Episode 8 - An improbable haunting and Mist Walkers in an Oregon forest

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This podcast episode delves into the haunting narratives of the Sally House and the Obsidian Fog, exploring the thin line that separates reality from the inexplicable. The first tale recounts the experience of Emily Carter, a historian who seeks to debunk the legend of the Sally House, only to confront phenomena that challenge her skepticism and unravel her understanding of truth. In the second story, we follow Mia Callahan, a photographer venturing into the eerie depths of Oregon's Siouslaw National Forest, where she encounters enigmatic figures that blur the boundaries of existence and reality. Each narrative invites listeners to consider the nature of belief, the persistence of folklore, and the unsettling possibilities that lie beyond our perception. As these stories unfold, they compel us to question what lurks in the shadows of our understanding and the truths we may not be prepared to face.

The Sally House and the Obsidian Fog delve into the intricate interplay between skepticism and the supernatural, presenting a narrative that challenges our understanding of reality. At the heart of the first story lies the Sally House, situated in Atchison, Kansas, a place steeped in legend and whispered secrets. Emily Carter, a historian known for her rational approach to the paranormal, embarks on a quest to debunk the myths surrounding this infamous dwelling. Her journey leads her into a labyrinth of chilling experiences, as unexplained phenomena disrupt her logical framework. The tension escalates when she encounters manifestations that blur the line between the tangible and the spectral, compelling her to confront the unsettling notion that some truths may lie beyond the reach of reason.

The tale unfolds against the backdrop of a modest house, its history tainted by tragedy and betrayal. As Emily digs deeper into the past, she uncovers the sorrowful story of a young girl named Sally, whose untimely death has left an indelible mark on the household. The narrative intricately weaves together threads of personal loss, historical inquiry, and the haunting echoes of a restless spirit, culminating in a profound exploration of how the past can shape our present. Emily's skepticism is put to the ultimate test as she grapples with the chilling reality that some houses harbor more than mere memories; they are vessels of unfulfilled grief and lingering despair.

In contrast, the second story, the Obsidian Fog, introduces us to Mia Callahan, a photographer seeking beauty within the enigmatic confines of Oregon's Siouslaw National Forest. This narrative shifts from the historical to the contemporary, portraying Mia's solitary venture into a realm where the natural world converges with the otherworldly. As she navigates the depths of the forest, she encounters strange figures and unsettling sounds that challenge her perception of the environment. The fog, laden with secrets and the promise of the unknown, becomes a character in its own right, enveloping Mia and leading her to confront her deepest fears. This story serves as a poignant reminder of the fragility of reality and the mysteries that linger just beyond the veil of comprehension, suggesting that some encounters with the unknown may leave indelible marks on the soul.

Takeaways:

• The Sally House exemplifies the conflict between skepticism and the inexplicable, as illustrated by Emily Carter's experiences.
• Mia Callahan's encounter in the Obsidian Fog challenges her perception of reality and the unknown.
• Both stories highlight the fragility of rationality when confronted with forces beyond comprehension.
• The podcast emphasizes the concept that some truths may remain elusive, forever hidden beneath the veil of...

Episode Transcript

(00:05):
Imagine a world teetering onthe edge of the familiar, a place
where the fabric of theeveryday begins to unravel, revealing
glimpses of the extraordinarylurking beneath.
You're about to embark on ajourney into the enigmatic, where
the peculiar and theperplexing intertwine, where every
tale twists the mind and tugsat the spirit.

(00:26):
It's a descent into thestrange, the mysterious, and the
unexplained.
This is when reality frays.
New episodes are publishedevery Monday and Thursday, and when
Reality Phrase is availableeverywhere, fine podcasts are found.

(00:47):
Before we move on, please hitthat Follow or Subscribe button and
turn on all reminders soyou're alerted when new episodes
are released.
Today's episode contains two stories.
First up is the Sowie House, astory about what happens when a skeptical
woman encounters something shecan't explain.

(01:10):
And the second story of theday is the Obsidian Fog, a strange
tale about coming face to facewith something beyond the veil of
reason.
Now let's get to the stories.
A house at 508 N.
2nd St.

(01:30):
Atchison, Kansas, a modestdwelling in a quiet town where the
river bends and the pastrefuses to rest.
Its name is whispered in shadows.
A tale of a little girl namedSally, a tragedy etched in screams,
and a spirit bound by betrayal.
Enter Emily Carter, a womanarmed with reason, a historian who

(01:53):
believes that truth lies inink and paper, not in murmurs of
the night.
She's come to unravel a legendto prove that ghosts are merely echoes
of our own making.
But in this house where thewalls hum and the air grows cold,
she'll find that some doors,once opened, lead not to answers,
but that place where reality frays.

(02:18):
This is the story of the Sowie House.
Atchison, Kansas, was a towncaught between the living and the
dead, a place where theMissouri River's slow churn carried
echoes of forgotten stories.
Its streets, lined withsagging Victorian homes and gnarled
oaks, held a quiet beauty.

(02:38):
But beneath the surfacesimmered a restless past.
At the edge of this scenestood 508 N.
2nd St.
The Saue House, a modest twostory relic that seemed to lean into
the shadows.
Its white siding peeled likeold skin and its windows stared out
with a hollow gaze.

(02:59):
To the people of Atchison, itwas more than a house.
It was a wound that refused toheal, a name whispered in hushed
tones over kitchen tables andbar stools.
By the fall of 1992, itslegend had spread beyond the riverbanks,
drawing those hungry foranswers or thrills.

(03:20):
Emily Carter was the former,though she'd never admit to the latter.
Emily rolled into town onOctober 13, her rust streaked station
wagon coughing to a stop infront of the house.
At 28, she was a historianwith a reputation for dismantling
ghost stories, her sharp mindmatched only by her sharper skepticism.

(03:43):
Her dark hair was perpetuallyescaping its bun, and her hazel eyes
glinted with a mix ofcuriosity and defiance.
She had spent her careerchasing the truth behind the paranormal
Ouija boards, poltergeists,haunted asylums, always finding mundane
explanations beneath the hype.

(04:04):
The Sallie house was herlatest challenge, a tale too persistent
to ignore.
The story was simple enough.
A little girl named Sally, 6years old, brought to Dr.
Charles Finney's home in the1870s with a raging fever.
Diagnosed with appendicitis,he had operated in a panic, slicing

(04:25):
into her before the chloroformtook hold.
Her screams had faded intodeath, and her spirit fell.
Furious and betrayed lingered,lashing out at men who crossed her
threshold.
Emily didn't believe inghosts, but she believed in history.
She had rented the house for aweek to peel back the layers of myth

(04:46):
and find the facts.
The owner, Tom Hensley, mether at the door, a wiry man with
a graying beard and eyes thatdarted nervously.
Don't stir up what's sleeping,he warned, handing her a rusted key.
Folks say it's a girl, but Ireckon it's something else.
Emily brushed off his cryptic tone.

(05:08):
She stepped inside, the airthick with the scent of dust and
damp wood.
The house was sparselyfurnished, a sagging sofa in the
living room, a scarred tablein the kitchen, a stereo that played
oh, Susanna on an endless loop.
A quirk, Tom insisted, thatkept the place calm.

(05:28):
Upstairs, the nursery held arocking chair, a scattering of faded
toys, and a stillness thatclung like old cobwebs.
Emily unpacked her a spiralnotebook, a tape recorder, a Polaroid
camera, a thermos of blackcoffee, and a flashlight.
She was ready to wage war onthe unknown.

(05:50):
The first night was quiet.
The house creaked and groaned,its bones settling under the weight
of a century, but Emily sleptundisturbed in the downstairs bedroom.
Her dreams were filled withledger lines and ink stained fingers,
not spectral cries.
The next morning she drove tothe Atchison Historical Society,

(06:12):
a squat brick building stuffedwith the town's past.
She pored over census records,property deeds, and brittle newspapers,
her pen scratching notes in afurious rhythm.
Charles Finney, physician, hadlived at 508 North 2nd from 1867
to 1890 with his wife,Margaret, and two sons James and

(06:35):
Edward.
No daughters.
His practice was noted in taxlogs, but there were no reports of
a child's death and nomalpractice scandals.
The haunting's origin was tiedto the Pickman family, who had lived
there in 1983.
Their stories of phantoms,objects moving on their own, and
a voice telling them to harmtheir children had birthed the Sally

(06:59):
legend.
That evening she returned tothe house, leaning into her skepticism.
She set her recorder in thekitchen where the surgery supposedly
happened and began.
October 14, 1992.
Day one.
No evidence of a Sowie inFinney's records.
The Pickman claims suggest amodern myth.

(07:21):
Structural issues orsuggestion likely.
The recorder died.
She tapped it, checked thebatteries new that morning, and tried
again.
Nothing.
A low hum rose not from thestereo but from the walls, vibrating
through her boots.
She ignored it, but a chilllingered as she moved to the living

(07:43):
room, where, oh, Susannahdroned on, its notes warped and tinny.
Night fell like a curtain,heavy and dark.
Emily sat with her notebook,sipping tea when a thud echoed from
upstairs, a soft, deliberatedrop like a child's ball hitting
the floor.
Her heart stuttered, but sheforced herself to climb the stairs,

(08:06):
flashlight in hand.
The nursery door, which shehad shut that morning, yawned open.
Inside, a rubber ball rolledlazily across the floor.
Stopping at her feet, shepicked it up, its surface cold as
river ice, and placed it onthe rocking chair.
Wind, she muttered.

(08:26):
Though the windows were sealedDownstairs, she recorded the incident,
her voice steady but tight.
Unexplained movement in thenursery, ball on the floor, likely
a draft.
The next two days chipped awayat her resolve.
Lights flickered withoutpattern, on, off, on again.

(08:47):
Despite a stable fuse box.
Footsteps pattered across the ceiling.
At odd hours, though, theattic held only dust and dead birds
who had found their way in butnot out.
On the third night, as shebrewed coffee, a shadow darted past
the kitchen doorway.
Small, fleeting.
A child's silhouette.

(09:08):
She snapped a Polaroid, theflash bleaching the room, but the
photo showed nothing but thetable and a cracked wall.
Her notes grew jagged.
Fatigue.
Hallucination.
Something's here.
The house felt alive, itswalls pulsing with intent, and Emily
began to wonder if she hadmisjudged its silence.

(09:30):
On the fourth day, she soughtanswers in town.
At the diner, she met MarjorieQuine, an elderly woman with a face
like weathered parchment.
Marjorie had grown up threehouses down from 508 in the 1930s.
That place was always wrong,she said, her voice low over a cup
of weak coffee.

(09:51):
Kids dared each other to knockand run.
But no one stayed after the Finneys.
Tenants came a went, said theyfelt cold spots and heard whispers.
One man, a carpenter in 56,swore something pushed him down the
stairs.
Then the Pickmans gave it a name.
Sally.

(10:11):
Emily pressed for more.
Was there a girl?
Marjorie shrugged.
Records don't say, but thatdon't mean much.
Something's there, girl or not.
Something older, maybe.
That night the house turned on her.
She awoke at 3:17am to ascream, a child's, raw and piercing,

(10:32):
erupting from the walls themselves.
She bolted upright, grabbingher recorder.
October 17th heard a scream,clear as day.
Checking the kitchen, thestairs stretched endlessly, each
step colder, the air thickwith a metallic tangled in the kitchen.
The stereo was silent,replaced by that humming pulse.

(10:55):
She flicked on the light, andthere on the table sat the rubber
ball.
Beside it, the words HE HURTME scratched deep into the wood.
Her Polaroid captured it, theflash glinting off the jagged letters.
She played the recording,expecting her voice alone.
Instead, a child's whisperwove through her words.

(11:18):
Why didn't you help me?
The tape hissed, and a deepersound emerged, a low, guttural rasp,
not a child's, mutteringsomething near unintelligible, though
Emily swore it was repeatingher name over and over.
She didn't sleep.
She sat in the living room,replaying the tape until the batteries
died, the Polaroid tremblingin her hand.

(11:42):
The child's voice was real,later analysis confirmed, but the
rasp baffled experts.
It wasn't a human voice, butthe experts couldn't agree on what
the source was.
But most were in agreementthat it sounded as if it were saying
Emily over and over.
By dawn, Emily decided toleave her skepticism, struggling

(12:04):
with her experiences in the house.
As she packed, the rockingchair upstairs creaked to life, slow
and deliberate, a rhythm nobreeze could explain.
She grabbed her bag and fledthe house, a blur in her rearview
mirror.
She stopped at a gas stationon the edge of town, where a grizzled

(12:24):
quirk eyed her pale face.
You stayed at 5:08, didn't you?
He asked.
She nodded.
Mute.
Folks say it's a girl, but Iheard different growing up.
My grandpa worked theriverboats, said that land was cursed
long before the house.
There's something else.
Darker, older, rooted deep.

(12:45):
It's not no ghost.
It's a cage.
And it's still hungry.
Emily Carter came to Atchisonseeking the truth, a rational mind
determined to sift fact from fiction.
In the Legend of the SowieHouse, she left with a question that
gnaws at the what lingers inthe spaces we cannot see?

(13:05):
Was it Sally?
A child lost to time, cryingout for justice?
Or something older, somethingdarker, a shadow that wears the mask
of innocence to lure thecurious into its grasp?
In the end, the house remainsa silent sentinel on a quiet street,
its secrets locked withinwalls that hum with a hunger all

(13:27):
their own.
A reminder, perhaps, that inthe pursuit of truth, we may stumble
into a truth we're notprepared to face when reality frays.
If you're enjoying thestories, please consider donating
to support the research andproduction that go into bringing

(13:49):
them to you by buying me a coffee.
The link to send support is inthe episode's show notes.
I would greatly appreciate it.
Now on to today's secondstory, which is the Obsidian Fog.
Picture a solitary woman namedMia Callahan, armed with a camera,

(14:11):
venturing into the shadoweddepths of Oregon's Sioux Law National
Forest.
She seeks beauty in the wild,a fleeting moment to capture and
share.
But tonight, under a skyswallowed by fog, she'll find something
else, something that watchesfrom beyond the veil of reason.
For Mia is about to stepacross a threshold into a realm where

(14:34):
the forest keeps secrets olderthan time itself.
This is the story of theObsidian Fog.
Mia Callahan was no strangerto solitude.
A freelance photographer, shehad carved her own niche, capturing
the raw, untamed beauty of theworld's forgotten places windswept

(14:56):
Patagonian steppes,Greenland's ice choked fjords, and
now the labyrinthine depths ofOregon's Siouxlaw National Forest.
Her Instagram showcased mistylandscapes and cryptic captions that
hinted at her restless spirit.
She had grown up in fosterhomes, learning early to rely on
herself.

(15:17):
Her camera was a shieldagainst a world that felt too loud
and too crowded.
The forest, with its promiseof bioluminescent fungi glowing in
secret hollows, was her latest escape.
In Florence, a weatheredcoastal town, she lingered in a diner,
overhearing locals swap talesof mist walkers, ethereal beams said

(15:39):
to haunt the fog, luringhikers into oblivion.
The stories were laced with warnings.
Don't camp alone.
Don't follow the whispers.
IYA listened with a jaded mind.
She had debunked haunted ruinsin Peru and cursed caves in Wales.
This was just another myth tophotograph and dissect.

(16:01):
Today she'd hiked five milesinto the forest, her her pack heavy
with supplies, a tent, and aworn journal where she sketched ideas.
The trees loomed, theirbranches knitting the canopy that
dimmed the late September sun.
By dusk, she had pitched hertent near a ravine.
The air Thick with cedar anddamp earth.

(16:24):
Her campfire crackled, but itslight was muted by an encroaching
fog.
It came in swift on, unnaturalto someone unfamiliar with that part
of Oregon.
The forest's usual chorus ofcrickets and wind vanished, leaving
a silence that pressed againsther ears.
Mia checked her watch.
9:37pm she was startled andforgot the watch when a moaning sound

(16:49):
began.
It could have been a sigh ofwind high in the trees or the surf
crashing on a rocky shoreline,but the air was still and she wasn't
near the coast.
The moaning grew no longer asingle voice, but dozens layered
in a language of jaggedsyllables, like glass ground into

(17:10):
song.
Breath coming short and fast,she clicked on a flashlight and gasped
to see the blanketing fog glowto faint green and pulsed like a
heartbeat.
The air grew frigid, carryingunidentifiable scents.
Something sharp, like ozone orspilled blood.
Shadows coalesced in the mist.

(17:32):
Tall, impossibly thin figures,their limbs unnaturally long, bending
at angles that mocked anatomy.
Their heads were elongated,featureless save for eyes like polished
obsidian, glinting with aninner light that seemed to poet her
thoughts.
They seemed to glide as theycircled her camp, their forms flickering

(17:53):
in and out.
The moans swelled with whatseemed to be a language, but one
Mia had never heard.
The ground vibrated faintly asa low hum she felt in her bones rose
in counterpoint to the alien words.
The figures didn't advance,but their presence was a weight,
a silent demand.

(18:14):
Mia, shaking with fear, wantedto run, wanted to escape the nightmare
swirling around her, but herlegs refused to cooperate.
The figures voices rooted her,tugging at memories.
Foster home's, her mother'sface lost to her.
At 6, the hum intensified andone figure paused, its obsidian eyes

(18:35):
locking onto hers.
A vision flashed a a vast,glowing forest under a sky of twin
moons, its trees alive,branches and vines reaching out to
ensnare her in their grip.
Fear broke her paralysis andshe bolted.
Branches caught her face andthe fog clung like wet silk, slowing

(18:57):
her.
The moans now inside her skullurged her deeper into the forest.
Her boots sank into mud.
Then something softer and yielding.
She tripped and fell into astream, its water glowing faintly,
the surface vibrating in syncwith the moans echoing through the
forest.
Figures swirled around heragain, moving faster and faster in

(19:21):
her orbit until details blurred.
Then, as if Mother Natureherself took mercy on Mia, a strong
wind came up, shredding thefog and dispersing, piercing the
figures within.
Their moaning was replaced bythe roar of wind sighing through
the forest canopy.
Fog gone.
Dawn's light crept through thetrees gasping.

(19:44):
Mia lay in the stream, herbody bruised, her mind frayed.
The forest was ordinary again.
Birds sang, welcoming the day.
But her watch was still frozen.
At 9:37, soaking wet andshivering, Mia retraced her steps
to her camp.
But everything was gone.
No tent, no fire pit, no traceof her ever having been there.

(20:09):
If not for a tree with aunique twist to its gnarled trunk,
she would have believed shewasn't at the right spot.
But she'd taken note of itwhile setting up camp the previous
evening.
Back home in Portland, Mia unraveled.
She stopped posting online,her followers flooding her DMs with
concern.

(20:29):
Sleep brought nightmares offog shrouded forests, of moans swirling
around her in darkness, ofobsidian eyes that seemed to stare
into her soul.
Strangers in coffee shops andon buses stared, their eyes lingering
as if they sensed something.
Her apartment's mirrors showedfleeting shapes, tall and thin, gone

(20:52):
when she turned.
At night, moans in that alientongue, faint but relentless, haunted
her.
She tried sage, therapy, evena priest.
Nothing silenced it.
Her dreams grew vivid.
A night sky with twin moons, acity of glass spires where the figures

(21:12):
waited.
She would wake gasping, herhands smudged with ash she couldn't
explain.
Mia bought a plane ticket toArizona, hoping the dry desert would
be the antidote she needed.
On the flight, she sketchedthe figures compulsively, her pen
moving as if guided as theplane flew south over the untamed

(21:34):
wilderness of the Pacific Northwest.
She glanced out the window.
Below in the clouds, a greenfog swirled, and within it, flecks
of obsidian like unblinkingeyes seemed to be looking back.
Mia lowered the shade andclutched the journal tight to her
chest as her breath came inshort pants.

(21:54):
An hour later, she summonedthe courage to raise the shade.
They were flying over Nevada,and it was a perfectly clear night.
The ground below was brightlylit by moonlight.
Mia huffed a sigh of relief.
For several long moments, shesimply stared at the desert, marveling
at how clear the air was.

(22:15):
Leaning back in her seat,intending to close her eyes for a
nap, she glanced out thewindow at the full moon and froze,
unable to speak or even blink.
Chills of terror rippledthrough her as she stared at twin
moons.
Mia Callahan, a woman armedwith a camera, seeking beauty in

(22:37):
the wilds of Orange, Oregon'sSisloo National Forest.
She came to capture thefleeting, to pin reality to a frame.
But reality, you see, is afragile thing, and the forest keeps
secrets older than time itself.
Mia crossed a threshold into arealm where eyes of obsidian watch
from beyond the veil wheretwin moons cast their alien light.

(23:01):
She fled, believing distancecould save her.
But some doors, once opened,never close.
The stories presented areinspired by true events.
Names may have been changedfor privacy reasons.
New episodes of When RealityPhrase are uploaded every Monday

(23:22):
and Thursday.
If you're enjoying the journeyinto the strange, the mysterious,
and the unexplained, be sureto press that Follow, Follow or subscribe
button and turn on allreminders so you're alerted whenever
an episode drops.
Until next time, thank you forlistening to When Reality Phrase.