October 4, 2025 • 10 mins
Check out our Halloween Pop-up Channel here.
Silas's fourth recording reveals seven-year-old Timothy Brennan communicating with his grandmother who died eleven years earlier. In the perpetually flooded basement, she teaches him words that burn his tongue and symbols that make his nose bleed—preparing him to be a conduit for something ancient. Margaret meets the current Timothy, now 57, who reveals the horrifying truth: every fifty years, a seven-year-old Brennan boy is chosen to speak the words that weaken reality's barriers. His own grandson, another Timothy aged seven, is now receiving the same terrible lessons. The basement shows reflections of all the Timothys across time, all learning to become keys that unlock what should stay buried. The fourth point of the Pattern isn't a place—it's a child.
Unlock an ad-free podcast experience with Caloroga Shark Media! Get all our shows on any player you love, hassle free! For Apple users, hit the banner on your Apple podcasts app. For Spotify or other players, visit caloroga.com/plus. No plug-ins needed!
Subscribe now for exclusive shows like 'Palace Intrigue,' and get bonus content from Deep Crown (our exclusive Palace Insider!) Or get 'Daily Comedy News,' and '5 Good News Stories’ with no commercials! Plans start at $4.99 per month, or save 20% with a yearly plan at $49.99. Join today and help support the show!
We now have Merch! FREE SHIPPING! Check out all the products like T-shirts, mugs, bags, jackets and more with logos and slogans from your favorite shows! Did we mention there’s free shipping? Get 10% off with code NewMerch10 Go to Caloroga.com
Get more info from Caloroga Shark Media and if you have any comments, suggestions, or just want to get in touch our email is info@caloroga.com
Silas's fourth recording reveals seven-year-old Timothy Brennan communicating with his grandmother who died eleven years earlier. In the perpetually flooded basement, she teaches him words that burn his tongue and symbols that make his nose bleed—preparing him to be a conduit for something ancient. Margaret meets the current Timothy, now 57, who reveals the horrifying truth: every fifty years, a seven-year-old Brennan boy is chosen to speak the words that weaken reality's barriers. His own grandson, another Timothy aged seven, is now receiving the same terrible lessons. The basement shows reflections of all the Timothys across time, all learning to become keys that unlock what should stay buried. The fourth point of the Pattern isn't a place—it's a child.
Unlock an ad-free podcast experience with Caloroga Shark Media! Get all our shows on any player you love, hassle free! For Apple users, hit the banner on your Apple podcasts app. For Spotify or other players, visit caloroga.com/plus. No plug-ins needed!
Subscribe now for exclusive shows like 'Palace Intrigue,' and get bonus content from Deep Crown (our exclusive Palace Insider!) Or get 'Daily Comedy News,' and '5 Good News Stories’ with no commercials! Plans start at $4.99 per month, or save 20% with a yearly plan at $49.99. Join today and help support the show!
We now have Merch! FREE SHIPPING! Check out all the products like T-shirts, mugs, bags, jackets and more with logos and slogans from your favorite shows! Did we mention there’s free shipping? Get 10% off with code NewMerch10 Go to Caloroga.com
Get more info from Caloroga Shark Media and if you have any comments, suggestions, or just want to get in touch our email is info@caloroga.com
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:03):
Calarugu Shark Media.
Speaker 2 (00:10):
Welcome to ghost Scary Stories and the October Records, a
month long Halloween nightmare. This is episode four, The Basement.
Speaker 3 (00:29):
October fourth, nineteen seventy four, Silas Crane. The Brennan family
called me this morning. They know I'm documenting these events.
Everyone knows. In a town like Millbrook, secrets are currency,
and right now everyone's bankrupt. Their son, Timothy, seven years old,
has been spending time in their basement hours, sometimes all night.
(00:53):
They find him standing in three inches of water that
floods their basement every October, standing perfectly still, perfectly dry,
talking to some one they can't see. He says it's
his grandmother, Patricia Brennan. She died in nineteen sixty three
when Timothy was barely walking, eleven years dead. But Timothy
(01:14):
describes her perfectly, the mole on her left cheek, the
way she hummed while cooking. Details he couldn't know. But
what she's teaching him, Missus Brennan showed me his drawings.
Cymbals that hurt to look at, patterns that make your
eyes water, and words. He's been speaking words in languages
(01:35):
that shouldn't exist, words that make his nose bleed, words
that leave burns on his tongue. This afternoon I went
to see him, found him in the basement. As they said,
the water was black, reflecting nothing. Timothy stood in the center,
eyes closed, reciting something. When he opened his eyes they
(01:56):
were clouded, but only for a moment. Then he looked
at me, this seven year old child, and said, she says,
you're documenting good. Someone needs to remember how we invited
them in, how we opened the door. The children are
always the key. We're small enough to fit through the cracks,
(02:16):
pure enough to be believed, young enough to be shaped.
Then he laughed, not a child's laugh, something else, wearing
a child's voice. He's being prepared for something. All the
children touched by this are being prepared.
Speaker 1 (02:36):
I arrived at the library at three am, unable to
sleep after what I'd witnessed at the hospital. The fourth
recording was waiting for me. Though I'd locked it in
my desk drawer, it sat on top of my keyboard,
the vinyl slightly warm to the touch, as if someone
had just handled it. Timothy Brennan, I knew that name
(02:58):
too well. There's a Timothy Brennan who comes to my
story hours, seven years old, like his predecessor in nineteen
seventy four, Quiet boy always sits in the back, always
staring at something just over my shoulder. His mother says
he's imaginative. His teachers say he's troubled. But after hearing
(03:21):
Silas his recording, I think he's something else. He's a conduit.
I found the current Timothy Brennan, the one who was
seven in nineteen seventy four, at his family's home on
Willow Street, Fifty seven years old, now working as an accountant,
(03:45):
living in the same house where he grew up, the
same house with the same basement. He answered the door
before I knocked. You're playing the recordings, he said. His
voice was flat, resigned. I wondered when they'd surface. Silas
said he was making them for the future. Guess the
(04:08):
future is now. He led me through a house that
felt heavy with memory. Family photos lined the walls, but
in each one, young Timothy stood slightly apart from the others,
as if occupying a different space. The basement, he said,
opening a door that had too many locks. You want
(04:28):
to see the basement. The wooden stairs creaked under our weight,
The air grew thick, damp, cold at the bottom. The
concrete floor was wet, not flooded, just wet, perpetually wet.
It never dries, Timothy said, fifty one years, and it
(04:51):
never dries. She made sure of that. Your grandmother, he laughed,
bitter and sharp. That's what she claimed to be. But
grandmothers don't teach you how to drown while breathing. Grandmothers
don't show you the spaces between seconds where the dark
water lives. On the walls were drawings, decades of them,
(05:15):
layer upon layer, some in crayon, some in marker, some
carved directly into the concrete, all showing the same thing.
Figures standing in water, hands reaching up from below, and
at the center, a child holding something, a key, a door,
(05:37):
a hole in the world. I drew those, Timothy said,
from age seven to seventeen, every time she visited, every
time she taught me something new. Then it stopped. October
thirty first, nineteen seventy four. She said, I was ready,
said I'd served my purpose, but she lied, pulled out
(06:00):
a photo album pictures of his family, his wife, his children,
and his grandson, another Timothy Brennan, aged seven. It wasn't over,
he continued, It was just waiting, waiting for the next Timothy,
the next seven year old Brennan boy. She needs one
(06:21):
every fifty years, to be her hands in this world,
to draw the symbols that weaken the barriers, to speak
the words that invite them through, invite who through The
ones in the dark water, the ones who were here
before the town, before the settlement, before anything human walk
(06:42):
this land, They never left. They just sank deeper, and
every fifty years they rise a little, each time getting
closer to the surface. He led me to a corner
(07:04):
of the basement where the concrete was cracked. Water seeped through,
continuously forming a small pool. In the pool, impossible as
it was, I could see a reflection that wasn't ours,
an old woman with a mole on her left cheek
standing behind a small boy. That's happening now, Timothy said,
(07:26):
three floors up in my grandson's room. He thinks he's
in his bed, but he's really here. In nineteen seventy four,
in nineteen twenty four, in eighteen seventy four, all the
Timothy's all at once, all learning the same lessons. I
leaned closer to the pool. The boy in the reflection
(07:48):
turned to look at me. His eyes were clouded white.
He's almost ready, the older Timothy whispered, three more days
of lessons. Then he'll do what I did all the
Timothys do. He'll go to the place where the pattern
converges and speak the words that make the town remember
what it's tried to forget. What words? Timothy pulled out
(08:13):
a notebook, pages yellow with age inside. Written in a
child's hand were words in a language that predated human speech,
words that hurt to read, words that made my nose
bleed just from looking at them. These words, he said,
the invitation, the permission, the consent, because they can't come
(08:37):
through without consent. And who believes a child's words more
than adults who want to dismiss them as imagination. As
I left, Timothy grabbed my arm. His touch was cold,
wet despite his dry skin. Tell my grandson's parents to
leave tonight, take him away from Millbrook. It won't stop coming.
(09:01):
But he doesn't need to be the one who speaks
the words. Any child will do, any innocent voice will
open the door. When I returned to the library, I
found wet footprints leading to the children's section, small feet,
child sized. They led to a corner where someone had
been drawing on the wall in water, the same symbols
(09:24):
from Timothy's basement, but these were fresh. These were from tonight.
The fourth point of the pattern isn't a place. It's
a person, a child, a key, and somewhere in Millbrook tonight,
seven year old Timothy Brennan is learning words that will
unlock something that should stay buried.
Speaker 2 (10:00):
Most Scary Stories is a production of Calaoga Shark Media.
Some elements of AI may have been used in this production,
but it was written, edited, mixed, and produced by Real
Live People Executive producers Mark Francis and John McDermott.
Calarugu Shark Media.
Speaker 2 (00:10):
Welcome to ghost Scary Stories and the October Records, a
month long Halloween nightmare. This is episode four, The Basement.
Speaker 3 (00:29):
October fourth, nineteen seventy four, Silas Crane. The Brennan family
called me this morning. They know I'm documenting these events.
Everyone knows. In a town like Millbrook, secrets are currency,
and right now everyone's bankrupt. Their son, Timothy, seven years old,
has been spending time in their basement hours, sometimes all night.
(00:53):
They find him standing in three inches of water that
floods their basement every October, standing perfectly still, perfectly dry,
talking to some one they can't see. He says it's
his grandmother, Patricia Brennan. She died in nineteen sixty three
when Timothy was barely walking, eleven years dead. But Timothy
(01:14):
describes her perfectly, the mole on her left cheek, the
way she hummed while cooking. Details he couldn't know. But
what she's teaching him, Missus Brennan showed me his drawings.
Cymbals that hurt to look at, patterns that make your
eyes water, and words. He's been speaking words in languages
(01:35):
that shouldn't exist, words that make his nose bleed, words
that leave burns on his tongue. This afternoon I went
to see him, found him in the basement. As they said,
the water was black, reflecting nothing. Timothy stood in the center,
eyes closed, reciting something. When he opened his eyes they
(01:56):
were clouded, but only for a moment. Then he looked
at me, this seven year old child, and said, she says,
you're documenting good. Someone needs to remember how we invited
them in, how we opened the door. The children are
always the key. We're small enough to fit through the cracks,
(02:16):
pure enough to be believed, young enough to be shaped.
Then he laughed, not a child's laugh, something else, wearing
a child's voice. He's being prepared for something. All the
children touched by this are being prepared.
Speaker 1 (02:36):
I arrived at the library at three am, unable to
sleep after what I'd witnessed at the hospital. The fourth
recording was waiting for me. Though I'd locked it in
my desk drawer, it sat on top of my keyboard,
the vinyl slightly warm to the touch, as if someone
had just handled it. Timothy Brennan, I knew that name
(02:58):
too well. There's a Timothy Brennan who comes to my
story hours, seven years old, like his predecessor in nineteen
seventy four, Quiet boy always sits in the back, always
staring at something just over my shoulder. His mother says
he's imaginative. His teachers say he's troubled. But after hearing
(03:21):
Silas his recording, I think he's something else. He's a conduit.
I found the current Timothy Brennan, the one who was
seven in nineteen seventy four, at his family's home on
Willow Street, Fifty seven years old, now working as an accountant,
(03:45):
living in the same house where he grew up, the
same house with the same basement. He answered the door
before I knocked. You're playing the recordings, he said. His
voice was flat, resigned. I wondered when they'd surface. Silas
said he was making them for the future. Guess the
(04:08):
future is now. He led me through a house that
felt heavy with memory. Family photos lined the walls, but
in each one, young Timothy stood slightly apart from the others,
as if occupying a different space. The basement, he said,
opening a door that had too many locks. You want
(04:28):
to see the basement. The wooden stairs creaked under our weight,
The air grew thick, damp, cold at the bottom. The
concrete floor was wet, not flooded, just wet, perpetually wet.
It never dries, Timothy said, fifty one years, and it
(04:51):
never dries. She made sure of that. Your grandmother, he laughed,
bitter and sharp. That's what she claimed to be. But
grandmothers don't teach you how to drown while breathing. Grandmothers
don't show you the spaces between seconds where the dark
water lives. On the walls were drawings, decades of them,
(05:15):
layer upon layer, some in crayon, some in marker, some
carved directly into the concrete, all showing the same thing.
Figures standing in water, hands reaching up from below, and
at the center, a child holding something, a key, a door,
(05:37):
a hole in the world. I drew those, Timothy said,
from age seven to seventeen, every time she visited, every
time she taught me something new. Then it stopped. October
thirty first, nineteen seventy four. She said, I was ready,
said I'd served my purpose, but she lied, pulled out
(06:00):
a photo album pictures of his family, his wife, his children,
and his grandson, another Timothy Brennan, aged seven. It wasn't over,
he continued, It was just waiting, waiting for the next Timothy,
the next seven year old Brennan boy. She needs one
(06:21):
every fifty years, to be her hands in this world,
to draw the symbols that weaken the barriers, to speak
the words that invite them through, invite who through The
ones in the dark water, the ones who were here
before the town, before the settlement, before anything human walk
(06:42):
this land, They never left. They just sank deeper, and
every fifty years they rise a little, each time getting
closer to the surface. He led me to a corner
(07:04):
of the basement where the concrete was cracked. Water seeped through,
continuously forming a small pool. In the pool, impossible as
it was, I could see a reflection that wasn't ours,
an old woman with a mole on her left cheek
standing behind a small boy. That's happening now, Timothy said,
(07:26):
three floors up in my grandson's room. He thinks he's
in his bed, but he's really here. In nineteen seventy four,
in nineteen twenty four, in eighteen seventy four, all the
Timothy's all at once, all learning the same lessons. I
leaned closer to the pool. The boy in the reflection
(07:48):
turned to look at me. His eyes were clouded white.
He's almost ready, the older Timothy whispered, three more days
of lessons. Then he'll do what I did all the
Timothys do. He'll go to the place where the pattern
converges and speak the words that make the town remember
what it's tried to forget. What words? Timothy pulled out
(08:13):
a notebook, pages yellow with age inside. Written in a
child's hand were words in a language that predated human speech,
words that hurt to read, words that made my nose
bleed just from looking at them. These words, he said,
the invitation, the permission, the consent, because they can't come
(08:37):
through without consent. And who believes a child's words more
than adults who want to dismiss them as imagination. As
I left, Timothy grabbed my arm. His touch was cold,
wet despite his dry skin. Tell my grandson's parents to
leave tonight, take him away from Millbrook. It won't stop coming.
(09:01):
But he doesn't need to be the one who speaks
the words. Any child will do, any innocent voice will
open the door. When I returned to the library, I
found wet footprints leading to the children's section, small feet,
child sized. They led to a corner where someone had
been drawing on the wall in water, the same symbols
(09:24):
from Timothy's basement, but these were fresh. These were from tonight.
The fourth point of the pattern isn't a place. It's
a person, a child, a key, and somewhere in Millbrook tonight,
seven year old Timothy Brennan is learning words that will
unlock something that should stay buried.
Speaker 2 (10:00):
Most Scary Stories is a production of Calaoga Shark Media.
Some elements of AI may have been used in this production,
but it was written, edited, mixed, and produced by Real
Live People Executive producers Mark Francis and John McDermott.
Popular Podcasts
My Favorite Murder with Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark
My Favorite Murder is a true crime comedy podcast hosted by Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark. Each week, Karen and Georgia share compelling true crimes and hometown stories from friends and listeners. Since MFM launched in January of 2016, Karen and Georgia have shared their lifelong interest in true crime and have covered stories of infamous serial killers like the Night Stalker, mysterious cold cases, captivating cults, incredible survivor stories and important events from history like the Tulsa race massacre of 1921. My Favorite Murder is part of the Exactly Right podcast network that provides a platform for bold, creative voices to bring to life provocative, entertaining and relatable stories for audiences everywhere. The Exactly Right roster of podcasts covers a variety of topics including historic true crime, comedic interviews and news, science, pop culture and more. Podcasts on the network include Buried Bones with Kate Winkler Dawson and Paul Holes, That's Messed Up: An SVU Podcast, This Podcast Will Kill You, Bananas and more.
24/7 News: The Latest
The latest news in 4 minutes updated every hour, every day.
Dateline NBC
Current and classic episodes, featuring compelling true-crime mysteries, powerful documentaries and in-depth investigations. Follow now to get the latest episodes of Dateline NBC completely free, or subscribe to Dateline Premium for ad-free listening and exclusive bonus content: DatelinePremium.com