Wrong Place

Welcome to Scary Story Podcast. Our story today involves a town that experiences supernatural events. My name is Edwin and here's a scary story. It was during a trip to visit my grandparents when they took me to visit one of their friends who lived in nearby town. I think at the time they thought that I would be far too young to be able to remember anything, or at least be too young to be aware of what was happening. But those long nights with the townspeople and the visits to the cemetery the first dead body I had ever seen in my life, they had an impact on me. The existence of ghosts and the supernatural has never been a question for me. I had gotten dropped off at the bus station early in the morning. The phone call had already been made that I would be arriving sometime in the afternoon to the pueblo known as Youth. Yeah. Now, remember this was back before cell phones and all that. I remember them having a small discussion about me going for those days. My parents needed to head out of town for a visit to the hospital and would not be able to take care of me during that week. They talked about how I would not bother anyone, and that I could go with them to where they needed to go. For a moment, the idea of my grandparents not wanting me there crossed my mind, but that was all he raised. As soon as I saw them, I got off the bus to an enormous hug for my grandparents and my uncle, who was going to be driving us. My grandma had made sweet bread and chocolate milk, just the way that I liked it. My Grandpa took me to see the animals that same day. They also said that some of my cousins were going to be coming over to play, and that one of them had just made some kites for us to take up to the hill. This is what my life was with my family. There, simple days out in the hilly mountains, the sounds of bells from the necks of horses and cows passing by, and the cool wind we would feel fishing by the river at sunset. It was what that visit was supposed to be. Everywhere, from when we went to the corner shop for the fruits and snacks, and even when we were passing by the neighbor who was sitting in front of his house on the sidewalk who would stop to talk about the sounds that kept a nearby town awake. Historians, they said, were coming for that weekend to get to the bottom of everything. I asked my grandma what a historian was, and she said that it was someone who read and told stories from the past. Looking back now, I thought that the town where my grandparents were from was one of those places where nothing much ever went on, even though to me it was such a fascinating place. People looked for stories to tell or ways to get involved in what was going on, and in this case, the talk of the town was actually about the settlement in the next in a place known ass Ubisco. I was about seven years old when all of this was happening. I was woken up by the lights in the house, and since the room where I was sleeping was only separated by a curtain, I could hear my grandparents getting ready to go somewhere. They came into my room to pick me up and put me in their truck, assuming that I would be asleep, But when they saw that I was awake, they said that we were going to be going to Ubisco to visit one of their friends, and they asked me to put on my jacket and shoes to go with them. There was no rush, as you would expect a conversation to go right before leaving late at night, but rather calm and slow, carefully planned out the drive. There was dark and quiet, with only the bums of the dirt road and the headlights letting us know that we were still on the road. There was a crowd gathered around the center of the town where we parked the car. There and a group of other churchgoers praying with their heads down. Entire families were out there, but I remember, even back then knowing that this was not a celebration. I had seen many of those before. People dancing and drinking laid in the main squares, along with music and laughter, but not this time. I followed my grandparents into the crowd of people, introduced to a man about my grandpa's age, who said that if we waited only a little bit longer, he would be able to hear it for ourselves. He said that the historians were already in town. It happened extremely quickly. The crowd gasped, and suddenly everything went quiet, and off into the distance from the dark hills, you could all hear the loud wails and cries of a woman. The murmurs of the priests and the rest of the people from the church got louder, before slowly growing into unison. The same prayer repeated over and over. The cries in the meantime were getting closer, and yet nobody seemed to want to go towards them. Everyone instead huddled together. As the prayers rose over the strange silence of the crowd, louder and louder, the people chanted, and louder and louder. The crist got another gas from the crowd signaled everyone to look down toward one of the dark streets. Suddenly, almost like watching a shiny reflection on water, a woman slowly passed by the streets, her head down and her hands against it. My grandma covered my eyes and pressed me tightly against her. There was a photographer there, you could tell by the setup, like what they had shown on television. A man was taking notes standing next to him with the tape recorder strapped to a sh shoulder. Both were amazed by what they were witnessing. Ernestovaskiz was the name of one of the historians, although I learned of him many many years later. I indeed was too young to ask the questions that I would want to know later, and I didn't know what to look for back then. Everyone stayed there for several hours. Some of them were praying and some were just talking amongst themselves as the cry slowly faded away. The next morning, we all woke up at the house of my grandparents' friend, ready to have some bread and milk and head over to the town's courthouse in the same square where everyone had gathered earlier that night. When I asked what everyone was doing there and why, my grandpa said that they were fixing a problem that the leaders of the town had made, that sometimes it takes the common ones to take charge and fix things. All I remember from that day was a yelling toward the man in the hat. The hate I saw aimed toward that one single person was beyond what I had ever seen and still is. When the man in the hat and others went into the offices, the crowd got silent for a while, some talking openly about the damage he had done to the town. I remember my grandparents' friends talk about the man as a thief, as a liar, and a murderer. It did not take long for them to come back out, but when they did, the crowd began to cheer as a man in the hat ran away, and another came out with a document in hand, yelling loudly that it had been signed. The document had been signed. Several small groups that formed went over to the house of a man with an excavator, and almost like a parade, everyone went toward the cemetery following it. Both my grandparents were talking to the others with a sudden change and energy in the crowd relief. I thought the anchor was gone. When we arrived at the cemetery in its large cement blocks of stones of different bright colors, adorned with flowers and everything. We walked around to the area where the headstones were smaller, some graves with dried flowers and others with just dried dirt, and everyone knew where it was located because a crowd had gotten there before us. They had all gathered in a circle around this grave as a machine dug up a solid wooden box, and then with hammers and wedges they opened it up to reveal the inside. The feeling in my stomach was unlike any other wondering if that's how everyone looks when they die. Shriveled up, revealing that it's our skin that makes a smile and not our teeth. The yellow stains on the white dress of this woman, her dark hair beside her neck and torso then screams could be heard in the commotion, but eventually the crowd went quiet as they resealed her coughing. They put her on the back of a truck and drove her away. Part two of Wrong Place It's coming up right after this. A huge thank you to our sponsors for supporting me and the rest of the team at Scary FM. Stay with me. We left. Later that night, the whole town seemed to be celebrating with food and music. In the Center Square, groups would gather to talk with beer in their hands, laughing and casually mentioning the events of earlier that day, their faces growing concerned and then happy again, patterns I had never seen. I remember talking to my mom on the phone at the booths about a block away from the square, as my grandma stood next to me. Everything was okay, I told her, just a little weird. I remember thinking of the story I would have for my friends at school. I had seen a dead person and that was the end of it. For years, that story that had circled in my mind went from a thing that I thought had simply been a dream to then very real memories of the smell of dirt in the air. From that day, nobody and my family ever talked about it. Everyone had thought it was just a simple visit to my grandparents. But by this time we had computers and phones to help us look up things on the internet, and with that I ended up finding the work by Ernestovskis, the historian that had been there that day. He had published a book with photographs and peculiar Places, but after going through it, I stumbled upon a title Woman in the wrong place, and everything came to life in an instant through those photographs, the town square, the protest, and the casket. One of the images, my grandma can be seen holding my hand and I'm just out of frame. But it was his writings the one that told the story that I was never told. The town of Ubisco had been experiencing events that disturbed the townspeople. Most nights started with one of the women that lived at the edge of town who ran to a policeman's home late one night to report that screams had been heard coming from one of the houses by the river. Once the policeman arrived on foot along with a woman, he noticed that the place she was pointing to was the mayor's house. He was left with the decision of pursuing the matter and possibly losing his job just moving on. The mayor was a rude, large man and completely unpredictable. There was something about him that people found charismatic, but to those who knew him, it was only out for himself. No woman had ever wanted to marry him, and he was known to make them uncomfortable by being too forward with him. And so the policeman and the woman walked away from the property and just forgot about the incident. A few days after that, a selected few went to a small funeral held by the mayor for his daughter. Daughter nobody knew about, but because it was such a sensitive topic, nobody questioned it. It only took a week for the events to begin. People from the edge of town would hear the cries of a woman coming from the hills. They described it as shrieks of sadness and pain. Stories of witches of lagorona of curses, and wild animals started surrounding the town. The sounds weren't just described by one or two people, but many of the neighbors. People from the center of town would soon begin experiencing the sounds themselves late at night. One terrifying account by Lucia, one of the oldest residents in town and owner of the bakery in the main square. She told er Nestor, the historian, the first documented sighting of the woman in the wrong place. She would wake up early to begin working at the bakery, and she would walk two blocks to the bakery every single morning. It was three thirty am and a cold one, she said. Fog from the hills had come down and covered the town in a cloud that morning as she made her way down the dirt road. She had just left the house when suddenly she heard the cries coming from high up in the hills, like wolves and unison. The christ surrounded the town until she noticed they were getting closer, louder and angrier the Christ got. As she picked up the pace to get to the bakery. She had one more block to go when she crossed the street, and that's when she decided to turn to look toward the street that led to the base of one of the hills, way off in the distance. That's when she saw her, a glowing figure, wavy. She said, I was crossing the street very slowly, walking at a rhythm that didn't match how fast she was moving or floating on the road. Lucia was stunned by the sight and froze completely as the crist faded in the exact same way they had arrived. People from the houses around her turned off the lights and open their windows, some even coming out their doors to ask if Lucia was all right. That's when she had to explain over and over that the cries had not been coming from her. The sightings continued for weeks. The town would hear these cries at night so much that they started having meetings to discuss what they could do about it. It was then when at Nenstovaskie's was called in. Such an event was just what he would look for in small towns. Although his work had been primarily of the pursuit of rights for the common person, it also gathered news of corruption, so of course it was not welcome by the mayor of the town. Eventually, the historian himself got to witness the ghosts of the woman himself as he was out taking photographs with one of his research partners. The photograph showed a glowing light at the end of one of the streets. Although he mentioned that we must always question evidence, even his own, until we see it for ourselves or one hundred percent convinced. Ernesta was there for a couple of weeks, sometimes venturing off into the neighboring towns and settlements on the hills. So he discovered the story of Rosa, a woman who had gone missing and had been frequently visited by the mayor of the town, same one he was investigating. The parents suspected that he had simply taken her one day, a strange but not uncommon thing that would sometimes happen when couples want to start their lives together without their parents. Blessing. The mayor all this time had started to raise suspicions for trying to get rid of the historian and his team, calling him a wannabe detective, spreading nasty rumors, and even blaming him for the ghostly events of the town. This would not save the mayor, though he was questioned about his decisions, the sudden burial for his daughter and of the screen coming from his house. The story spread of the mayor being involved with the events that were disturbing the town at night, and the suspicions were right. Once the regional police got involved. The investigation revealed that the mayor was the main suspect for the disappearance of Rosa, the young woman from the other town who had gone missing. It was also later revealed that he had no daughter. If he didn't have a daughter who was buried in that grave, everything prosa. The townspeople were obviously angered at this and had gathered around his house an office to force him to sign his resignation or face the people for himself, people who had already been armed with their tools and fury. He was forced to leave the town that very same day. Drossa's parents had been there that day at the cemetery when I was there with my grandparents. When the casket was open, they got near it and lifted the sleeve from the body's arm. They both got on their knees and let out scream so with the sky as they saw the bracelet, the one that belonged to their daughter, Drossa. She was taken and reburied in her hometown just up and over the hill, and from that day on the knights around the town were calm once again. Up next, check out horror Story, the podcast with the Yellow Letters to hear true tales of dark history and mysteries. Her newest episode is about the time when radio and television signals were hijacked to share terrifying messages. Check it out over on horror Story if you can find it on your podcast app. I've been reading all of your messages and thank you so much for that. If you're on Spotify, you can also join the conversation via the Q and A and polls feature. To help out the show, you can leave a review or try out scary Plus on scaryplus dot com. We also get ad free episodes that way. Let me know if you have any questions about it. Anyway, thank you very much for listening, See you soon.