The Delivery

Welcome to Scary Story Podcast. After years of telling you scary stories, only some know that I am the writer and that I do the podcast myself. But now I put together a book of my favorite stories, the ones that made this show what it is now. And the book is called Scary Book Fifteen Tales to Terrify. You can find Scary Book on Amazon, but I will tell you about it later. For now, we'll stick with the usual. My name is Edwin, and here's a scary story. I was sitting in the car out by the garage when I saw the light to the kitchen turn on. The curtain quickly moved to its side, and there was a head poking out. My heart stopped for a second. I told her many times about how much that freaks me out, and even though at first she took it as a joke, she stopped when she noticed how much they affected me. I'd grown up in a home troubled by something nobody could explain, things that nobody could believe. Some of my earliest memories at the house where I grew up still wouldn't leave me, even after sixty years and many other homes later. The thoughts of grabbing a jar of pickles from the basement was one of those things just came loaded with memories from my childhood. It was bright outside a warm day when Mom sent me to the place we would call the back house. Really it was just a large shed where my parents stored everything which didn't use anymore tools and food that we could store for a while. I never liked going there, even with my dad. Come to think of it, I don't think he liked it either. Things were different back then. Chemicals were sold much easier, and I don't want to say that children were exposed to more dangers around the house, but we were paint thinner, gasoline stored in those red metal jugs, so many sharp things in that shed, And yet that was not what I was afraid of in there. That day, I went in for the jar of pickles, a large one at that. I opened the door to let some light in in order to see exactly where the jar was so that I could rush in there, grab it, and hope I didn't trip on the way out. But as I looked in there, the beam of light getting wider. As I opened up the door, I saw the jar of pickles. The door kept opening, and suddenly the light hit the pale face of a little girl looking right at me. I screamed and ran back through the side of the house, in between the fence and the outer wall. I rushed inside and told my mom what I had seen. She dried her hands off and then came with me, telling me to show her, and then she went to the shed. She believed me, but shivers still run down my spine whenever I think of what she did back then. She opened the door slowly, and with the softest voice she could make, she called out the name Marilyn. She walked inside, grabbed the jar of pickles, lifted the covers off of this old box that my dad had back there, and then she turned back to look at me. Neither of us said a word, and I never asked who Marilyn was or why she had called out to her. There was this other time when my dad had regifted a flashlight to me that they gave him at work. I would play with it everywhere, and I loved running up and down the hallway at night with the flashlight in my hand. When it was time to go to sleep, I would sometimes stay up and sit by the window, shining the light on the trees. And off the eyes of cats that would normally roam her on the trash cans. But that wasn't until I pointed it at the back house and watched as the door slowly swung open and then a tiny hand slammed it shut from the inside. The sound was so loud that I even saw the light to my parents room turn on. The light from it actually shined into the back yard when one of them moved the curtains over, and then they closed and the lights went out again. I rushed back to my bed and listened for anything coming from the yard, footsteps, voices, anything, but it was completely still. One time, over dinner, my sister and I started talking about what she had seen the night before, and my dad told us to be quiet, that if you wanted to talk about things like that, we would have to do it outside of the house. I didn't understand, but as I got older, I realized that maybe my parents had also experienced a thing or two in that place. Dad died first and Mom lived another ten years. Her funeral was as you would expect it to be, just a few friends at that age, but a large family, some people who had no idea who Mom was, except for how they were related. Some were still trying to figure that out. I got to see my sister after all those years. She was living in the East Coast because of her husband's work, but built her home out there and stayed. We would call each other often on the phone, but there was nothing like both of us being in the same room. The situation, of course, was unfortunate, but I was very happy to see her. We caught up and talked about Mom and our last conversations. It was an odd relationship with her, We both agreed on that, but still we would miss her. Suddenly, someone knocked at the front door, and it was almost as if we could hear Mom yell out from the kitchen, calling one of us to go open it. But we were both tense. We knew we remembered what happened, and even with the chatter in the other rooms and the presence of others with us, we could still feel it, those cold, dark chills that would come with the door knocks. Everything went silent for me. I could hear those cries from deep in the hallways of that old house. I turned to look at Jane, her eyes wide open and waiting for the cries to fade away. I could tell she could hear them too. Someone grabbed the door and passed by the kitchen door with a vase with white roses. Jane and I were still quiet. Somewhere down the road. We forgot about the cries and the odd feelings inside of that house. As children, we never got the chance to talk about it, and the memories kept getting buried deeper into the darkness of our minds as we got involved with other things. And then I started thinking of how much we actually held in all those years, And finally Jane broke the silence. It was real, wasn't it. I looked at her in the eye, thinking that I might have failed as an older brother. Those long nights we shared the room upstairs that neither of us could sleep, afraid to talk about it and afraid to keep it inside. There were certain things that we could say. Now our parents were gone. There was no guidance anymore as to what was okay to talk about inside the house. But then, like a chain reaction, we spoke forgetting why we were there and remembering the many things that happened in the house. Jane mentioned the time she got in trouble for wedding the bed because she was too afraid to step out into the hallway to use the bathroom, the time she saw a strange figure crawling along the floor, and of course those haunting cries, the way we would instinctively cover our ears whenever someone knocked at the door cries, And even though I had seen several things around the house, like the girl from the shed, I thought of how Jane must have been too young to pay attention to Mom's behavior at all of this. I told her about Marylyn, the name she had given to it, and how she called out to this thing that lived out in the shed, or how she was always eager to see the ghost or whatever it was whenever I would cry out about it, the way Dad shut down our conversations, and how he would snap. It took years for me to start saying that he himself had also lost Mom along the way Dad told me Once Jane said that Mom had changed. Dad and I never really talked about anything like that, so I didn't know much about it. But then Jane asked, what were some of your earliest memories of Mom? And you know those thoughts that are actually memories when you think of things long ago that you have to try really hard to hold onto them or they disappear until a new trigger, a smell, a sight, or sound brings them back. That's what this was like. There was one that I had managed to keep since I was four years old. The screams someone knocking at the door and then cries. So here's a little bit more about the book that I wrote for you, guys. Scary Book has the original stories like Cotton Candy, Helen k Like some of you might remember some of these stories, and these are the stories that became fan favorites. Read off the bat Scary Book Fifteen Tales to Terrify. It is meant to be read out loud, but watch out because they're pretty dark. And also the publisher is only doing one batch of Scary Book, and I don't know how many are left right now, but I know that once they're gone, like that's it, there's no more. So search for Scary Book fifteen Tales to Terrify on Amazon. I can also find it by searching for Scary Book Edwin for some reason, so you'll find it that way. But anyway, I'll leave a link for you for Scary Book. In the description of this episode. You can order yours today. It'll really help out a lot. But anyway, Part two of the delivery is coming up right after this. Thank you everything. Jane could not understand the memories I described to her on the night of the funeral, and honestly I didn't get it either. She was always more curious than I was about everything, though, so she piled on the questions and even asked Aunt Beth about Mom before us. Aunt Beth was cautious about what she said, as if she thought Mom would still be hearing her. He could tell that some of the things she told us had never been talked about. Mom had been in such pain and it changed her. She lost touch with her family for a bit, and at Beth assumed it was normal to let her grieve on her own. And the way Aunt Beth spoke so proper, with her hands folded in front of her reminded me of our cousin Helen. And somewhere in those flashbacks, I remembered how Aunt Beth looked when we were only children. Grief is supposed to be shared, at Beth said, looking at both of us, but your mother kept it all to herself. She then started crying and told us the most tragic story I had ever heard. I don't even want to say her name, but there was this woman who lived in the small town where we grew up. She had been taking care of my mom when she was pregnant, and if I think about it hard enough, I can't remember what she looked like, but I remember her voice. She would show up to the house to talk and help Mom clean and everything, while also helping with the food. Aunt Beth told us that everyone in the family knew that she was in love with my dad, and that when the time came for the delivery, she intentionally was nowhere to be found to help. Dad wanted her away from everybody, but Mom, with the kind heart that she had back then, begged for someone to go find her and help her with the birth of her baby, planned from the start to take place in her own home, but she knocked out our and just then Mom started getting intense pains and went into labor. Everything went fine, according to Aunt Beth, A healthy little girl was born that night, but after a few minutes this woman took her away, and all of her pain and exhaustion, Mom still wanted to go after her and find her. Thankfully, Aunt Beth was able to go to a neighbor's home and use her phone to call the police to explain what happened. But even before help arrived, there was a knock at the door. When Aunt Beth opened it, she saw nothing but a bundle on the ground, the baby wrapped up in a dirty blanket. Aunt Beth was the first to unwrap the lifeless body, and this woman was never seen again. Aunt Beth explained that no one was to blame but that woman. That Dad had done no wrong and in fact, he had wanted that woman gone from the start. Mom, on the other hand, never forgave herself. It hurt her so much. Aunt Beth said that your mother did not look for support for the burial. She didn't invite anybody. She spoke to nobody for weeks, and her baby still rests in an unmarked grave. No one knows exactly where I just respected her wishes. Nobody knows where she is, I asked. I figured there would be some law or registry for these types of things, but back then, in a small town like that, things are a bit different. But that's where things started to make a little more sense to me. Aunt Beth explained, that Mom was only okay when she spoke of her baby, as if she was still alive. She would often say that Jane, my sister, was not the youngest anymore. The Christmas tree always had one more gift to make the tree look full, she would say, a gift neither of us could open, because it wasn't meant for us. Do you know, Aunt Beth said, your mother always talked about being able to hear her baby Marilyn. She was going to call her going about the house. I'd follow along, of course, she continued, Your poor mother was hurt and there was little help I could offer. And that's when Jane told her about some of our experiences growing up in that home, the sounds we would hear, specifically the cries after the knocks on the door. Aunt Beth looked straight at us, trying to figure out if we were being serious or not. But it wasn't like any one of us wanted to believe that there was the spirits of a little girl going about the house. Although Aunt Beth suspected that Mom had made her reel that her wish had come true on some level. And suddenly, as we spoke, there was a knock at the door. Jane and I froze as we told that Beth to listen. Someone was walking out to open the door. It was another flower delivery, and faintly you could hear the cries of a little girl coming from the hallway. By this time, many of the guests had left, and only a couple of cousins and their families were out by the garage at Beth's eyes opened wide as she sat there completely still. You two have to get someone in here to help, was all she could say. The conversation died after that, with only small talk followed by goodbyes. Jane had to go back to her house, and I took some time off to sort through my mother's belongings. My sister and I had decided to sell the house. The memory's far too difficult to deal with. Once we decided what to sell, what to donate, and what to throw away, we would both come by to empty everything out. I got started early in the morning on a Saturday. The sun was out and with a beautiful golden glow, the kind you see after the rain. The easiest place to begin would be the living room, so I just got started. I made a list like that in my mind. The toughest would be her bedroom, and between those areas would be the guest rooms, the hallway, the kitchen, and of course the shed. After bringing in the boxes and sorting things out for a couple of hours, things were ready there. I simply sat on the couch, thinking about the times in that place, trying desperately to find a good memory, anything that would get rid of that awful taste in my mouth. The memories I already had of that place, and I don't know what it was that pushed me to tackle the shed next. So I grabbed the boxes and put them together out in the yard, opening that door that I used to hate crossing when I was a kid. But as I walked over, I heard something, a soft hum, coming from the inside of the shed. A grown man by this point, the fear was of a different kind, not that I would see anything in there, although sure the fear of finding an animal or a hornet's nest was always there. But of what else I would find in there that would make me think of my parents and everything they went through, everything we went through. I opened the door. The hum was that of electricity, a familiar sound of a small motor. Almost I looked around through the light seeping in between my shadow and the door frame and saw old jars, boxes, tools I had not been used in over a decade. Finally, over in the corner a cable, I followed it with my eyes until I saw a large box covered with a dusty sheet. I stepped in. The humming was getting louder as I approached and grabbed the sheet with my left hand. Underneath it was a faded white box. Heavy. It was a freezer, help shut by rusty latches. The paint was peeling off the top. The latch squeaked open, and I lifted the lid. A dim light blinked on at the bottom of the freezer. I could see it the small bundle of something or someone wrapped in a dirty blanket. Scary Story podcast is written and produced by me Edwin Kovarubias. Remember that you can find scary book fifteen Tails to Terrify on Amazon right now, and if you need help finding it or if you have questions, shoot me a message. I'm at edwind Cove. That's edw I n CoV over on TikTok and Instagram. Also to get these episodes at free, check out Scary Plus dot com and you'll also support the show that way. But if you can't, don't worry. Dropping some stars for me or a review on Spotify and Apple Podcasts is more than enough. Thank you very much for listening. Keep it scary everyone, See you soon.