May 1, 2025 • 26 mins
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This episode delves into two captivating narratives that explore the boundaries of reality and the extraordinary phenomena that occasionally seep through. The first tale, "The Watcher in the Pines," recounts the eerie experiences of Jake Hensley, a solitary photographer who ventures into the Arizona wilderness, only to encounter unsettling forces that challenge his understanding of the natural world. The story unfolds with a series of inexplicable events, culminating in an encounter that leaves Jake questioning his perception of the wilderness. The second story, "The Toxic Lady," recounts the tragic and mysterious demise of Gloria Ramirez, whose visit to an emergency room unleashes chaos and confusion as medical personnel are struck by a bizarre and lethal phenomenon. This episode invites listeners to ponder the enigmatic occurrences that lie just beyond the veil of our everyday experiences, urging us to confront the strange and the unknown.
Each narrative serves as a testament to the show's ability to weave together the threads of human experience with elements of the uncanny, encouraging listeners to reflect on their own encounters with the inexplicable. The juxtaposition of Jake's intimate confrontation with nature's mysteries against Gloria's unsettling medical emergency creates a rich tapestry of storytelling that resonates on multiple levels. Through masterful storytelling, the podcast invites us to consider the boundaries of reality and the myriad ways in which our perceptions can be manipulated by fear, mystery, and the unknown. As we traverse these haunting landscapes of human experience, we are compelled to confront our own understanding of truth and the shadows that linger just beyond our comprehension, leaving us to ponder the profound implications of what lies beneath the surface of our everyday existence.
Takeaways:
- The podcast begins by inviting listeners into a world where the ordinary meets the extraordinary, encouraging a sense of wonder and curiosity about the unknown.
- Listeners are introduced to two compelling narratives, one about a peculiar figure in an Arizona forest and another concerning a woman whose hospital visit turns into a mysterious nightmare.
- The first story, 'The Watcher in the Pines', revolves around Jake Hensley, a photographer who experiences unsettling occurrences while camping in the Mogollon Rim.
- The second tale, 'The Toxic Lady', recounts the alarming events surrounding Gloria Ramirez, whose visit to an emergency room triggers chaos among medical staff and leads to numerous illnesses.
- Both stories highlight the theme of reality fraying at the edges, where familiar settings transform into sites of inexplicable phenomena and dread.
- The episode concludes by prompting listeners to reflect on their own unexplained encounters, inviting engagement and personal storytelling from the audience.
Mark as Played
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
(00:23):
and tugs at the spirit. It's adescent into the strange, the mysterious,
and and the unexplained. Thisis when reality frays. New episodes
are published every Monday andThursday, and when Reality Phrase
is available everywhere, finepodcasts are found. Before we move
(00:45):
on, please hit that Follow orSubscribe button and turn on all
reminders so you are alertedwhen new episodes are released. Today's
episode contains two stories.First up is the Watcher in the Pines,
a story about what's hiding inan Arizona forest. And the second
(01:07):
story of the day is the ToxicLady, a strange tale about a woman
who was too dangerous for anemergency room. Now let's get to
the stories. This is theWatcher in the Pines. Jake Hensley
(01:27):
wasn't built for cities. At32, he was a lanky, sun creased loner
who had spent his life chasingedges edges of storms, edges of canyons,
edges of light. Growing up inFlagstaff, Arizona, he'd been the
kid with scabby knees and athrift store Kodak, snapping aspens
(01:47):
in snow or ravens on powerlines. His mother, a diner waitress,
had called him her hawk,always watching, never still. His
dad, a long gone logger, lefthim a battered topographical map
of Arizona, creased and coffeestained. That map inspired Jake to
(02:07):
photography, then freelancegigs for Arizona highways and outdoor
blogs that barely covered hisrent and ramen. The Mogollon Rim
was his holy ground, a massivegeological feature that sharply divides
Arizona between high countryto the north and lowland deserts
to the south. It's not just aridge. It's a dramatic escarpment
(02:31):
stretching over 200 miles fromwest to east, with elevation ranges
from 4,000 to over 8,000ftabove the desert. He had camped it
more times than he couldremember, chasing shots of elk against
its cliffs or the way dawnsplit its canyons. The monster stories.
He'd heard them all, which hedismissed as Bartok and Payson or
(02:54):
X threads from tinfoil hattypes, red eyes, big feet, screams,
bears and drunks. He'd scoff.Still, he always packed a knife and
bear spray, a habit from yearsalone in the wild. It was September
26, 2023, when he pointed hisTacoma pickup north from Phoenix.
(03:18):
The Muckeone Rim rose ahead adark jaw of basalt and pine under
a sky smudged with late summerhaze. He had picked Horton Creek
for this trip, two hours fromhome off Forest Road 289, a quiet
bend where the ponderosasthickened and the creek whispered
through limestone. Threenights solo, a chance to reset his
(03:44):
Nikon hung around his neck, ajournal and pencil in his pack. He
was determined to get a shotgood enough to catch the attention
of National Geographic. Dayone was perfect. He pitched his tent
in a quiring ringed by pines,their needles a soft rust underfoot
snapped a mule deer buck atdusk, antlers velvet black against
(04:06):
the orange glow, then cookedbeans over a fire that spat sparks
into the night. The cricketssang him to sleep, a steady hum blending
with the creek's murmur. Daytwo started crisp. He brewed coffee
on a camp stove, chewed agranola bar, and hiked a mile up
the Horton Trail, cameraready. After a long day of exploration
(04:30):
and picks that he hoped wouldcome out better than expected, he
began the trek back to camp.Along the way he spied a red tailed
hawk soaring high above,hunting for dinner. Raising the camera,
he was framing a photo of thehawk as its wings flared and talons
glinted. When the worldstopped, the breeze quit mid gust.
(04:53):
The hawk banked hard andvanished. No bird calls, no pine
needle rustle, just asuffocating stillness that pressed
down on him. Jake lowered thecamera, his breath shallow. Then
the smell hit a gut twist ofrotting fish, wet metal, and something
acrid like a battery leakingacid. It clawed his nose, stung his
(05:17):
eyes. He turned, scanning thetrees. Shadows stretched long, the
light bleeding out fast, butnothing moved. Bear, he muttered,
though his gut said no. Bear.Stink was rank, musky. This was sharper,
different in a way he couldn'tput to words. He turned back for
(05:39):
camp, boots crunching louderin the silence, a prickle crawling
up his spine. When he arrived,he paused in surprise. The fire pit
was a mess. Rocks, fist sizedchunks he had hauled from the creek
way scattered like a bomb hadgone off. Ashes dusted the ground.
His tent stood untouched, packstill zipped, but the scene gnawed
(06:03):
at him. Wind, he said aloud,voiced flat in the dead air. Shrugging
it off, he rebuilt the firelayer, lowered himself onto a camp
stool and focused his lens onthe tree line. The smell faded, then
surged, teasing. Dusk fellheavy, the pines black against a
(06:23):
bruised sky. He ate coldjerky, skipping the stove, and crawled
into his tent, unease coilingin his gut. Sleep wouldn't come,
and the crickets stayedsilent. At 2:14am A twig snapped
sharp and close, maybe 20yards north. Then another, slower,
(06:44):
deliberate. Jake grabbed hisflashlight, unzipped the flap with
a shaky rasp, and swept thebeam. Two red pinpricks flared back,
high, too high, 8 or 9ft offthe ground, bright as brake lights,
then gone. His chest locked.Who's there? He yelled, voice splintering
(07:06):
into the dark. Silenceswallowed his call. The flashlight
beam trembled, catching pinetrunks and underbrush, but no shape
and no sound. He clutched hisknife blade out and waited, ears
straining. Exhaustion finallydragged him down. He zipped up, curled
(07:27):
tight and dozed, dreaming ofred eyes boring through the nylon.
Dawn broke, gray mist curlingoff the creek. Jake stumbled out,
bleary and froze. Footprintscircled his tent. Big, bare, humanlike
but warped. He knelt by 119inches, heel to toe, wider than his
(07:50):
size 11, boot by half, toessplayed like a starfish, deep an
inch into the dirt, heavierthan he could press. No claws, just
that eerie oversized shape.His breath fogged as he grabbed the
Nikon, snapped 20 shots,zooming on the edges, the texture,
(08:11):
the way they looped his camp.Then he saw the nest, 50ft off, under
a pine's overhang, a crudebowl of twigs, pinecones and deer
hair matted with mud.Something white gleamed, a rib bone,
maybe an elk. The smell hungthick, sour and metallic, choking
(08:32):
him. He snapped blurry picks,gagging, and backed away, eyes darting.
Coffee didn't happen. Hepacked in a frenzy, tent down, bag,
stuffed, stove clattering,slung it over his shoulder and hit
the trail. The two mile hiketo his truck felt endless, pines
crowding tighter, theirshadows clawing his path. Halfway
(08:55):
down, a rock clattered behinda small fist sized stone bouncing
off a trunk. He spun, breathhitching, but there was nothing there.
Another rock, bigger, sailedfrom a thicket and thudded at his
feet, rolling to a stop. Leaveme alone. He shouted, voice bouncing
off the canyon. A third rock,baseball sized, whistled past his
(09:20):
ear, cracking a branch. Then ascream erupted, a high, warbling
wail starting, human droppingto a guttural snarl that shook the
air. It echoed through theforest, silencing the world. Jake
ran, boots slamming, packjouncing, lungs burning till he hit
the trailhead. He fumbled hiskeys, dove into his truck and floored
(09:43):
it, dust choking the rearview. Home felt too small that night.
Jake dumped the photos ontohis laptop, hands still shaky. The
prints were stark, tooperfect, some would say. He posted
them to X with no caption,just shots. The date and Horton Creek.
(10:04):
The thread blew up. Plasterhoax. One guy sniped beartrax. Idiot.
Another, a cryptonut dmed him.Muggy on Monster. You're marked now.
But the locals had a differenttake. A Payson hunter posted that.
He saw it in 89 near bearflat. 8ft. Red eyes. Threw a log
(10:26):
at my truck. You got off easy.A retired forest ranger found nests
like that in 96 near BlueRidge. Bones and feathers. Said he
never told the brass becauseit was too weird. An old Payson Roundup
scan landed in his inbox.1973, a hiker claiming a hairy giant
(10:48):
impaled a deer skull 10ft up apine. Same smell, same scream. Sleep
became his enemy. He kept theknife on his nightstand, bare spray
by the door. Windows locked. Aweek later he drove to Payson's Rim
Country Tavern, where heshowed the pics to an old timer with
a Coors and a cough. Monster'sreal, the guy rasped, eyes cloudy.
(11:14):
Watched my camp in 82. Stinklike death. Never hurt you. Just
want you gone. Best leave itbe. Jake nodded, bought him a beer,
and left the man's wordslooping in his head. The photos he
had posted spread. He sold oneto weird Arizona for $200, but the
(11:34):
cash felt dirty. His journalsat open, half scrawled. I don't
know what it was. Smelled me.Saw me. Circled me. It knew I was
there and let me go. Winterburied the Rim in snow, and Jake
stayed home, editing shots inhis dim apartment. But the smell
crept back. Faint, sour,metallic. Late at night, unbidden,
(11:59):
he'd check the locks, scan thedark, and see nothing. Friends noticed
he'd gone quiet, jumpy, hishawkeyes darting too fast. Spring
came and he got a call. Aranger buddy, Tom, working Tonto
National Forest, foundsomething near Horton. Tom said,
(12:19):
voice low. Nest bigger thanyours. Fresh tracks, at least 22
inches. Thought you'd want toknow. Jake's stomach sank. Burned
it, tom added. Didn't do areport, and keep it quiet. I don't
need the headache, jakeagreed. But the itch grew. He dug
online, old forums, grainyscans. A 1910 rancher shot at a hairy
(12:45):
thief. A 1957 trucker swervedfrom glowing eyes. By summer he was
back, only in a differentspot. Fossil Creek, 10 miles west.
One night. No monster, justshots of waterfalls. Proof he could
face the rim again. Butdriving home, a rock pinged off his
(13:07):
windshield. Small, precisefrom a roadside thicket. He didn't
stop. The pickup's cab stayedlocked that night, the knife close.
Whatever watched him at Hortonhadn't forgotten his intrusion into
its world. Globally, Bigfootsightings share recurring elements
(13:27):
remote locations, largefootprints up to 24 inches long,
and a foul smell or eeriecries. Witnesses range from hunters
and hikers to police officers.Yet skepticism abounds. Many scientists
attribute sightings tomisidentified animals. Black bears
in North America, forinstance, which can stand upright
(13:50):
right and match somedescriptions or hoaxes. A 2024 study
by the Folk Zoology Societyfound a tenuous correlation between
US Bigfoot sightings and blackbear populations, suggesting misidentification
as a key factor. Despite this,over 23,000 sightings have been logged
(14:13):
in the US alone since the late1800s, with thousands more worldwide.
Whether a real creature, acultural phenom, or a product of
imagination, Bigfoot's globalpresence in human storytelling remains
undeniable. Probably the mosttelling fact that supports something
being out there is that globalreports of a Bigfoot like creature
(14:37):
began long before the adventof global communication, seemingly
eliminating the possibility ofsomeone in a distant country responding
to a report sighting with afake one of their own. The legend
has persisted throughout muchof the world. In North America, the
Sasquatch. In Asia, the Yeti.In Europe, the Wildman. Australia
(15:00):
has the Yowie, and Africa hasthe Kikomba. Do you spot the notable
absence in this list? SouthAmerica. While they certainly have
their share of strangesightings, there's nothing that fits
the Bigfoot model. So what arepeople seeing and how has it stayed
in the shadows for so long?Have you ever had an encounter you
(15:22):
can't explain? If so, let meknow in the comments below. If you're
enjoying the stories, pleaseconsider donating to support the
research and production thatgo into bringing them to you by buying
me a coffee. The link to sendsupport is in the episode's show
notes. I would greatlyappreciate it. Now on to today's
(15:45):
second story, which is theToxic Lady. Meet goria Ramirez, age
31, a woman whose life isticking down to its final hours in
Riverside, California. On anunremarkable evening in February
1994, she enters an emergencyroom seeking salvation from a body
(16:09):
betrayed by illness. But whatbegins as a routine call for help
spirals into a nightmare noone could foresee. A night where
the air turns poison, wherescience stumbles, and where reality
frays. This is the story ofthe Toxic Lady. The night was crisp
(16:31):
in Riverside, California, asmall city nestled inland from Los
Angeles, where the hum ofsuburban life rarely broke into chaos.
It was Saturday, February 19,1994, and Gloria Ramirez, mother
of two, was fighting a battleshe couldn't win. Cervical cancer
had ravaged her body formonths, its late stage grip tightening
(16:55):
with every passing day. She'dbeen a cashier once, once, a woman
with dark hair and a quietresilience, raising her kids in a
modest home with herboyfriend, Johnny Estrada. But now
she was a shadow of herself,pale, frail, her strength sapped
by pain and sickness. Thatevening, around 8pm Goria's condition
(17:19):
cratered. Nausea twisted herstomach, vomiting drained what little
energy she had left, and herchest heaved with shallow, uneven
breaths. Johnny watched herdeteriorate, his hands shaking as
he dialed 911 from theircluttered living room. She's not
breathing right. Her heart'sgoing crazy, he told the operator,
(17:40):
his voice cracking. Pleasehurry, the dispatcher promised. Help
was on the way, and withinminutes the wail of sirens pierced
the quiet street. Paramedicsburst through the door, finding Gloria
slumped on the couch, her skinclammy and slick with an odd oily
sheen. They worked fast,strapping an oxygen mask to her face
(18:03):
and sliding an IV into herarm. Her pulse raced. Tachycardia,
they noted, and her breathingfollowed a haunting Shane Stokes
respiration, a gasping cyclethat signaled her body was shutting
down. She mumbled responses,her eyes glassy as they loaded her
onto a stretcher and spedtoward Riverside General Hospital,
(18:26):
a squat beige building just afew miles away. Johnny trailed in
his car, gripping the wheel,praying she'd hold on. Inside the
er, the trauma team snappedinto gear. It was a busy night with
car accidents, fevers, and theusual parade of Saturday emergencies,
but Gloria's case demandedfocus. She rolled into Trauma Room
(18:50):
1 at 8:15pm her stretcherclattering on the tiled floor. Nurses
Susan Kane and Deborah McNallyflanked her, hooking up monitors
that beeped in frantic rhythmwith her heart. Dr. Julie Gorkinski,
a second year resident withsharp eyes and a steady hand, took
charge while respiratorytherapist Maureen Welch adjusted
(19:12):
the oxygen flow. Dr. UmbertoOchoa, the grizzled ER chief, hovered
nearby, barking orders overthe den. Goria's cancer explained
her decline, but her symptomsfelt off, too acute, too strange.
The team pumped sedatives intoher IV Diazepam, mitazolam, lorazepam,
(19:35):
hoping to calm her thrashingand slow her heart. Maureen leaned
in, wiping sweat from Gloria'sbrow, and frowned at the oily sheen,
now more pronounced under thefluorescent lights. She looks slippery,
maureen muttered to Susan, whonodded but kept working. They tried
several more drugs, desperateto stabilize her arrhythmia. The
(19:59):
monitors blared on,unyielding, then came the turning
point. Susan, a veteran nursewith a no nonsense air, drew blood
from Gloria's arm for tests.As she pulled back the plunger, a
pungent, ammonia like stenchstung her nostrils. She recoiled,
holding the syringe up to thelight. What the hell is that? She
(20:22):
said, her voice tight. Juliestepped closer, peering at the manila
colored flakes dancing inGoria's blood like sediment in a
storm. Before she could speak,Susan's face went slack. She staggered,
her knees buckling, andcrashed to the floor in a heap. Julie's
stomach lurched, a wave ofdizziness hitting her hard. She stumbled
(20:46):
out of the room, collapsing atthe nurse's station, her vision blurring
to black. Maureen, still byGloria's side, felt her own chest
tighten, her legs wobble. Shehit the ground next. Chaos erupted.
A fruity, garlic like odorseeped from Goria's mouth, mixing
with a chemical reek comingfrom her blood. Nurses and techs
(21:09):
staggered, clutching theirheads and throats. 23 people would
fall ill that night, struck bydizziness, nausea and muscle spasms.
Five had to be hospitalized.One, a young aide, spent weeks in
ICU with breathing issues. Dr.Ochoa shouted to get everyone out,
(21:30):
his voice cutting through thehaze. Patients were herded to the
parking lot, wheelchairs andgurneys bumping over asphalt under
the sodium glow of streetlights. A skeleton crew stayed with
Goria, two doctors, a nurseand a tech pounding her chest, shocking
her with a defibrillator at8:50pm After 35 grueling minutes,
(21:53):
her heart flatlined. Kidneyfailure from cancer, they'd later
say. But the room told adifferent story. The hospital locked
down. Staff whispered incorners, their scrubs stained with
sweat and fear. Hazmat teamsin yellow suits stormed in, sweeping
for toxins, sewer gas or maybea rope pesticide from the fields
(22:16):
nearby. Air vents were checkedand floors were tested. Nothing.
Gloria's body, now classifiedas a biohazard, was sealed in a bag
and carted to a refrigeratedtrailer, her autopsy delayed as officials
scrambled for answers. Herfamily, Johnny, her sister, Maggie
(22:36):
Ramirez, Garcia, and her kidswere left in the dark, reeling from
loss and confusion. Weekslater, on April 12, the coroner's
team finally began an autopsy.But the body was a wreck, decomposed
beyond recognition, organsmushy and cross contaminated, and
(22:57):
her heart was mysteriouslygone. Natural causes, they ruled,
depending on her cancer.Maggie didn't buy it. At a press
conference, her voice trembledwith fury. Ten weeks to tell us this.
She was fine until she gotthere. They did something to her.
Johnny quieter Just stared atthe ground, clutching a photo of
(23:19):
Gloria smiling with her kids.Theories exploded. Lawrence Livermore
National Laboratory pitched awild one. Gloria might have used
dimethyl sulfoxide, a garagesale painkiller popular among the
desperate. In her failingkidneys, it could have turned to
dimethyl sulphone, thosecrystals in her blood. Add oxygen
(23:43):
from the paramedics and a joltfrom the defibrillator, and it might
have become dimethyl sulfate,a deadly gas that vanishes fast.
It fit the symptoms. Burninglungs and fainting. But Johnny claimed
she had never used dmso, andnone was found on her or in her home.
Skeptics scoffed. Otherspointed fingers. A hospital cover
(24:07):
up, a botched treatment, evenmass hysteria fueled by panic. From
that eerie smell, a fringetailclaimed she had crossed a meth lab's
path, her IV spiked withmethylamine. No proof stuck. Gloria
was buried on April 20, 1994,at Olive Wood Memorial park under
(24:29):
a gray sky. Her headstone wassimple. Her family's grief anything
but. The Toxic lady became alegend. Tabloids ate it up. Scientists
debated it. Riversidewhispered about it for years. Nurses
like Susan and Julie recoveredbut never forgot. The night they
fell, Maureen, scarred byrespiratory damage, quit the field.
(24:53):
The hospital plodded on itswalls, holding secrets no one could
pry loose. Was Goria thevictim of a chemical fluke? A toxic
phantom born of desperation?Or did she stumble into a truth too
slippery for us to grasp, atruth that felled those who tried
to save her? In the end, thedoctors recovered, the hospital endured,
(25:17):
and. And the world moved on.But the scent of that night. Ammonia,
garlic, and fear lingers inthe memory of Riverside, a reminder
that sometimes the answers weseek evaporate like mist, leaving
only the echo of what mighthave been. For Gloria Ramirez, and
for us, this is the finalchart. Note When Reality Frays. The
(25:43):
stories presented are inspiredby true events. Names may have been
changed for privacy reasons.New episodes of When Reality Freys
are uploaded every Monday andThursday. If you're enjoying the
journey into the strange, themysterious, and the unexplained,
be sure to press that Followor Subscribe button and turn on all
(26:04):
reminders so you're alertedwhenever an episode drops. Until
next time, thank you forlistening 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
(00:23):
and tugs at the spirit. It's adescent into the strange, the mysterious,
and and the unexplained. Thisis when reality frays. New episodes
are published every Monday andThursday, and when Reality Phrase
is available everywhere, finepodcasts are found. Before we move
(00:45):
on, please hit that Follow orSubscribe button and turn on all
reminders so you are alertedwhen new episodes are released. Today's
episode contains two stories.First up is the Watcher in the Pines,
a story about what's hiding inan Arizona forest. And the second
(01:07):
story of the day is the ToxicLady, a strange tale about a woman
who was too dangerous for anemergency room. Now let's get to
the stories. This is theWatcher in the Pines. Jake Hensley
(01:27):
wasn't built for cities. At32, he was a lanky, sun creased loner
who had spent his life chasingedges edges of storms, edges of canyons,
edges of light. Growing up inFlagstaff, Arizona, he'd been the
kid with scabby knees and athrift store Kodak, snapping aspens
(01:47):
in snow or ravens on powerlines. His mother, a diner waitress,
had called him her hawk,always watching, never still. His
dad, a long gone logger, lefthim a battered topographical map
of Arizona, creased and coffeestained. That map inspired Jake to
(02:07):
photography, then freelancegigs for Arizona highways and outdoor
blogs that barely covered hisrent and ramen. The Mogollon Rim
was his holy ground, a massivegeological feature that sharply divides
Arizona between high countryto the north and lowland deserts
to the south. It's not just aridge. It's a dramatic escarpment
(02:31):
stretching over 200 miles fromwest to east, with elevation ranges
from 4,000 to over 8,000ftabove the desert. He had camped it
more times than he couldremember, chasing shots of elk against
its cliffs or the way dawnsplit its canyons. The monster stories.
He'd heard them all, which hedismissed as Bartok and Payson or
(02:54):
X threads from tinfoil hattypes, red eyes, big feet, screams,
bears and drunks. He'd scoff.Still, he always packed a knife and
bear spray, a habit from yearsalone in the wild. It was September
26, 2023, when he pointed hisTacoma pickup north from Phoenix.
(03:18):
The Muckeone Rim rose ahead adark jaw of basalt and pine under
a sky smudged with late summerhaze. He had picked Horton Creek
for this trip, two hours fromhome off Forest Road 289, a quiet
bend where the ponderosasthickened and the creek whispered
through limestone. Threenights solo, a chance to reset his
(03:44):
Nikon hung around his neck, ajournal and pencil in his pack. He
was determined to get a shotgood enough to catch the attention
of National Geographic. Dayone was perfect. He pitched his tent
in a quiring ringed by pines,their needles a soft rust underfoot
snapped a mule deer buck atdusk, antlers velvet black against
(04:06):
the orange glow, then cookedbeans over a fire that spat sparks
into the night. The cricketssang him to sleep, a steady hum blending
with the creek's murmur. Daytwo started crisp. He brewed coffee
on a camp stove, chewed agranola bar, and hiked a mile up
the Horton Trail, cameraready. After a long day of exploration
(04:30):
and picks that he hoped wouldcome out better than expected, he
began the trek back to camp.Along the way he spied a red tailed
hawk soaring high above,hunting for dinner. Raising the camera,
he was framing a photo of thehawk as its wings flared and talons
glinted. When the worldstopped, the breeze quit mid gust.
(04:53):
The hawk banked hard andvanished. No bird calls, no pine
needle rustle, just asuffocating stillness that pressed
down on him. Jake lowered thecamera, his breath shallow. Then
the smell hit a gut twist ofrotting fish, wet metal, and something
acrid like a battery leakingacid. It clawed his nose, stung his
(05:17):
eyes. He turned, scanning thetrees. Shadows stretched long, the
light bleeding out fast, butnothing moved. Bear, he muttered,
though his gut said no. Bear.Stink was rank, musky. This was sharper,
different in a way he couldn'tput to words. He turned back for
(05:39):
camp, boots crunching louderin the silence, a prickle crawling
up his spine. When he arrived,he paused in surprise. The fire pit
was a mess. Rocks, fist sizedchunks he had hauled from the creek
way scattered like a bomb hadgone off. Ashes dusted the ground.
His tent stood untouched, packstill zipped, but the scene gnawed
(06:03):
at him. Wind, he said aloud,voiced flat in the dead air. Shrugging
it off, he rebuilt the firelayer, lowered himself onto a camp
stool and focused his lens onthe tree line. The smell faded, then
surged, teasing. Dusk fellheavy, the pines black against a
(06:23):
bruised sky. He ate coldjerky, skipping the stove, and crawled
into his tent, unease coilingin his gut. Sleep wouldn't come,
and the crickets stayedsilent. At 2:14am A twig snapped
sharp and close, maybe 20yards north. Then another, slower,
(06:44):
deliberate. Jake grabbed hisflashlight, unzipped the flap with
a shaky rasp, and swept thebeam. Two red pinpricks flared back,
high, too high, 8 or 9ft offthe ground, bright as brake lights,
then gone. His chest locked.Who's there? He yelled, voice splintering
(07:06):
into the dark. Silenceswallowed his call. The flashlight
beam trembled, catching pinetrunks and underbrush, but no shape
and no sound. He clutched hisknife blade out and waited, ears
straining. Exhaustion finallydragged him down. He zipped up, curled
(07:27):
tight and dozed, dreaming ofred eyes boring through the nylon.
Dawn broke, gray mist curlingoff the creek. Jake stumbled out,
bleary and froze. Footprintscircled his tent. Big, bare, humanlike
but warped. He knelt by 119inches, heel to toe, wider than his
(07:50):
size 11, boot by half, toessplayed like a starfish, deep an
inch into the dirt, heavierthan he could press. No claws, just
that eerie oversized shape.His breath fogged as he grabbed the
Nikon, snapped 20 shots,zooming on the edges, the texture,
(08:11):
the way they looped his camp.Then he saw the nest, 50ft off, under
a pine's overhang, a crudebowl of twigs, pinecones and deer
hair matted with mud.Something white gleamed, a rib bone,
maybe an elk. The smell hungthick, sour and metallic, choking
(08:32):
him. He snapped blurry picks,gagging, and backed away, eyes darting.
Coffee didn't happen. Hepacked in a frenzy, tent down, bag,
stuffed, stove clattering,slung it over his shoulder and hit
the trail. The two mile hiketo his truck felt endless, pines
crowding tighter, theirshadows clawing his path. Halfway
(08:55):
down, a rock clattered behinda small fist sized stone bouncing
off a trunk. He spun, breathhitching, but there was nothing there.
Another rock, bigger, sailedfrom a thicket and thudded at his
feet, rolling to a stop. Leaveme alone. He shouted, voice bouncing
off the canyon. A third rock,baseball sized, whistled past his
(09:20):
ear, cracking a branch. Then ascream erupted, a high, warbling
wail starting, human droppingto a guttural snarl that shook the
air. It echoed through theforest, silencing the world. Jake
ran, boots slamming, packjouncing, lungs burning till he hit
the trailhead. He fumbled hiskeys, dove into his truck and floored
(09:43):
it, dust choking the rearview. Home felt too small that night.
Jake dumped the photos ontohis laptop, hands still shaky. The
prints were stark, tooperfect, some would say. He posted
them to X with no caption,just shots. The date and Horton Creek.
(10:04):
The thread blew up. Plasterhoax. One guy sniped beartrax. Idiot.
Another, a cryptonut dmed him.Muggy on Monster. You're marked now.
But the locals had a differenttake. A Payson hunter posted that.
He saw it in 89 near bearflat. 8ft. Red eyes. Threw a log
(10:26):
at my truck. You got off easy.A retired forest ranger found nests
like that in 96 near BlueRidge. Bones and feathers. Said he
never told the brass becauseit was too weird. An old Payson Roundup
scan landed in his inbox.1973, a hiker claiming a hairy giant
(10:48):
impaled a deer skull 10ft up apine. Same smell, same scream. Sleep
became his enemy. He kept theknife on his nightstand, bare spray
by the door. Windows locked. Aweek later he drove to Payson's Rim
Country Tavern, where heshowed the pics to an old timer with
a Coors and a cough. Monster'sreal, the guy rasped, eyes cloudy.
(11:14):
Watched my camp in 82. Stinklike death. Never hurt you. Just
want you gone. Best leave itbe. Jake nodded, bought him a beer,
and left the man's wordslooping in his head. The photos he
had posted spread. He sold oneto weird Arizona for $200, but the
(11:34):
cash felt dirty. His journalsat open, half scrawled. I don't
know what it was. Smelled me.Saw me. Circled me. It knew I was
there and let me go. Winterburied the Rim in snow, and Jake
stayed home, editing shots inhis dim apartment. But the smell
crept back. Faint, sour,metallic. Late at night, unbidden,
(11:59):
he'd check the locks, scan thedark, and see nothing. Friends noticed
he'd gone quiet, jumpy, hishawkeyes darting too fast. Spring
came and he got a call. Aranger buddy, Tom, working Tonto
National Forest, foundsomething near Horton. Tom said,
(12:19):
voice low. Nest bigger thanyours. Fresh tracks, at least 22
inches. Thought you'd want toknow. Jake's stomach sank. Burned
it, tom added. Didn't do areport, and keep it quiet. I don't
need the headache, jakeagreed. But the itch grew. He dug
online, old forums, grainyscans. A 1910 rancher shot at a hairy
(12:45):
thief. A 1957 trucker swervedfrom glowing eyes. By summer he was
back, only in a differentspot. Fossil Creek, 10 miles west.
One night. No monster, justshots of waterfalls. Proof he could
face the rim again. Butdriving home, a rock pinged off his
(13:07):
windshield. Small, precisefrom a roadside thicket. He didn't
stop. The pickup's cab stayedlocked that night, the knife close.
Whatever watched him at Hortonhadn't forgotten his intrusion into
its world. Globally, Bigfootsightings share recurring elements
(13:27):
remote locations, largefootprints up to 24 inches long,
and a foul smell or eeriecries. Witnesses range from hunters
and hikers to police officers.Yet skepticism abounds. Many scientists
attribute sightings tomisidentified animals. Black bears
in North America, forinstance, which can stand upright
(13:50):
right and match somedescriptions or hoaxes. A 2024 study
by the Folk Zoology Societyfound a tenuous correlation between
US Bigfoot sightings and blackbear populations, suggesting misidentification
as a key factor. Despite this,over 23,000 sightings have been logged
(14:13):
in the US alone since the late1800s, with thousands more worldwide.
Whether a real creature, acultural phenom, or a product of
imagination, Bigfoot's globalpresence in human storytelling remains
undeniable. Probably the mosttelling fact that supports something
being out there is that globalreports of a Bigfoot like creature
(14:37):
began long before the adventof global communication, seemingly
eliminating the possibility ofsomeone in a distant country responding
to a report sighting with afake one of their own. The legend
has persisted throughout muchof the world. In North America, the
Sasquatch. In Asia, the Yeti.In Europe, the Wildman. Australia
(15:00):
has the Yowie, and Africa hasthe Kikomba. Do you spot the notable
absence in this list? SouthAmerica. While they certainly have
their share of strangesightings, there's nothing that fits
the Bigfoot model. So what arepeople seeing and how has it stayed
in the shadows for so long?Have you ever had an encounter you
(15:22):
can't explain? If so, let meknow in the comments below. If you're
enjoying the stories, pleaseconsider donating to support the
research and production thatgo into bringing them to you by buying
me a coffee. The link to sendsupport is in the episode's show
notes. I would greatlyappreciate it. Now on to today's
(15:45):
second story, which is theToxic Lady. Meet goria Ramirez, age
31, a woman whose life isticking down to its final hours in
Riverside, California. On anunremarkable evening in February
1994, she enters an emergencyroom seeking salvation from a body
(16:09):
betrayed by illness. But whatbegins as a routine call for help
spirals into a nightmare noone could foresee. A night where
the air turns poison, wherescience stumbles, and where reality
frays. This is the story ofthe Toxic Lady. The night was crisp
(16:31):
in Riverside, California, asmall city nestled inland from Los
Angeles, where the hum ofsuburban life rarely broke into chaos.
It was Saturday, February 19,1994, and Gloria Ramirez, mother
of two, was fighting a battleshe couldn't win. Cervical cancer
had ravaged her body formonths, its late stage grip tightening
(16:55):
with every passing day. She'dbeen a cashier once, once, a woman
with dark hair and a quietresilience, raising her kids in a
modest home with herboyfriend, Johnny Estrada. But now
she was a shadow of herself,pale, frail, her strength sapped
by pain and sickness. Thatevening, around 8pm Goria's condition
(17:19):
cratered. Nausea twisted herstomach, vomiting drained what little
energy she had left, and herchest heaved with shallow, uneven
breaths. Johnny watched herdeteriorate, his hands shaking as
he dialed 911 from theircluttered living room. She's not
breathing right. Her heart'sgoing crazy, he told the operator,
(17:40):
his voice cracking. Pleasehurry, the dispatcher promised. Help
was on the way, and withinminutes the wail of sirens pierced
the quiet street. Paramedicsburst through the door, finding Gloria
slumped on the couch, her skinclammy and slick with an odd oily
sheen. They worked fast,strapping an oxygen mask to her face
(18:03):
and sliding an IV into herarm. Her pulse raced. Tachycardia,
they noted, and her breathingfollowed a haunting Shane Stokes
respiration, a gasping cyclethat signaled her body was shutting
down. She mumbled responses,her eyes glassy as they loaded her
onto a stretcher and spedtoward Riverside General Hospital,
(18:26):
a squat beige building just afew miles away. Johnny trailed in
his car, gripping the wheel,praying she'd hold on. Inside the
er, the trauma team snappedinto gear. It was a busy night with
car accidents, fevers, and theusual parade of Saturday emergencies,
but Gloria's case demandedfocus. She rolled into Trauma Room
(18:50):
1 at 8:15pm her stretcherclattering on the tiled floor. Nurses
Susan Kane and Deborah McNallyflanked her, hooking up monitors
that beeped in frantic rhythmwith her heart. Dr. Julie Gorkinski,
a second year resident withsharp eyes and a steady hand, took
charge while respiratorytherapist Maureen Welch adjusted
(19:12):
the oxygen flow. Dr. UmbertoOchoa, the grizzled ER chief, hovered
nearby, barking orders overthe den. Goria's cancer explained
her decline, but her symptomsfelt off, too acute, too strange.
The team pumped sedatives intoher IV Diazepam, mitazolam, lorazepam,
(19:35):
hoping to calm her thrashingand slow her heart. Maureen leaned
in, wiping sweat from Gloria'sbrow, and frowned at the oily sheen,
now more pronounced under thefluorescent lights. She looks slippery,
maureen muttered to Susan, whonodded but kept working. They tried
several more drugs, desperateto stabilize her arrhythmia. The
(19:59):
monitors blared on,unyielding, then came the turning
point. Susan, a veteran nursewith a no nonsense air, drew blood
from Gloria's arm for tests.As she pulled back the plunger, a
pungent, ammonia like stenchstung her nostrils. She recoiled,
holding the syringe up to thelight. What the hell is that? She
(20:22):
said, her voice tight. Juliestepped closer, peering at the manila
colored flakes dancing inGoria's blood like sediment in a
storm. Before she could speak,Susan's face went slack. She staggered,
her knees buckling, andcrashed to the floor in a heap. Julie's
stomach lurched, a wave ofdizziness hitting her hard. She stumbled
(20:46):
out of the room, collapsing atthe nurse's station, her vision blurring
to black. Maureen, still byGloria's side, felt her own chest
tighten, her legs wobble. Shehit the ground next. Chaos erupted.
A fruity, garlic like odorseeped from Goria's mouth, mixing
with a chemical reek comingfrom her blood. Nurses and techs
(21:09):
staggered, clutching theirheads and throats. 23 people would
fall ill that night, struck bydizziness, nausea and muscle spasms.
Five had to be hospitalized.One, a young aide, spent weeks in
ICU with breathing issues. Dr.Ochoa shouted to get everyone out,
(21:30):
his voice cutting through thehaze. Patients were herded to the
parking lot, wheelchairs andgurneys bumping over asphalt under
the sodium glow of streetlights. A skeleton crew stayed with
Goria, two doctors, a nurseand a tech pounding her chest, shocking
her with a defibrillator at8:50pm After 35 grueling minutes,
(21:53):
her heart flatlined. Kidneyfailure from cancer, they'd later
say. But the room told adifferent story. The hospital locked
down. Staff whispered incorners, their scrubs stained with
sweat and fear. Hazmat teamsin yellow suits stormed in, sweeping
for toxins, sewer gas or maybea rope pesticide from the fields
(22:16):
nearby. Air vents were checkedand floors were tested. Nothing.
Gloria's body, now classifiedas a biohazard, was sealed in a bag
and carted to a refrigeratedtrailer, her autopsy delayed as officials
scrambled for answers. Herfamily, Johnny, her sister, Maggie
(22:36):
Ramirez, Garcia, and her kidswere left in the dark, reeling from
loss and confusion. Weekslater, on April 12, the coroner's
team finally began an autopsy.But the body was a wreck, decomposed
beyond recognition, organsmushy and cross contaminated, and
(22:57):
her heart was mysteriouslygone. Natural causes, they ruled,
depending on her cancer.Maggie didn't buy it. At a press
conference, her voice trembledwith fury. Ten weeks to tell us this.
She was fine until she gotthere. They did something to her.
Johnny quieter Just stared atthe ground, clutching a photo of
(23:19):
Gloria smiling with her kids.Theories exploded. Lawrence Livermore
National Laboratory pitched awild one. Gloria might have used
dimethyl sulfoxide, a garagesale painkiller popular among the
desperate. In her failingkidneys, it could have turned to
dimethyl sulphone, thosecrystals in her blood. Add oxygen
(23:43):
from the paramedics and a joltfrom the defibrillator, and it might
have become dimethyl sulfate,a deadly gas that vanishes fast.
It fit the symptoms. Burninglungs and fainting. But Johnny claimed
she had never used dmso, andnone was found on her or in her home.
Skeptics scoffed. Otherspointed fingers. A hospital cover
(24:07):
up, a botched treatment, evenmass hysteria fueled by panic. From
that eerie smell, a fringetailclaimed she had crossed a meth lab's
path, her IV spiked withmethylamine. No proof stuck. Gloria
was buried on April 20, 1994,at Olive Wood Memorial park under
(24:29):
a gray sky. Her headstone wassimple. Her family's grief anything
but. The Toxic lady became alegend. Tabloids ate it up. Scientists
debated it. Riversidewhispered about it for years. Nurses
like Susan and Julie recoveredbut never forgot. The night they
fell, Maureen, scarred byrespiratory damage, quit the field.
(24:53):
The hospital plodded on itswalls, holding secrets no one could
pry loose. Was Goria thevictim of a chemical fluke? A toxic
phantom born of desperation?Or did she stumble into a truth too
slippery for us to grasp, atruth that felled those who tried
to save her? In the end, thedoctors recovered, the hospital endured,
(25:17):
and. And the world moved on.But the scent of that night. Ammonia,
garlic, and fear lingers inthe memory of Riverside, a reminder
that sometimes the answers weseek evaporate like mist, leaving
only the echo of what mighthave been. For Gloria Ramirez, and
for us, this is the finalchart. Note When Reality Frays. The
(25:43):
stories presented are inspiredby true events. Names may have been
changed for privacy reasons.New episodes of When Reality Freys
are uploaded every Monday andThursday. If you're enjoying the
journey into the strange, themysterious, and the unexplained,
be sure to press that Followor Subscribe button and turn on all
(26:04):
reminders so you're alertedwhenever an episode drops. Until
next time, thank you forlistening to When Reality Frays.
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