Moving On: A Tragic Ghost Story

Welcome to Scary Story podcast. A man going through the waves that life brings as to undergo his final one, but must first settle a few pending items. My name is Edwin, and here's a scary story. It was tough not knowing my mother was dying. I had been living with my girl friend just a little bit before the time came, not far from where Mom and Dad lived. Growing up with them was as normal as you can imagine it. I never got in trouble except for a couple of speeding tickets when I first got my license, but no unhealthy habits, nothing bad, and was always home when I was supposed to. But at one point I got tired of that. Most of my friends were moving out and I wanted to do so as well. Against my mother's wishes, I should have listened to her. Not smart enough for college, everyone said, and in the dumbest outcome possible, I believe them. Mom always said that I could try and go, that I would make it that I was smart ever since I was little. I should have listened to her instead. I got a job two cities over a barbecue restaurant that would serve enormous amounts of meat to the Paulville community. People would travel from all over the county to come and get some barbecue. But it was a tough job, physically demanding, and also meant that I needed to be at work at three thirty in the morning, six days a week to prep everything. I was earning good money, that's for sure, but if I ruined the meat for the day, we would be out thousands of dollars and a job easily. But I felt important for once in a long time. Sometimes I would call Mom on my way to work. She was having trouble sleeping most nights, and whenever I saw her online on Facebook, I knew it would be okay to give her a call. She was always happy to hear from me, but often told me to get off the phone while I was driving, specially around those hills on the valleys of Paulville. Many be what had crashed there and died instantly. The drops would not forgive anybody. Mom would say dead in two seconds and you wouldn't even know it. And I should have listened to her. You see, Mom had a sixth sense about things. Things I remember way back from when my younger brother and I were little. Dad always believed her she sends her own mother's death, suddenly waking up in the middle of the night and sitting by the phone. Dad had asked her to come back to bed, but she refused, so he stayed out there with her in the cold living room until promptly at two in the morning when she got the call. And then there was my ghost story, the one we always told when we had the chance to talk about creepy things at sleepovers or when hanging out with my cousins whenever they would visit. I had seen an old woman in my room one time, and I remember I cried and screamed until my mom came into the room and was able to identify her by name and everything. I don't remember her name now, but Mom did, saying that she was a good ghost and was taking care of me. Every once in a while she would mention the old lady by name, thanking her for watching over us. Some used to say that I got that same sense from Mom, being able to tell when something was happening, although I never got it sorted out. I had blind spots, and lots of them. You see. I could sense when something was wrong and always had a tough time figuring out what it was going to be until it happened. It's tough to explain, but like this one. For example, I used to wait for one of the neighbor's kids to get out of school so we could walk home together every day. He wasn't in my grade, he was one year older than me and in other classes. But one day he got to school in a bike, and when I saw it, I got upset and I didn't know why. That red bicycle gave me a very uneasy feeling. And even though I knew he would let me borrow it to go around the block and that I should have been happy for my friend, I couldn't shake off the feeling. I ended up with a really bad stomach ache, so bad that I needed to go home. That same day after school, I found out that he had gotten hit by a car on his way home. He was alive, but ended up with a broken arm and his bike was completely unusable after that. Let it know that the stomach ache and the bicycle were linked, of course, but it was one of those things that only makes sense when you look back and connect the dots. Another time, I was having trouble sleeping, and after waking up suddenly I was about fourteen years old at the time and ended up having a strange sense of dread falling all over me. After trying really hard and failing at falling asleep, I suddenly heard the phone ringing. Dad woke up and took the call. His sister had been in an accident. By that time, I knew that I could sense things, but never knew what was coming. It was like an itch or a strange sense of discomfort that would bother me until the event happened. I tried listening to that feeling more, looking things up online to figure it out as I got older, but didn't get very far. Prepping the ribs and meat at the barbecue pit gave me a lot of time to think about it though, listening to podcasts and trying to see who else had this gift or curse and what to do with it. But I got nowhere. I started making more frequent visits to my mom's house. All the while my girlfriend was complaining about not spending enough time with her, so she ended up leaving me, although the truth was she didn't want to pay her share of the rent anymore. That was more than happy to move back with all the money i'd be saving and just commuting back and forth, I'd be able to start my own business, set money aside for a down payment or something. That's how it goes sometimes, and I felt good about the change, although there was something that was starting to bother me, and I was afraid something was going to happen to Mom. She was noticeably tired and unable to sleep like she used to. The doctor visits became more frequent, and her topics of conversations became sad, just memories and talks about how things would be when she was gone, and I was afraid that it would be her time to go. But I didn't need any convincing. I was going back home. It was my day off, and I got done cleaning the remaining parts of the apartment late at night, when I would normally be getting up for work. I loaded up the remaining boxes into my car. It was not feeling again that was sweeping over me. Something was about to happen. I made my way through the short road through the canyon and the valley to get to my parents' house thirty holding onto the steering wheel by this time, dranking up the music on the radio to stay awake. Still. You can say what you want, but nothing wakes you up as much as the bumps on the edge of the asphalt right on the road and their deep, menacing rhythm. I checked my phone and opened up the Facebook app. Mom was offline. I guess you would find out when she sees my car outside, I thought to myself. I barely remember making it back home. Nobody knew I was moving back that night officially. I rushed inside the house. The old, dusty blanket seemed like the most luxurious silk, like just out of the oven and soft. Dad left early the next morning, and Mom wasn't home either. I was lounging around, tired from the previous night, until about eleven in the morning when I heard a car pull up outside. It was Dad. He shut off the car and sat there, his hands gripping against the steering wheel. He shouted and cried, completely muted by the windshield. In shock, I looked at the empty passenger side seat, and I let my mind fill in the rest. Nothing was ever the same after that. Part two of Moon Being On is coming up right after this stay with me. Dad was in shock. He came into the house and walked right past me. And sat on the couch. His phone started ringing almost immediately, and like a robot, he grabbed it, look at the screen, and then set it back down. I asked him what was wrong, and I only saw his confused expression as he looked at me and then back at the dark screen of the television. Mom was gone. I ran up to her bedroom, her phone by the bed, right next to her hair brush, her clothes neatly folded, as always a habit I never got into. It was only a matter of time before well there it was, the sinking feeling in my stomach, a wave of sadness, wishing for reality to be wrong for once, that this whole thing was a dream, a bad one due to my lack of sleep. That suddenly Mom would come in and poke fun at me for moving back in with his parents, before giving me a hug, bothering me about my unfolded clothes or how I needed a haircut, preparing the only breakfast I ever asked for, scrambled eggs and toast. I walked downstairs quietly and watched as Dad lost himself in that screen, his eyes fixed on something beyond it, past the wall, in the car, past our street, in the city limits as he sat there completely still. Dad. I yelled at but no response ever came. I got close to him to watch his chest breathing, and felt a wave of relief come over me. I went to grab my phone, but it was dead, so I ran to the home phone and realized I had forgotten my brother's phone number. It probably already knew by then. Mom always talked about having these things in order. Nothing ever felt like a surprise with Mom. I found out then that they could be devastat but not surprising. Mom had a plan for everything. I wanted to know what happened, and Dad had two folders next to him on the couch, but I wasn't ready. He would tell me when he wanted to, and I think he needed that time to process everything. I remember sitting there, uncomfortable and unable to rest, unable to do anything, my mind raising to memories to the present, to thoughts of the past again. I didn't want to touch anything, not the hair brush or the blankets that she used. I couldn't get myself to move a single plate or spoon. The sun was setting as I paced up and down the hallway. Dad still sitting on the couch not moving a muscle, but still breathing. When suddenly someone came knocking at the door. It was my brother. He opened the door and stepped inside, looking toward the hallway where I was standing, but ended up focusing his attention on Dad. It was like watching myself in third person, the same expression and everything. Being able to talk to my brother was going to be impossible. Besides, a part of me already knew it was going to be impossible to sort out my thoughts. So I went down to the basement and dropped myself on the mattress. I closed my eyes. I could hear Mom talking to me, asking for something that I couldn't decipher. My eyes were battling against that bright light of the setting sun from the tiny window just above the level of the grass of the backyard. I lay there until morning, when I heard people knocking at the door, flowers in their hands, cards, dishes with smells of food. Things were different for me that day. I had a sudden feeling of guilt and anger at how everything had played out. Why hadn't I spent more time with Mom or called her more often? Why didn't I ever work hard enough to get along a little bit better with my dad and brother now that it was only going to be the three of us, three stubborn men who could never admit to their faults and refuse to make any changes. Poor Mom, I understood that lonely feeling that day. My father's side of the family was never close with me. They had their own things to deal with and always thought that Mom had a lot to do with how he turned out in life, a thing he should have been responsible for, but would never admit. My brother and I were always seen as the extras in their family, with a few exceptions to ants that always watched out for us, and sadly had passed. Not too long before Mom momm is to tell me that Dad was starting to come around, that it was guilt that he was feeling for splitting up our family that way. He thought that people were being taken away from him because of it, and yes, I could see some changes. He started calling me, offering to do things together, and even though it took us a while, we could both see the difference. Mom was happy about that, but it took way too long for the rest of his side of the family to accept our differences. Mom was the one that had to deal with this more often than my brother and I, and I could tell that she felt alone. Mom had already gone through several tests in her life, her only sister older than her passing away several years before and leaving her and one of her cousins as the last of their generation in the family. It was proven later that day, when everyone started coming over. They walked past me, focusing all of their attention on each other. I myself couldn't bring to touch even the tupperware they had brought. I hated watching them touch all of moms neatly arranged dishes and kitchenware, and I held myself back several times as I stood there in the corner of the room. I'm screaming at them. There was no need to. In a few hours, they would all be gone and they would be just Dad and I in the house once again, in that quiet place. But it was one of them, my dad's cousin, Meg, who I mainly only knew through her countless photos on Instagram, that for some reason kept popping up on my feed, stuff about her food reels, complaining about the store she just shopped at, endless pictures of coffee cups from Starbucks. She went up to the kitchen where I was sitting on a chair, and like through some magnetic four she went straight from Mom's cabinet with her collection of coffee cups. She opened it and rolled her eyes and whispered loudly enough for me to hear how ridiculous, ridiculous as she slammed the shots hard enough for everything inside to rattle. That was enough. I stood up and shoved my shoulder against her arm. As I tried hard to open up the cabinet. She had closed it so hard that it had gotten stuck. I couldn't help myself and yelled at her to leave. She had been looking at me with a confused look in her face, shock all over it. As she tried to scream. I got closer to her, telling her everything I had ever wanted to say about her and her family. A bunch of hypocrites, not caring about Mom, there just for show. How dare they come in and touch everything moving the last objects Mom ever moved in her favorite spot of the house. Two people came toward Meg, rushing to get her some water and touching her fake face. But I wasn't done. I knocked a plastic bottle right off of one of their hands, begging them to come at me if they really wanted to do something about it. Completely unlike me, and yet something I had always wished for, had nothing to lose anymore. I looked over at Dad, still lost in the couch, unwilling or unable to move. Everyone in the living room was in shock at what was happening. Even I couldn't believe what I was doing, pushing one of their dishes straight to the floor. We're not welcome here, one of them said. I forget which one of the bunch, and then they all screamed. They rushed out, squeezing through the door and getting into their cars. As they watched from the window, Dad, even with his body completely still, started smiling for just an instant and then looked down shaking his head. He knew just how dramatic his family could be, but also how getting the obnoxious bunch out of the house would help him. It was quiet inside as the last of the cars left. I sat next to him in silence and apologized for not making more of an effort, but promised that I would help in any way that I could. I told him about Mom and that I was sorry about what happened there too, that everything would be okay. I could see the light from the window in his eyes as he stared straight ahead, his eyes suddenly focusing again. I looked at the wall in front of us, and right against it in the stand where Mom kept their figurines were two urns, two sets of ashes. Both of her eyes suddenly focused on the knocks at the front door. They were gentle. I looked at him, and I think he looked at me. When I stood up, I looked at the urns again, lost in thought. The knocks at the door continued. Dad sparkled and his eye came back. I knew he was going to be okay again. I looked at the front door and reached for the knob. It took all of my energy to open it. It was Mom. I stepped back, my mind spinning at this point as I watched her extend her hand toward me. She smiled. As Dad smiled that the tur urns on the wall. His eyes shut. I reached for Mom. It's time to move on, she said. Scary Story podcast is written and produced by me Edwin Kolorubiez. Follow on your app to get upcoming stories and if you know of someone who might like them, send it to them. There's a share button on this app for you. And if you want to listen to true scary stories directly from people who experience them, check out my other podcast, True Scary Story. That's the name of the show. And if you want to support the show and listen ad free, head on over to scaryplus dot com and give it a try. It's free for fourteen days and then four ninety nine After that. You can cancel whenever you want, no questions asked. Thank you very much for listening. Keep it scary everyone. See us soon.