleeping
bag unrolled beside aLouisville Slugger he'd dug out of
the basement. He couldn't saywhat he'd swing at, just that the
(08:44):
house felt wrong. One muggynight he jolted awake to a fog seeping
across the room, gray, cold,curling like smoke from the bunk's
base. A voice rasped throughit, low and guttural, speaking a
language Tom had never heardbefore. It wasn't human, more like
(09:05):
wind through a broken pipe,sharp with menace. He stumbled out,
one frightened child beneatheach arm. Ellen was in the kitchen,
her face drained. I heard it,too, she whispered from the walls.
Like it's inside. The nextMorning they called Priest Dan Erickson
from St. Stephen's. A stockyman in his 50s with wire rimmed glasses,
(09:31):
he arrived with a worn Bible,a vial of holy water, and a calm
that felt out of place. Tomand Ellen escorted him to the kids
room but remained in the hall.Neither cared to enter. The air thickened
as Dan read from Psalms, hiswords steady and strong. He sprinkled
holy water on the bunks, andthe wood hissed a soft, angry sizzle
(09:54):
while the droplets beaded up,refusing to soak in. A faint scorch
mark bloomed on the top slat,like a burn from a cigarette. Dan's
brow furrowed, his glassesfogging slightly. There's something
here, he said, snapping hisBible shut. Something old and mad.
Those beds, I'd burn em if Iwere you. August stretched the family
(10:19):
thin. Tom picked up doubleshifts, his hands trembling as he
tightened bolts. Ellen stoppedleaving the house, her world shrinking
to the kids and the walls thatseemed to watch her. Jacob grew sullen,
snapping at Sarah when sheclung too close. Sarah stopped talking,
her eyes always wide and wary.In mid August, with Tom gone until
(10:43):
dawn, Ellen's brother Mikeoffered to stay over. He was a burly
trucker with a laugh like afoghorn and a disdain for spooky
nonsense. He sprawled on thecouch with a Miller High life, teasing
Jacob about his pirateobsession until midnight struck.
A scream tore from the kidsroom, Sarah's high and raw. Mike
(11:05):
bolted in and froze. A figureloomed by the monks, tall, shadowy,
its edges flickering like heatoff asphalt. Its eyes glowed red,
twin embers in a face thatwasn't there. Sarah huddled on the
floor, sobbing, her blankettangled around her. Get out. Mike
roared, lunging with fistsraised, but the shape melted into
(11:28):
the wall, leaving a scorchmark on the plaster, a jagged smear
that stunk of sulfur. Hegrabbed the kids, shouting for Ellen,
and they piled into his truck,tires squealing as they peeled out.
The house's lights pulsedbehind them, flickering like a taunting
heartbeat. They went toEllen's sister Linda's home in Beaver
(11:51):
Dam, a cramped one bedroom 20miles west. Linda, a nurse with a
smoker's rasp, brewed coffeeand listened as Mike recounted the
night. It wasn't human, hesaid, hands shaking as he lit a camel
like fire, and shadow mashedtogether those eyes. Jesus. The kids
(12:11):
slept fitfully on a pulloutcouch, Sarah whispering about the
lady, Jacob clutching aflashlight he refused to turn off.
Ellen stared out Linda'skitchen window, struggling to breathe.
Tom arrived home at 6am tofind the house silent, the air thick
with unnatural dampness. He'dhad enough with a can of kerosene
(12:34):
from the garage, a box ofmatches, and a fury born of a protective
father. He dragged the bunkbeds outside. Their weight gouged
the lawn into muddy scars.Neighbors peeked through their curtains
as he doused the wood, thefumes stinging his nose. He struck
the match and the flamesroared, fierce and unnatural, tinged
(12:57):
with a sickly green thatclawed at the sky. In the smoke he
swore he saw a figure, talland eyeless, its mouth a gaping slash,
writhing as the fire consumedthe beds. The heat drove him back,
singeing his eyebrows, but hedidn't move another step until the
figure was gone and the woodcrumbled to ash. He shoveled the
(13:21):
black, powdery remains into atrash bin and hauled it to the county
landfill, dumping it where thebulldozers would bury it deep under
red clay. Ellen, Sarah, andJacob never returned to the house.
Tom sold it in September to ayoung couple from Milwaukee and moved
his family back to Oshkosh. In1995 Jacob tracked down Amos Hanks
(13:45):
widow, Ruth, in a nursing homeoutside Horicon. She was frail, her
hands knotted with arthritis,but her memory was sharp. Those beds
came from the Dietrich placenear Fond du Lac, she said, voice
a dry whisper. Lydia Dietrichdied there in 22, alone, raving about
(14:06):
voices in the trees. Herhusband, Carl was a carpenter, built
him from an oak on their land.Big twisted thing. Lightning hit
it three times before he tookit down. Folks called it cursed,
said it screamed when the sawbit in. Carl didn't care. Kept working
till Lydia lost her mind. Amosnever liked selling those beds. Said
(14:29):
they felt heavy, wrong, likethey carried something. She paused,
eyes distant. And he burnedthe papers after you folks bought
em. Didn't want them tracedback. The Miller family has fled,
their homes sold, theirnightmare reduced to cinders and
buried beneath the weight ofprogress. The bunk beds, those silent
(14:52):
sentinels of oak, are gone,consigned to the landfill of memory
where the earth swallows whatman cannot explain. But listen closely
past the hum of machinery andthe rustle of leaves and you might
hear it still, an insistentpatient tapping, a reminder that
some things cannot be burnedaway when reality frays. Today's
(15:17):
second story is the hollowfield. Selma, Alabama, on a hot July
afternoon in 1854, a sleepytown of cotton fields and wood sided
homes where life unfolds slowand simple. Nothing here has changed
in a hundred years. A farmernamed Orion Williamson works his
(15:39):
land. He's a man tethered tothe ordinary, to the soil beneath
his feet, to the predictablerhythm of a life well understood.
But with a single step he isabout to defy the physical laws we
know and enter the world ofafraid reality. This is the story
of the hollow Field the sunhung hot and heavy in the sky over
(16:04):
the Williamson farm. It burnedlike a molten disk, bleeding golden
fire onto 32 year old OrionWilliamson's back as he toiled in
his field. Pausing in hislabors, he stood straight, removing
his work stained hat with aheavily calloused hand. Sparing a
glance at the inferno above,he sighed, mopped sweat from his
(16:25):
face with a brightly coloredrag, and clamped the hat back into
place. Before resuming work,he surveyed the field. It stretched
around him, a sea of greenrippling under a faint breeze that
did nothing to mitigate theoppressive humidity of an Alabama
summer. Visible in thedistance were the dark shapes of
(16:46):
his hogs rooting near the oaksthat framed his property. Orion was
a family man, taciturn,sturdy, and as rooted in the land
as the trees. His wife, Eliza,watched from the porch, her apron
dusted with flour while theirson Thomas chased a grasshopper at
her feet. Eliza called outthat supper would be ready soon,
(17:09):
receiving an acknowledgingwave and smile from Orion, which
she returned. On a dirt roadthat bordered the field, a horse
drawn buggy slowly rattledalong, its wheels kicking up dust.
Armor Wren, a broad shoulderedman with a graying beard, and his
teenage son James were aboard,returning from town with a load of
(17:31):
supplies for their neighboringfarm. Both waved at Orion and Armor
tipped his hat in Eliza'sdirection. Orion returned the friendly
greeting and turned to checkthe hogs. They loved the acorns that
littered the ground beneaththe massive oaks, and he'd already
repaired the fence twice afterthey'd torn through to reach the
(17:51):
untouched buffet on the farside. He grunted, knowing he had
to bring them back to the barnor they'd break out again and he'd
spend half the night chasingthem all over the county. Orion began
walking across the field withlong, determined strides, but he
never reached the hogs. Elizasaw it happen. One heartbeat he was
(18:14):
there, boots scuffing thegrass, shoulders squared. Then he
wasn't. No stumble, no cry, nobore of motion. Just gone. Her scream
split the air, sharp and raw,freezing. Thomas mid hop, his small
face crumpling in confusion.Armor yanked the reins, the horse
(18:35):
snorting as the buggy lurchedto a stop. James leapt to his feet
in the buggy, his eyes wide,scanning the field. Where'd he go?
Armor shouted. Scramblingdown, the four of them converged
on the spot, a patch of greenno different from the rest, save
for a faint flattening whereOrion's boots had pressed moments
(18:57):
before. Armor kicked at theearth, expecting a hole, a trapdoor,
something. But nothing. Jamesdropped to his knees, tentatively
touching the ground as helooked around in disbelief. Where
is he? James mutteredbreathlessly. Eliza's voice trembled.
I saw him vanish. Like. Likethe air took him. Armor straightened,
(19:22):
eyes wide with barelycontained fear. That ain't possible.
Men don't just disappear. Butthey had all seen it. Orion Williamson
was gone, and the field laysilent as if mocking them. Word spread
fast in Selma, carried onwhispers and hurried footsteps. By
(19:42):
dusk, the farm buzzed withneighbors. Men with lanterns and
shovels tramped across thefield, their shadows stretching long
and thin. Women clustered onthe porch, murmuring prayers, while
children peeked from behindskirts, half thrilled and half terrified.
Judge James J. McBride arrivedlast, his black coat pristine despite
(20:05):
the heat of the night, anotebook tucked under his arm. He
was a lean man, sharp eyed andmethodical, known for settling land
disputes with a cool head.Tell me exactly what you saw, Mrs.
Williamson, he said, pencilpoised. Eliza's hands twisted in
her apron. He was walkingright there. She pointed. And then
(20:28):
he wasn't. No sound, noNothing. Just gone. McBride frowned
and glanced at Armor. And you?Same as her, armor said gruffly.
Me and James was passing by.Saw him clear as day. Then he just
weren't there. Ain't no hole,no ditch. We looked. James nodded,
(20:48):
his voice quiet with fear.It's like he melted away, sir. McBride
paced the spot, tapping hisboot against the ground. It thudded
solid. He scribbled notes, hisbrow furrowing deeper with each line.
No sign of a struggle. Nofootprints running off. Nothing,
eliza whispered. Just hissteps. Then nothing. The judge called
(21:14):
for a broader search. Men dugtrenches, probed with poles, and
shouted Orion's name into thetwilight. A pair of bloodhounds arrived
that their handler tugging attheir leashes. The dogs sniffed the
flattened grass, circled once,then sat whining softly, their tails
tucked. The handler cursedunder his breath. Never seen em act
(21:37):
like this, he said. Bymidnight, exhaustion had set in.
The crowd thinned, leavingonly a few stragglers in the Williamson
family. Eliza sat on the porchsteps, Thomas asleep in her lap,
her eyes fixed on the field.Armor lingered nearby, his hat crumpled
in his hands. You think he'sdead? She asked quietly. Armor hesitated.
(22:03):
I don't know what to think,Eliza. This ain't natural. The next
morning, Selma buzzed at theGeneral store men swapped tails over
tobacco and coffee. Bandits,one said, snatched him quick and
quiet. Another scoffed inbroad daylight with witnesses. A
(22:23):
third, a wiry preacher, leanedin close. It's the Lord's work. A
rapture, maybe. Or a judgment.Maybe it's Judgment Day coming for
all of us. Back at the farm,Eliza stayed by the field, her gaze
hollow. Around noon, shestiffened, her head tilting as if
listening. Thomas, she saidsharply. Do you hear that? The boy
(22:47):
rubbed his eyes. Hear what,Ma? She ran into the field. It's
Orion. He's calling me. Thomasfollowed, watching, wide eyed as
she stopped at the spot wherehis father had vanished and pressed
her ear to the ground. I hearDaddy, too. Thomas shouted. They
both tore at the field withtheir bare hands. Orion. She shouted,
(23:11):
cawing frantically at thedirt. Eliza and Thomas dug until
their fingernails split andhands bled. Neighbors rushed over,
pulling them back, but Elizafought, sobbing. McBride arrived,
summoned by a concernedneighbor. He listened as Eliza recounted
the voice, her desperationpalpable. He knelt, pressing his
(23:34):
own ear to the earth. Silence.He stood, brushing off his knees,
his expression unreadable.Coulda been the wind, he said gently.
Or your grief playing tricks.It's him, she insisted. I know it.
That night she slept in thefield, a blanket draped over her
shoulders. Thomas curledbeside her. Days turned to weeks
(23:58):
and the search dwindled.McBride hired a geologist from Montgomery,
a bespectacled man named Dr.Henry Voss, to examine the site.
Voss arrived with tools and askeptical smirk, muttering about
sinkholes in limestone caves.He drilled, measured, and tested
the soil, his smirk fading asthe results piled up. No cavities,
(24:22):
he told McBride, scratchinghis head. Ground is stable. No gas
pockets, no fissures. Nothingto explain it. Then what happened
to him? McBride pressed. Vossshrugged. Beats me. Maybe he just
ran off. With his wifewatching and two others, the geologist
(24:42):
had no answer, but he pointedout something odd. The grass where
Orion vanished had yellowed,forming a near perfect circle 15ft
across. Beyond it, the fieldremained green and lush. Could be
heat, Voss offered, or somechemical reaction. McBride, unconvinced,
(25:02):
wrote it down. The Selma FreePress ran a story, Local Farmer Vanishes
in Broad Daylight, and a fewpapers in Mobile and Montgomery picked
it up. Most dismissed it as atall tale, suggesting lightning or
a sudden fit of madness. Butin Selma, the whispers grew darker.
The preacher took to hispulpit, warning of demons in unseen
(25:26):
realms. The Bible speaks ofmen taken by spirits, he thundered.
Orion Williamson crossed aline he shouldn't have. Children
dared each other to step intothe circle, giggling nervously when
nothing happened, adultsavoided the area as much as possible,
crossing themselves as theypassed. The Williamson farm became
(25:48):
a place of quiet dread, itsfields untended, its hogs sold off.
Eliza clung to hope, though itfrayed with each passing day. She
stopped eating, her framethinning, her eyes sunken. Thomas
grew sullen, spending hoursstaring at the circle. One night
he woke her, his voicetrembling, with news that he had
(26:11):
just seen his father standingin the field. Eliza grabbed a lantern
and ran outside, Thomastrailing behind. The circle glowed
faintly under the moonlight,but there was no sign of Orion. The
next morning she packed a bagand took Thomas to her sister's in
Mobile. The farm stoodabandoned, its windows dark, its
(26:32):
porch sagging. Armor checkedon it, occasionally finding the circle
unchanged, yellow and brittle,a scar on the land. McBride kept
the case open, his notebookfilling with questions. He interviewed
the Wrens again, their storyunwavering. He wrote to a colleague
in New Orleans, a man versedin oddities who replied with a single
(26:55):
line, sounds like a tear inthe world. A year later, a stranger
wrote into Selma. He was talland gaunt, with a battered hat pulled
low over his eyes. He stoppedat the general store, asking for
the Williamson place. Theclerk placed him down the road. The
man reached the farm at dusk,dismounting near the circle. He carried
(27:17):
a satchel from which he pulleda pendulum, a brass weight on a chain.
He held it over the spot,watching it swing in tight, erratic
loops. Satisfied, he knelt,pressing his palms to the earth,
and murmured words no oneheard. Armor passing by spotted him.
Who are you? He demanded,gripping his rifle. The stranger
(27:40):
stood unruffled. Name's EliasCrow. I study things like this. Places
where folks vanish. Study?Armor snorted. Ain't nothing to study.
Orion's gone. Crow smiledthinly. Gone where, though? That's
the question. He spent thenight in the field, scribbling in
a leather bound book. At dawnhe approached Armour's house, his
(28:04):
face grim. Something happenedhere, he said. A door opened briefly
and closed. Williamson steppedthrough. A door? Armor asked. Crow
shrugged. Door to anotherplace, Another time. Maybe I've seen
it before. Kansas in 49. Thegirl disappeared. Same way Grass
(28:26):
died in a circle there, too.Armor stared. You saying he's alive?
Could be. Or he's nowhere atall. Crow left that day, promising
to return with answers henever did. Years passed and the Williamson
vanishing faded into Selma'sfolklore. The farm crumbled, reclaimed
(28:48):
by vines and neglect. Thecircle remained a stubborn patch
of dead earth, even as thefield around it thrived. Travelers
occasionally stopped, drawn byrumors but found only silence. Eliza
died in 1863, worn thin bygrief, Thomas joined the Confederate
(29:08):
army and fell at Shiloh, hislast letter mentioning a dream of
his father calling from a graymist. In 1889, a photographer from
Birmingham snapped a pictureof the circle, still barren and still
perfect. On quiet nights,locals swore they heard a faint voice
from the field calling forEliza. They'd crossed themselves
(29:31):
and hurry home, leaving thefield to its secrets. Orion Williamson
was never found. Not in Selma,not anywhere. No body, no trace.
No resolution. Was it a trickof the mind? A cosmic fluke? Or a
glimpse into something vastand unseen? The world moved on. Wars
(29:53):
raged and cities rose. But thehollow field endured, a mute witness
to a moment when realityfrayed. The stories presented are
inspired by true events. Namesmay have been changed for privacy
reasons. New episodes of WhenReality Frays are uploaded every
(30:15):
Monday and Thursday. If you'reenjoying the journey into the strange,
the mysterious and theunexplained, be sure to press that
Follow or Subscribe button andturn on all reminders so you're alerted
whenever an episode drops.Until next time, thank you for listening
to When Reality Frays.
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