[SPEAKER_00]: Story one, I've been the lead pastor at a small Pentecostal church in Central Kentucky for about eight years now.
[SPEAKER_00]: We're tucked between a cornfield and a mechanic's shop, and the building is old.
[SPEAKER_00]: Cheap drywall, stain carpets, and the kind of flickering exit signs you keep meaning to replace, but never do.
[SPEAKER_00]: I live in the Parsonage next door, a thin walled brick house where you hear the cicadas scream at night, and coyotes calling out past the tree line.
[SPEAKER_00]: I need you to know I'm not one of those pastors who sees demons in every shadow or blames the devil when the copier jams.
[SPEAKER_00]: I'm practical, cautious, but there's one service I can't get out of my head, no matter how hard I try to rationalize it.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was a Wednesday night, our midweek service, when the sanctuary is barely half full.
[SPEAKER_00]: We keep the lights dim during worship to save on electricity, and our worship leader Carla was upfront with her guitar, leading us through some old courses.
[SPEAKER_00]: Nothing special, just the same few songs we cycle through.
[SPEAKER_00]: We're a small church, everyone knows each other.
[SPEAKER_00]: People stand and sway, eyes closed, hands lifted, that quiet murmur of, thank you, Jesus, drifting over the music.
[SPEAKER_00]: About 15 minutes in, I noticed something off.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was a sound.
[SPEAKER_00]: High almost like a child humming, but it was layered under Carla's guitar.
[SPEAKER_00]: I thought it was the speaker system at first, maybe feedback, but it was melodic.
[SPEAKER_00]: Notes like someone was trying to sing along but didn't know the words.
[SPEAKER_00]: It felt out of place.
[SPEAKER_00]: Like it wasn't coming from anywhere in the room.
[SPEAKER_00]: Yet it was there right in the air around us.
[SPEAKER_00]: I glanced at the sound booth.
[SPEAKER_00]: Our deacon Phil was there, fiddling with the mixer, but he wasn't reacting, nobody else seemed to hear it.
[SPEAKER_00]: I leaned over to my wife Lisa, who was seated on the front pew and whispered.
[SPEAKER_00]: Do you hear that?
[SPEAKER_00]: She gave me a confused look, shook her head, and went back to clapping.
[SPEAKER_00]: The music kept going, and that humming got a little louder.
[SPEAKER_00]: It wasn't a child's voice, not really.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was thinner, almost strained, and it moved around, like it was circling above us.
[SPEAKER_00]: I tried to brush it off to stay in the moment, but my skin felt prickly, like I was standing too close to a static filled TV screen.
[SPEAKER_00]: Then out of nowhere, the fire alarm lights started flashing.
[SPEAKER_00]: No siren, just the red lights strobing along the walls.
[SPEAKER_00]: Everyone kept worshiping, hands raised, eyes closed.
[SPEAKER_00]: The guitar kept playing, carless singing, I surrender all, like nothing was happening.
[SPEAKER_00]: The lights blinked in rhythm with that humming sound, and for a second I felt dizzy, like I was about to pass out.
[SPEAKER_00]: Film, I called out trying to get his attention.
[SPEAKER_00]: He didn't look up.
[SPEAKER_00]: The humming got louder, and I saw a shape.
[SPEAKER_00]: I swear on everything I know, I saw it near the back of the sanctuary by the double doors.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was like a shadow, but it moved against the strobing lights in a way that made it clear.
[SPEAKER_00]: It wasn't a trick of my eyes.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was thin, child sized, but its head was tilted back.
[SPEAKER_00]: My breath caught, and for a second I couldn't move.
[SPEAKER_00]: I tried to shout, but the words wouldn't come out, and that humming became a sharp shrill sound that made my ears ring.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was like it was screaming, but only I could hear it.
[SPEAKER_00]: Then the fire alarm finally went off, that harsh, blaring, siren tearing through the music.
[SPEAKER_00]: Carla stopped playing, looking confused, and people started lowering their hands, glancing around, murmuring.
[SPEAKER_00]: I found my voice enshouted, everyone outside now!
[SPEAKER_00]: People hesitated, looking at me like I was overreacting.
[SPEAKER_00]: Lisa was staring at me eyes wide, clutching her Bible to her chest.
[SPEAKER_00]: The siren kept screaming, the lights flashing, and that's shaped by the doors wasn't there anymore.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was gone, like it had never been there.
[SPEAKER_00]: Go, go now, I shouted again.
[SPEAKER_00]: That got them moving.
[SPEAKER_00]: People shuffled toward the doors.
[SPEAKER_00]: Some grabbing their kids.
[SPEAKER_00]: Others looking around in confusion.
[SPEAKER_00]: I scanned the sanctuary one last time, but the shadow was gone, and the humming had stopped.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was just the siren now, and the blinking red lights.
[SPEAKER_00]: Once we were outside, I checked with Phil, who was fumbling with the alarm panel.
[SPEAKER_00]: His hands were shaking.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't pull it.
[SPEAKER_00]: He said, I don't know what happened.
[SPEAKER_00]: It just went off.
[SPEAKER_00]: We waited in the gravel lot, some people starting to sing quietly again, others praying under their breath, kids clinging to their parents' legs, asking if there was a fire.
[SPEAKER_00]: There was no smoke, no heat, nothing.
[SPEAKER_00]: After about 15 minutes, Phil managed to silence the alarm, and people started drifting back inside.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't go back in, I couldn't.
[SPEAKER_00]: I told Carla to lead them in a final song, and I just stood outside leaning against the brick wall trying to steady my breathing.
[SPEAKER_00]: The summer air was thick and heavy, but I felt cold, like something had brushed past me.
[SPEAKER_00]: When the service ended, people tried to joke about it.
[SPEAKER_00]: Guess the Holy Spirit said off the alarm, someone said chuckling nervously.
[SPEAKER_00]: I forced a smile, but I couldn't shake what I saw, what I heard.
[SPEAKER_00]: Later that night, after everyone was gone, I walked back into the sanctuary alone.
[SPEAKER_00]: I turned on the lights, checked every corner, every pew, the sound booth, the back hallway.
[SPEAKER_00]: There was nothing there, just the empty sanctuary, quiet and still, like it had always been.
[SPEAKER_00]: But the air felt wrong, heavy, like something had been there, and had left something behind.
[SPEAKER_00]: I stood there for a long time waiting for that humming to start again, for the shadow to appear, but it didn't.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't know what it was.
[SPEAKER_00]: I've tried to tell myself it was the stress, the lights, the music, and overactive imagination.
[SPEAKER_00]: But I can't convince myself, that's shape, that's sound, it felt real,
[SPEAKER_00]: Since then, I've never let a service the same way.
[SPEAKER_00]: I keep the lights brighter, the sound lower.
[SPEAKER_00]: I sit near the aisle now, and I keep the doors unlocked during service, just in case.
[SPEAKER_00]: I find myself checking the back of the sanctuary more often, scanning for any hint of that shadow, and sometimes in the middle of worship, when everyone's eyes are closed in the guitar's strumming softly.
[SPEAKER_00]: I swear I can still hear that humming, just for a moment under the music.
[SPEAKER_00]: A thin, strained melody circling above us, waiting for the lights to flash again.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't tell the congregation about that night.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't want to scare them, and honestly, I don't want to scare myself anymore than I already have, but I'll never forget what I saw, and I'll never stop watching that back corner, waiting for that shape to return.
[SPEAKER_00]: Story 2, I'm not a pastor, but I played the organ at a Baptist church in a small Kentucky town while I was in college, staying in a cheap one bedroom above the flower shop across the street.
[SPEAKER_00]: The church was old, brick, drafty, the kind of place that smelled like hymnal's and cold wood no matter how hot it got outside.
[SPEAKER_00]: I took the job because it paid enough to cover my rent, and I didn't think much about ghosts or any of that, not until that Sunday.
[SPEAKER_00]: That morning I remember I was fighting off a hangover, sipping black coffee from a styrofoam cup, while testing the pedals before service.
[SPEAKER_00]: Pastor Rick was pacing, going over his notes, mumbling scripture under his breath.
[SPEAKER_00]: The sanctuary felt heavy that day, like the air was thicker, like the ceiling was too low.
[SPEAKER_00]: Something feels off, Pastor Rick said, have to himself, have to me.
[SPEAKER_00]: I just shrugged, adjusted the organ volume, and told myself to get through the service.
[SPEAKER_00]: The church had this massive pipe organ ancient with these big gilded pipes that line the front above the pulpit, 15 or 16 feet high, the size of small trees.
[SPEAKER_00]: I used to joke with my friends that if one of those ever fell, it'd kill someone instantly.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was just a joke.
[SPEAKER_00]: That day it was humid and the ceiling fans just pushed around the heat.
[SPEAKER_00]: People fan themselves with the church bulletins.
[SPEAKER_00]: I started the prelude, soft cords, watching people file in, families with kids and stiff shoes, old folks and hats.
[SPEAKER_00]: Pastor Rick giving that wide, tired smile to everyone.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was all normal, so normal I could almost forget how the room felt wrong.
[SPEAKER_00]: Service moved along slowly, dragging him after him, Scripture readings, the usual.
[SPEAKER_00]: I kept glancing up at those pipes above Pastor Rick's head as he stood at the pulpit.
[SPEAKER_00]: They glinted in the light from the stained glass, shifting every time the wind blew through a crack in the window, barely moving but enough to catch your eye if you were looking for it.
[SPEAKER_00]: Halfway through the sermon, Pastor Rick started sweating.
[SPEAKER_00]: His voice trembled a little, and he paused looking up at the pipes, then back at his notes.
[SPEAKER_00]: And behold, he said, I am with you always, even unto the end of the
[SPEAKER_00]: There was this sound like metal groaning, a pop, a rattle that made everyone flinch and look up.
[SPEAKER_00]: Pastor Rick looked up too, eyes wide, mouth half open.
[SPEAKER_00]: The pipe above him shifted just a fraction.
[SPEAKER_00]: Then again, a scraping squeal of metal on metal that cut through the sanctuary.
[SPEAKER_00]: I felt my stomach dropped.
[SPEAKER_00]: Rick, move, I shouted, not even thinking, just standing up from the organ bench.
[SPEAKER_00]: He took a single step back, the pipe broke loose.
[SPEAKER_00]: I will never forget the sounded made as it came down, a rushing bush of heavy air, then a cracking boom as it hit the floor inches from where Pastor Rick had been standing, splintering the pulpit, knocking over the flower stand, shattering the vast so hard that water sprayed the front puse.
[SPEAKER_00]: The flowers were crushed, petals sticking to the jagged metal of the pipe.
[SPEAKER_00]: People screamed, someone fainted, I think.
[SPEAKER_00]: Everyone else scrambled back, clutching children, staring, frozen.
[SPEAKER_00]: I just stood there, my hands still hovering above the keys, unable to breathe.
[SPEAKER_00]: Pastor Rick stumbled back, staring at the pipe, at the splintered wood and shards of glass around it.
[SPEAKER_00]: His face was pale, mouth moving, but no words came out.
[SPEAKER_00]: Then the lights flickered.
[SPEAKER_00]: Once, twice, and then they went out completely.
[SPEAKER_00]: People started murmuring, panicking, but it was what I heard next that I can't explain.
[SPEAKER_00]: Even now, sitting in my car years later, typing this out because I can't sleep tonight.
[SPEAKER_00]: Over the terrified whispers and cries I heard the organ.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was playing, I wasn't touching it.
[SPEAKER_00]: My hands were at my sides.
[SPEAKER_00]: It played a single chord, low and deep, vibrating through the dark sanctuary.
[SPEAKER_00]: And then it shifted, climbing, pressing down on the air like a weight.
[SPEAKER_00]: It wasn't a him, not anything I'd ever practiced.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was dissonant, wrong, like someone who didn't know how to play was pressing random keys, but it somehow formed a slow, pulsing rhythm.
[SPEAKER_00]: I couldn't move.
[SPEAKER_00]: My eyes adjusted to the dark enough to see the keys moving on their own, pressing down and releasing, pressing down and releasing.
[SPEAKER_00]: I wanted to run, but my knees locked.
[SPEAKER_00]: I saw Pastor Rick staring at the organ, whispering something, praying under his breath.
[SPEAKER_00]: I could see his lips moving.
[SPEAKER_00]: Then in the glow of the exit sign, I saw something standing near the organ pipes up in the loft where the choir usually sat.
[SPEAKER_00]: A shape taller than a man, dark, almost blending with the shadows.
[SPEAKER_00]: It didn't move, didn't shift, just stood there as the keys kept pressing down, the notes getting louder, more frantic.
[SPEAKER_00]: People were trying to get out, pushing toward the back, but the doors were heavy, and it took them time to get them open.
[SPEAKER_00]: Someone was crying, a child screaming.
[SPEAKER_00]: Pastor Rick was still praying, louder now shaking.
[SPEAKER_00]: The shape tilted its head, like it was listening to the chaos, and then it slowly lifted an arm, pointing directly at Pastor Rick.
[SPEAKER_00]: At that exact moment, the music stopped.
[SPEAKER_00]: Silence, except for the sounds of people sobbing, glass crunching underfoot, someone's phone ringing in the background.
[SPEAKER_00]: Then the lights came back on, flickering weekly before stabilizing.
[SPEAKER_00]: The shape was gone.
[SPEAKER_00]: The organ was silent.
[SPEAKER_00]: Pastor Rick fell to his knees, staring at the pipe embedded in the floor in front of him.
[SPEAKER_00]: The shattered pulpit, the scattered pedals in glass.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't remember walking out.
[SPEAKER_00]: I just remember standing outside on the sidewalk, shaking as people stumbled past me, whispering, some praying.
[SPEAKER_00]: The summer air felt cold.
[SPEAKER_00]: I could see Pastor Rick through the window, kneeling, clutching the Bible against his chest, rocking back and forth.
[SPEAKER_00]: I quit that job that afternoon.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't tell people about what I saw not really.
[SPEAKER_00]: They wouldn't believe me anyway.
[SPEAKER_00]: The official story was that the pipe fell because of rusted brackets.
[SPEAKER_00]: an accident.
[SPEAKER_00]: That's what the paper said.
[SPEAKER_00]: What the deacon said.
[SPEAKER_00]: What everyone wanted to believe.
[SPEAKER_00]: But I know what I saw.
[SPEAKER_00]: I know what I heard.
[SPEAKER_00]: Story three.
[SPEAKER_00]: I never planned on being a pastor.
[SPEAKER_00]: Let alone the one who nearly burned down a 160-year-old church in the middle of a Christmas Eve service.
[SPEAKER_00]: My name's David.
[SPEAKER_00]: I'm from a small logging town outside Masulah, Montana.
[SPEAKER_00]: The kind of place where the cold gets in your bones around December and the snow squeaks under your boots.
[SPEAKER_00]: I'd only been at Trinity Baptist for three months, trying to hide how nervous I was every time I climbed those old steps to the pulpit.
[SPEAKER_00]: The church smelled like wood rot and furnace heat, and the congregation was old.
[SPEAKER_00]: Mostly ranchers and retired teachers, folks who sat in the same pew every Sunday, like it was carved in stone.
[SPEAKER_00]: Christmas Eve was supposed to be a quiet service.
[SPEAKER_00]: Carls, Scripture, lighting the Christ candle.
[SPEAKER_00]: We had bought these new brass candle holders with spring-loaded stems to keep the candles looking fresh and tall.
[SPEAKER_00]: They'd been a donation from one of the ladies who didn't like how the candles used to slump over, dripping wax onto the altar.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't think much about them honestly, that night the church was full, the choir was humming silent night, and the candles along the altar flickered, throwing shadows onto the new red velvet drapes we'd hung behind the cross.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was so quiet in there you could hear the old building creek as it settled under the snow on the roof.
[SPEAKER_00]: I was in the middle of reading from Luke, for unto you is born this day when I heard a soft pop.
[SPEAKER_00]: I paused, looked up, and saw one of the candles jump like it was pushed from below.
[SPEAKER_00]: It wobbled, then shot up out of the holder, flames licking at the air, and fell against the velvet drapes.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't move.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't know why.
[SPEAKER_00]: My mouth just stayed open.
[SPEAKER_00]: The Bible shaking in my hands.
[SPEAKER_00]: People gasped and in the next second, another candle popped up, shot out and clattered across the altar rail, sending hot wax spattering onto the carpet.
[SPEAKER_00]: I remember the smell changing first, hot wax, and then the sharp thick scent of burning fabric.
[SPEAKER_00]: A woman in the front pew screamed as the drapes caught, flames running up them so fast it looked like someone had poured gasoline on them.
[SPEAKER_00]: I heard my own voice thin and stupid saying, oh god, oh god, over and over.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't know why I didn't move.
[SPEAKER_00]: The fire climbed up the drapes toward the wooden cross, and pieces of ash started drifting down onto the choir ropes below.
[SPEAKER_00]: The organists backed away from the keys and the notes died off into this ringing silence, except for the crackle of the flames.
[SPEAKER_00]: My wife Hannah was standing in the aisle, clutching our sons' hand.
[SPEAKER_00]: I saw her eyes dart from the fire to me to the back of the sanctuary where the old red fire extinguisher was mounted on the wall.
[SPEAKER_00]: I could see she was waiting for me to do something, but I couldn't move.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was like the heat and the light had paralyzed me.
[SPEAKER_00]: I saw the flame catch the bottom edge of the cross, blackening the wood.
[SPEAKER_00]: And all I could think about was every newspaper headline that would run about how the new pastor burned down the church on Christmas Eve.
[SPEAKER_00]: Hannah let go of our son's hand and ran.
[SPEAKER_00]: She grabbed the extinguisher off the wall and yanked the pin out with shaking fingers.
[SPEAKER_00]: And I remember her yelling at me.
[SPEAKER_00]: David, David, move!
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't.
[SPEAKER_00]: She pulled the trigger and the extinguisher screamed, sending a cloud of white powder over the flames.
[SPEAKER_00]: It coated the altar, the cross, the floor, the drapes hissed and turned black, slumping down as the flames died, leaving behind this wreaking, chemical smell that mixed with smoke and made my eyes water.
[SPEAKER_00]: The sanctuary went dead silent, except for the hiss of the last embers dying on the altar rail.
[SPEAKER_00]: I lowered the Bible, and I saw people staring at me, some covering their mouths, some looking at the scorched cross and the black and drapes.
[SPEAKER_00]: Someone opened the back doors, and the cold rust in, swirling the powder and smoke around, like a dirty snowstorm.
[SPEAKER_00]: That's when I felt it.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't know how to explain it without sounding crazy, but as I stood there, I felt something passed right by me, cold as the wind but heavy, like it was brushing past my shoulder.
[SPEAKER_00]: It moved behind me toward the altar, and I felt the air bend around it.
[SPEAKER_00]: I turned so fast, I nearly dropped the Bible, but there was nothing there.
[SPEAKER_00]: Nothing.
[SPEAKER_00]: But the air felt heavy, like it was pressing down, and I swear I heard something move across the floorboards behind me.
[SPEAKER_00]: Just one step, like a boot scuffing against the old wood.
[SPEAKER_00]: I looked at the black and altar, the half-melted candles still standing crooked, wax hardened in jagged shapes, and for one moment it felt like the church itself was holding its breath.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't remember much after that.
[SPEAKER_00]: I know I closed the service, stumbling over the words, people left quietly, stepping around the mess, the scorched carpet, and the smell of smoke that clung to their coats.
[SPEAKER_00]: Some of them touched my arm as they left, but no one really looked me in the eyes.
[SPEAKER_00]: After everyone was gone, Hannah came up to me, her face pale, her hair clinging to her forehead from the sweat in the heat.
[SPEAKER_00]: She was still holding the empty extinguisher.
[SPEAKER_00]: Why didn't you move David?
[SPEAKER_00]: She asked.
[SPEAKER_00]: I couldn't answer her.
[SPEAKER_00]: I just looked at the altar, the charred velvet, and the brass candle holders that had gone quite again.
[SPEAKER_00]: One of the candles lay broken on the floor, Wick still smoking.
[SPEAKER_00]: That was three years ago, but I still have dreams about that night.
[SPEAKER_00]: Not about the fire, but about the moment after it was put out.
[SPEAKER_00]: When I felt something passed me by, like it had been there the whole time.
[SPEAKER_00]: Watching, waiting for the flame, waiting for the silence.
[SPEAKER_00]: Story four, I never planned on being a pastor.
[SPEAKER_00]: I was a truck mechanic in Tulsa, and I got into ministry late after I cleaned up from drinking and found myself praying alone in the shop bathroom.
[SPEAKER_00]: It's strange how life rewrote you.
[SPEAKER_00]: I've been leading a small Baptist Church here in Sepulpo, Oklahoma for about eight years now.
[SPEAKER_00]: We're tucked behind an abandoned hardware store, the gravel lot always muddy, the sign leaning to one side.
[SPEAKER_00]: It's not a fancy place, but people come even on Wednesday nights because they're hungry for something good in a world that's rotting.
[SPEAKER_00]: that night we were about 20 minutes into Bible study.
[SPEAKER_00]: I remember because my watch was fogged up from the humidity.
[SPEAKER_00]: It had rained all day and you could smell wet earth through the cracked windows.
[SPEAKER_00]: We had maybe 30 people there, heads down, Bibles open, with the humming of the ceiling fans and someone's toddler squealing softly in the back.
[SPEAKER_00]: Then the door opened and in walked Jolene.
[SPEAKER_00]: She was a regular, but she made people uncomfortable, even if they didn't say it out loud.
[SPEAKER_00]: She always wore the same baggy cardigan, and she'd mutter to herself if you tried to shake her hand.
[SPEAKER_00]: But she was never a problem.
[SPEAKER_00]: She'd sit in the back, nodding along to him's eyes too wide, lips moving with words no one else could hear.
[SPEAKER_00]: I remember looking up from my Bible and seeing her slide into a seed in the second row, which was odd because she never set up front.
[SPEAKER_00]: Her eyes were fixed on me, unblinking, like she was trying to see something behind my face.
[SPEAKER_00]: I kept reading, hoping it would pass.
[SPEAKER_00]: I got through the verse, and before I could say amen, I saw her rummaging in that big cloth bag she always carried.
[SPEAKER_00]: She pulled out a white Elmer's glue bottle, like the one's kids bring to Sunday school, pop the cap and started squeezing it onto her fingers, licking it off like frosting.
[SPEAKER_00]: I froze, I didn't know what to do.
[SPEAKER_00]: Everyone else noticed, too, the pages of Bibles pausing mid-turn, heads slowly rising.
[SPEAKER_00]: One of my ushers, Kevin, a retired cop, who always kept an eye on the room, got up quietly and walked over to her.
[SPEAKER_00]: He bent down in whispered,
[SPEAKER_00]: She didn't look at him, she kept licking the glue, sticky strands shining in the fluorescent lights, I still locked on me like I was the only thing in the room.
[SPEAKER_00]: Kevin tried again, a little firmer, you can't eat that in here, then she did something I will never forget for as long as I live.
[SPEAKER_00]: She dropped the glue bottle and it hit the carpet with a soft thud, her head tilted back and she started screaming.
[SPEAKER_00]: Not words at first, just this high thin shriek that made my stomach drop, like a kettle boiling over, sharp enough that the toddler in the back started wailing to.
[SPEAKER_00]: Then she started shouting names of states.
[SPEAKER_00]: Tennessee, Kentucky, Alabama, North Dakota.
[SPEAKER_00]: Over and over, each name like a gunshot in the small room.
[SPEAKER_00]: Her voice didn't sound human.
[SPEAKER_00]: It cracked on every syllable, but she didn't stop for breath.
[SPEAKER_00]: Her eyes were rolled back, only the white showing, spit and glue dripping down her chin.
[SPEAKER_00]: Kevin tried to grab her arm to pull her up, but the moment he touched her, she went limp and dropped her knees screaming.
[SPEAKER_00]: Montana, Montana, Montana.
[SPEAKER_00]: So loud that my ears rang, people were getting up, backing away, some holding their kids, others whispering prayers under their breath.
[SPEAKER_00]: I stepped down from the pulpit.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't know what else to do.
[SPEAKER_00]: My own voice felt small when I called out.
[SPEAKER_00]: In the name of Jesus, be still.
[SPEAKER_00]: She stopped screaming like someone hit a switch, but her mouth was still open, jaw-hanging low, and she let out this rattling breath, eyes dead in staring straight ahead.
[SPEAKER_00]: For a second I thought she died right there on the carpet, glue still on her lips.
[SPEAKER_00]: Kevin and another usher grabbed her arms, lifting her.
[SPEAKER_00]: Her legs dragged, shoes scraping the floor, leaving streaks of glue across the blue carpet.
[SPEAKER_00]: She didn't fight them, but she started whispering, just loud enough for the people in the front rows to hear.
[SPEAKER_00]: 63, 63, 63.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was the way she said it that made the hair on my arm stand up, like a child learning to speak, but each 63 came out hollow, scraping, like something else was saying it through her.
[SPEAKER_00]: They dragged her down the aisle toward the back door and she kept repeating it.
[SPEAKER_00]: People turned away, some crying, some praying, no one knowing what to do.
[SPEAKER_00]: We heard her all the way down the hall.
[SPEAKER_00]: 63, 63, 63, 63,
[SPEAKER_00]: Even when the door slams shut, we could still hear her, muffled, as they got her outside into the rain.
[SPEAKER_00]: Her voice cutting through the downpour until the last 63 drifted off into nothing.
[SPEAKER_00]: No one moved.
[SPEAKER_00]: The room felt empty, but heavy.
[SPEAKER_00]: Like we were sitting in the dark, even though the lights were still buzzing above us.
[SPEAKER_00]: A woman in the front row was holding her Bible so tight her knuckles were white, her lips moving, but no sound coming out.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't know what to say.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't know how to pray after that.
[SPEAKER_00]: We didn't see Jolina again after that night.
[SPEAKER_00]: We called her family, but no one ever picked up.
[SPEAKER_00]: We checked hospitals, but there was no record of her.
[SPEAKER_00]: Her apartment was empty when we tried to drop off some groceries.
[SPEAKER_00]: The door swinging open to a bear floor in a stale smell.
[SPEAKER_00]: Story five, I don't know what you believe about spiritual warfare or demons or whatever, but I can tell you this.
[SPEAKER_00]: If you ever watch a man's eyes roll back while he's foaming at the mouth and you see something behind his eyes staring right back at you, something that knows your name.
[SPEAKER_00]: you'll never be the same.
[SPEAKER_00]: I pastor a mid-sized Pentecostal church in South Carolina about 20 miles out from Charleston, and we usually pack about 500 on Sundays, not 5,000 like the clip you may have seen online.
[SPEAKER_00]: People exaggerate everything.
[SPEAKER_00]: But the fear was real that morning.
[SPEAKER_00]: The way I remember it, the air felt thick, like it does before a bad thunderstorm.
[SPEAKER_00]: And I was about 20 minutes into the sermon, talking about forgiveness of all things.
[SPEAKER_00]: When I saw Caleb in the fourth row, jerk forward like he'd been punched in the spine.
[SPEAKER_00]: Caleb was a skinny, quiet 20-year-old who started coming with his aunt two months prior.
[SPEAKER_00]: Nothing special about him, or the same thrift store buttonups every Sunday, kept his eyes on the floor during worship, but he came up for prayer once asking for help to stop the dreams.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't ask what dreams because he looked embarrassed, and you learned to give people space.
[SPEAKER_00]: That morning though, I saw him convulsing his seat, his aunt grabbing his arm, screaming.
[SPEAKER_00]: At first I thought he was choking, but then he let out a sound I will never forget.
[SPEAKER_00]: It wasn't a scream.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was deep, low, vibrating, like an animal growl forced through human vocal cords, shaking in and out with the jerking of his body.
[SPEAKER_00]: The mic was still live, and people could hear it over the speakers.
[SPEAKER_00]: I remember dropping my Bible, my heart hammering, the page is flapping on the floor near my feet.
[SPEAKER_00]: People started shouting, somewhere yelling for 911.
[SPEAKER_00]: Others started praying loudly in tongues.
[SPEAKER_00]: Hands in the air, some pointing at him like they were rebuking him.
[SPEAKER_00]: One man shouted, the demon's coming out.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was chaos.
[SPEAKER_00]: I tried to move off the platform, but it felt like the floor was shifting under me.
[SPEAKER_00]: It sounds stupid, but the lights felt like they were getting brighter.
[SPEAKER_00]: Burning into my eyes.
[SPEAKER_00]: I could hear Caleb's teeth grinding over the noise.
[SPEAKER_00]: His head snapped back, and he made this choking sound, like something was stuck in his throat.
[SPEAKER_00]: His eyes were rolled back, but then they came down, and for a second he looked at me.
[SPEAKER_00]: Straight at me.
[SPEAKER_00]: But it wasn't him.
[SPEAKER_00]: I'm telling you, I know what Caleb's face looks like, how he usually looks scared and small, but this face was calm, smiling.
[SPEAKER_00]: His eyes were black, not rolled back, but black.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't care if you believe me, but they were black.
[SPEAKER_00]: I stepped down off the stage, not even thinking, just moving.
[SPEAKER_00]: His aunt was sobbing, holding onto his shirt, and people were pulling back, making a circle around him.
[SPEAKER_00]: I told someone to call an ambulance, but they already had.
[SPEAKER_00]: Caleb's body slammed back into the chair, and that sound came out again.
[SPEAKER_00]: That growl, but it was saying something, and it took me a minute to realize it was words.
[SPEAKER_00]: Hello, Pastor.
[SPEAKER_00]: It's said in that same low vibrating voice coming from a 20-year-old kid who could barely speak in Bible study.
[SPEAKER_00]: My knees almost gave out, but I held my ground, sweat dripping down my back.
[SPEAKER_00]: I tried to pray, but nothing came out.
[SPEAKER_00]: I opened my mouth, and I felt like something was squeezing my throat.
[SPEAKER_00]: Caleb, or whatever, was inside him, started laughing.
[SPEAKER_00]: A deep, wet, broken laugh that didn't fit his body, and his mouth kept opening wider, too wide, his jaw cracking.
[SPEAKER_00]: That's when the lights flickered.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't care if you think that's cliche, but that's what happened.
[SPEAKER_00]: The overhead lights flickered, buzzing, going off and on, and people were screaming, some running for the doors.
[SPEAKER_00]: His aunt was still there, shaking him, praying in tongues, but Caleb's eyes were locked on me the whole time, even while his body shook like it was being electrocuted.
[SPEAKER_00]: And then he stopped.
[SPEAKER_00]: Just like that, his body went limp and he fell to the floor, eyes closed, breathing heavy.
[SPEAKER_00]: I stood there shaking, looking around at the mess, people crying, praying, hiding near the walls.
[SPEAKER_00]: Someone was still on the phone with 911, telling them to hurry.
[SPEAKER_00]: Caleb opened his eyes slowly.
[SPEAKER_00]: They were normal again, blue and terrified, darting around like a trapped animal.
[SPEAKER_00]: He started crying, pulling his knees up to his chest, rocking, whispering, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, over and over, I didn't know what to do.
[SPEAKER_00]: I'm supposed to have the answers, but in that moment I felt completely hollow, like someone had scooped everything out of me and left me standing there, a shell.
[SPEAKER_00]: I kneeled down beside him, but I didn't touch him.
[SPEAKER_00]: He looked up at me, tears and spit all over his face, and he said, did you see it, too?
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't answer him, I didn't know what to say.
[SPEAKER_00]: The paramedics came in a few minutes later, and people were still praying, somewhere just staring.
[SPEAKER_00]: They took Caleb out on a stretcher, him clutching his ons' hand, still crying, asking God to forgive him.
[SPEAKER_00]: He wouldn't stop saying, sorry, over and over, even as they wheeled him out.
[SPEAKER_00]: After they left, the sanctuary was dead silent.
[SPEAKER_00]: Nobody moved.
[SPEAKER_00]: I stood up, took the mic, and told everyone to go home.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't try to finish the sermon.
[SPEAKER_00]: I couldn't.
[SPEAKER_00]: I just told them we'd meet for prayer that evening, but most people didn't come back.
[SPEAKER_00]: Some never came back at all.
[SPEAKER_00]: That was the last Sunday, Caleb ever came to church, and I don't think it's coming back.
[SPEAKER_00]: Story 6, I didn't even want to go that Wednesday night.
[SPEAKER_00]: My roommate Rob kept saying I needed to get right again, so I tagged along to this little church in Lawrence Kansas because they had free coffee and I didn't want to sit in our apartment by myself.
[SPEAKER_00]: It wasn't a big place.
[SPEAKER_00]: About 40 folding chairs, cheap carpet that smelled like wet dog and a pulpit with a cracked microphone.
[SPEAKER_00]: The pastor was young, maybe late 30s, in jeans and a wrinkled polo.
[SPEAKER_00]: He was halfway through preaching about spiritual warfare, how the devil walks about like a roaring lion.
[SPEAKER_00]: All that, he kept pacing, wiping sweat off his forehead with a rag, and the might kept popping when he yelled.
[SPEAKER_00]: That's when the old man in the back row just fell over.
[SPEAKER_00]: Not like slumping, but like something pulled him down by the shoulders.
[SPEAKER_00]: It made this ugly thought on the floor.
[SPEAKER_00]: everyone turned, but the pastor didn't stop.
[SPEAKER_00]: I thought maybe it was part of the sermon, you know?
[SPEAKER_00]: Some guy getting slain in the spirit or whatever.
[SPEAKER_00]: Then his wife started screaming, he's not breathing, someone called 911.
[SPEAKER_00]: You know that feeling when a room just drains of sound?
[SPEAKER_00]: It felt like that.
[SPEAKER_00]: A young guy ran to the front, told the pastor, and the pastor just nodded, and told everyone to start praying in tongues loud.
[SPEAKER_00]: People raised their hands muttering and crying, rocking back and forth while the old man lay on the floor turning blue.
[SPEAKER_00]: Rob and I just stood there.
[SPEAKER_00]: I kept checking the door, hoping to see paramedics.
[SPEAKER_00]: Instead, the pastor told us to form a circle around the old man.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't want to, but everyone was moving, so I ended up standing right across from Rob, maybe three feet from the old man's feet.
[SPEAKER_00]: They were bare.
[SPEAKER_00]: I remember that.
[SPEAKER_00]: He had thick yellow toenails and there was a wet spot on the carpet under him.
[SPEAKER_00]: The pastor started shouting prayers pacing around the circle.
[SPEAKER_00]: In the name of Jesus, rise up, rise up, spirits of death, leave this man.
[SPEAKER_00]: People around me were crying harder, some whispering, some yelling.
[SPEAKER_00]: Then the pastor said, everybody lay hands on the person in front of you.
[SPEAKER_00]: Let's form a chain of power in this place.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't want to touch anyone, but Rob grabbed my shoulder and I felt hands on my back.
[SPEAKER_00]: We were all linked, eyes closed or open, murmuring prayers.
[SPEAKER_00]: It felt wrong, like we were trapping something in the middle of the circle, and then the old man sat up.
[SPEAKER_00]: His eyes were open, but it was like he wasn't looking at anything.
[SPEAKER_00]: His mouth was hanging open, and this noise came out, like a slow hiss but wet.
[SPEAKER_00]: The pastor shouted, Hallelujah!
[SPEAKER_00]: And people started screaming and praise clapping and laughing.
[SPEAKER_00]: But the man wasn't moving right.
[SPEAKER_00]: His neck was stiff and his eyes rolled back so only the white showed.
[SPEAKER_00]: His mouth was still hanging open and the hiss was getting louder.
[SPEAKER_00]: His wife screamed, that's not him.
[SPEAKER_00]: But the pastor was yelling, thank you Jesus, thank you Lord, then the old man's head snapped toward me.
[SPEAKER_00]: I'll never forget how that felt.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was like the air in the room thickened, like the walls were pressing in.
[SPEAKER_00]: His eyes were white and drooled slid down as chin, but I swear he saw me.
[SPEAKER_00]: He lifted his arm and pointed at me, his finger shaking, and that hiss turned into a word like a word stretched out.
[SPEAKER_00]: I felt my legs lock up.
[SPEAKER_00]: I couldn't move.
[SPEAKER_00]: Everyone else was still praising, but it was like none of them could hear him.
[SPEAKER_00]: The pastor was walking toward him, shouting, yes, Lord, over and over, then the old man's face changed.
[SPEAKER_00]: His mouth twisted into a grin, but his eyes stayed rolled back.
[SPEAKER_00]: And he said in a voice that wasn't his, deep and gutterl, you'll never leave.
[SPEAKER_00]: The lights flickered, just once, but enough to make the entire room go dark for a split second.
[SPEAKER_00]: When they came back the old man fell back down, stiff, his eyes still open, staring at the ceiling.
[SPEAKER_00]: The paramedics came in right then, almost like they had been waiting outside.
[SPEAKER_00]: They pushed through, telling everyone to back up.
[SPEAKER_00]: Someone pulled me back by the arm and I stumbled, nearly falling.
[SPEAKER_00]: Rob caught me, but he was pale, eyes wide, looking at the old man on the ground.
[SPEAKER_00]: I heard the pastor arguing with one of the paramedics saying, he was awake, he was alive, we saw it, God raised him up, but the paramedic just shook his head, checking for a pulse, his face hard.
[SPEAKER_00]: They lifted the old man onto a stretcher, his wife was wailing, holding onto his hand, and they had to pull her away.
[SPEAKER_00]: As they pushed him out, I looked at his face one last time.
[SPEAKER_00]: His eyes were still open, and for a moment I could swear they flicked over to me again, and his lips moved just a little.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't know what he said of anything, but I felt it, like ice down my spine, like something had crawled into my chest and crawled up there.
[SPEAKER_00]: The pastor stood in front of everyone, sweaty and shaking, and he said, okay, where was I?
[SPEAKER_00]: People laughed just a few, nervous and thin, and some sat back down like nothing had happened.
[SPEAKER_00]: Robin I didn't, we left, walks straight out into the parking lot, didn't even say goodbye.
[SPEAKER_00]: We didn't talk on the way home either.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't sleep that night, kept seeing his eyes in the dark, kept hearing that hiss.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't know if that man died, or if they brought him back again later.
[SPEAKER_00]: I never went back to that church.
[SPEAKER_00]: Neither did Rob.
[SPEAKER_00]: Sometimes I still wake up at 3am and feel like someone is standing in the corner of my room, watching me whispering in that wet hiss.
[SPEAKER_00]: You'll never leave.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't know what really happened that night and I don't care if you believe me.
[SPEAKER_00]: All I know is I was there, I saw it, and I don't think I'll ever set foot in a church again.
[SPEAKER_00]: Story 7, I've been a pastor for almost 15 years, and I'll tell you right now, I don't scare easily.
[SPEAKER_00]: I've prayed over the dying, I've buried babies, I've sat with folks while they took their last breath, and I've done it all in the middle of thunder and lightning without blinking.
[SPEAKER_00]: But what happened at my Uncle Ray's funeral out in South Carolina two summers ago?
[SPEAKER_00]: No sermon or scripture prepared me for that.
[SPEAKER_00]: We were at Sweet Gum Hill Cemetery, just off that red dirt road that always smells like clay after rain.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was July, humid enough to choke you, and I was sweating through my collar while I tried to keep everyone calm.
[SPEAKER_00]: Uncle Ray wasn't a church man, but he liked fishing more than anything.
[SPEAKER_00]: We propped up his old fishing pole next to the casket on a stand someone made out of PVC, and it had that ragged bit of green line dangling off the end.
[SPEAKER_00]: My cousin Darlene stuck a single red rose through one of the eyes on the pole, saying it was just a touch of love.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't think Uncle Ray would have liked that, but it seemed harmless at the time.
[SPEAKER_00]: My aunt was crying, holding a vase of roses at the head of the casket, and the rest of the family was quiet except for the cicadas screaming in the trees.
[SPEAKER_00]: I started the eulogy, telling them about how Uncle Ray used to take me fishing off the pier when I was eight.
[SPEAKER_00]: How he used to say, if I ever go, bury me with my pole, and I'll fish the river sticks.
[SPEAKER_00]: Everyone gave a sad chuckle, but I could see Darlene's eyes watering up again.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was when I paused for prayer that I noticed it.
[SPEAKER_00]: The fishing pole, which had been leaning slightly backward over the casket, shifted.
[SPEAKER_00]: Not like the breeze moved it, it straightened itself upright, wobbling, like someone yanked it from the base.
[SPEAKER_00]: It stood like that for maybe two seconds, just swaying in the heat, before it tipped forward, slowly, and smacked right onto the casket.
[SPEAKER_00]: Then it kept going, dropping down the front, landing hard on the dirt, and skittering down the steps of the little concrete platform we had set up.
[SPEAKER_00]: It didn't look like gravity, it looked deliberate, like someone had slapped it away.
[SPEAKER_00]: Everyone saw it.
[SPEAKER_00]: I looked around and saw the horror in their faces, even in the faces of the folks who didn't believe in anything.
[SPEAKER_00]: And there was this hush that fell over the family's so thick, you could hear the cicadas stop for a beat.
[SPEAKER_00]: My cousin Ricky whispered, what the hell?
[SPEAKER_00]: And Darlene covered her mouth.
[SPEAKER_00]: I tried to keep it together.
[SPEAKER_00]: I said, it's okay, it's just the wind, but there wasn't any wind.
[SPEAKER_00]: Not a single leaf was moving, not a strand of hair on anyone's head was blowing, and the air was dead still.
[SPEAKER_00]: That's when the vase of roses my aunt was holding tipped, hard, and spilled onto the casket.
[SPEAKER_00]: Water ran down the wood, soaking into the dirt, and the roses fell across the engraved letters, like someone tossed them in anger.
[SPEAKER_00]: She screamed and dropped the vase, and it shattered on the corner of the coffin, glass bouncing down the steps, pieces glittering in the sun.
[SPEAKER_00]: Only the Rose's fell.
[SPEAKER_00]: The Krasanthamams people had brought stayed in place on the tables around the casket.
[SPEAKER_00]: Untouched.
[SPEAKER_00]: Even the ones in lighter plastic vases that could have easily fallen over.
[SPEAKER_00]: But the roses were on the ground, petals scattered, water soaking into the red dirt.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't want to believe it, but it was too exact.
[SPEAKER_00]: Uncle Ray always hated roses, said they were funeral flowers for people who didn't know better.
[SPEAKER_00]: He wanted Krasanthamams, the family flower.
[SPEAKER_00]: The only thing that fell was the roses, and the fishing pole that Darlene had put the rose on.
[SPEAKER_00]: Everyone was whispering, Darlene said, it's him, her voice shaking, and my aunt was sobbing so hard she could barely stand.
[SPEAKER_00]: Ricky was backing away, muttering, hell no, I ain't staying here.
[SPEAKER_00]: I felt this coldness crawl across my shoulders, despite the heat, like someone walked right behind me, slow, watching, breathing.
[SPEAKER_00]: I tried to keep my composure, but I was shaking.
[SPEAKER_00]: I closed the Bible I was holding and looked at everyone.
[SPEAKER_00]: We're going to finish this, I told them.
[SPEAKER_00]: He wouldn't want us to leave him like this, but even as I said it, I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince.
[SPEAKER_00]: Someone said, Pastor, do you feel that?
[SPEAKER_00]: And I did.
[SPEAKER_00]: The air felt heavy, pressing down on us, and the cicadas were completely silent.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was like the whole world had paused, holding its breath.
[SPEAKER_00]: I picked up the fishing pole, the rose still jammed into the eye, petals bent, and I pulled it out.
[SPEAKER_00]: I tossed the rose aside far from the casket and set the pole back down next to the coffin.
[SPEAKER_00]: The moment I did, the heaviness lifted, the air moved again, and the cicadas started up so suddenly it made me flinch.
[SPEAKER_00]: Everyone was staring at me, eyes wide, like they expected something else to happen, but nothing did.
[SPEAKER_00]: The pole stayed put, the air felt normal, and the sky looked bright again.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't finish the eulogy.
[SPEAKER_00]: I just said, Amen.
[SPEAKER_00]: And everyone repeated it.
[SPEAKER_00]: Their voices low and trembling, and we started lowering the casket into the ground.
[SPEAKER_00]: Nobody said much after that.
[SPEAKER_00]: The family filed out fast, even the ones who usually linger around the grave to talk or smoke.
[SPEAKER_00]: After the burial, I stood there alone for a moment, looking at the grave.
[SPEAKER_00]: The rose I threw away was lying on the grass, facing the opposite direction from the grave, as if it had rolled far from him on purpose.
[SPEAKER_00]: I left it there.
[SPEAKER_00]: I buried a lot of people, but I've never felt a presence like I did that day.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't know if it was Uncle Ray or something else, but it didn't feel angry.
[SPEAKER_00]: It felt stubborn, like him, letting us know he meant what he said.
[SPEAKER_00]: He didn't want those roses and he sure as hell didn't want them on his fishing pole.
[SPEAKER_00]: When people ask me if I've ever seen anything I can't explain, I tell them about Uncle Ray's funeral, about the fishing pole and the bass, about the silence and that heavy air.
[SPEAKER_00]: And I tell them I still don't know what to do with it, even as a pastor.
[SPEAKER_00]: And I was there, and I don't think I'll ever forget the look on Darlene's face when she saw that pole stand up on its own.
[SPEAKER_00]: Story 8, I was never the type who got creeped out by being alone in the church at night.
[SPEAKER_00]: I grew up around churches.
[SPEAKER_00]: My dad was a pastor, his dad was a pastor, and now I'm the one with the keys to a little brick building just off a county road in Ohio.
[SPEAKER_00]: It's nothing fancy.
[SPEAKER_00]: 30 Pues, a small fellowship hall, a couple Sunday schoolrooms, and a sanctuary with a creaky upright piano that came with the place when I took over.
[SPEAKER_00]: This happened about two years ago, I think, around the tail end of summer, when the air still felt heavy even after sunset.
[SPEAKER_00]: I driven out to the church because I'd forgotten my sermon notes.
[SPEAKER_00]: I needed them for the morning, and I didn't want to rewrite the whole thing.
[SPEAKER_00]: The church sits close to a line of trees, and there aren't any streetlights on that stretch of road.
[SPEAKER_00]: It gets dark, like pitch black, where you can't see your own hand in front of your face when you step outside.
[SPEAKER_00]: I parked under the little spotlight by the door and unlocked it.
[SPEAKER_00]: and the smell of old wood and hymnels hit me like it always does.
[SPEAKER_00]: I left the lights off because I didn't plan on staying long.
[SPEAKER_00]: Just grab the notes and go home.
[SPEAKER_00]: I walked down the center aisle, feeling the floor flex a little under my weight, and headed for the pulpit where I left my binder.
[SPEAKER_00]: I remember thinking I should probably replace those floorboards, but the budget didn't allow for it.
[SPEAKER_00]: I was halfway back to the door, binder in hand, when I heard the first note.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was soft, just a single key.
[SPEAKER_00]: I stopped and stood there, telling myself it was the building settling, or the wind outside pushing on the old windows, but it wasn't.
[SPEAKER_00]: a few seconds later, another note, and then two more, like someone pressing down keys gently, testing them.
[SPEAKER_00]: I stood there in the middle of the dark sanctuary, looking at the silhouette of the piano upfront, barely visible in the glow coming through the stained glass windows from the parking
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't move, didn't breathe, just listened.
[SPEAKER_00]: Then it started playing, it wasn't a song not really just random notes at first, then a slow, stumbling melody that sounded almost like something a child would play, pressing down keys that didn't go together.
[SPEAKER_00]: It wasn't loud, just enough to echo in the empty room and send that cold wave down your spine.
[SPEAKER_00]: The one that makes the hair on your arm stand up even if you don't believe in ghosts.
[SPEAKER_00]: I swallowed and told myself someone had broken in.
[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe a kid from the neighborhood messing around.
[SPEAKER_00]: That's what I told myself while I walked toward the piano.
[SPEAKER_00]: Each step heavy, the notes getting louder as I got closer.
[SPEAKER_00]: Hello?
[SPEAKER_00]: I said, my voice sounding too small in that big empty space.
[SPEAKER_00]: The piano kept going, just this ugly, stumbling music that didn't sound like music at all.
[SPEAKER_00]: I felt sick to my stomach because I knew the sound was wrong.
[SPEAKER_00]: The way it echoed felt wrong, like it was coming from under the piano or inside it, not from the keys themselves.
[SPEAKER_00]: I was about five feet away when it stopped.
[SPEAKER_00]: Just stopped.
[SPEAKER_00]: I stood there listening to the silence that felt too thick, too heavy, like the air was pressing down on me.
[SPEAKER_00]: My heart was beating so loud I could hear it in my ears.
[SPEAKER_00]: I reached out and turned on the little lamp next to the piano and the yellow light filled the space around it.
[SPEAKER_00]: There was no one there.
[SPEAKER_00]: The bench was empty, and the keys were still, not a single one pressed down.
[SPEAKER_00]: I bent down, looked under the piano, even opened the lid, but there was nothing.
[SPEAKER_00]: No one.
[SPEAKER_00]: I checked the front doors, still locked, and the back exit in the Fellowship Hall still bolted.
[SPEAKER_00]: I stood there in the middle of the sanctuary, holding my binder, trying to breathe while the silence pressed in, and I realized I didn't want to be there anymore.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't care about checking the rest of the building, didn't care if it was a prank or if I was going crazy, I just wanted out.
[SPEAKER_00]: I turned off the lamp, walked back down the aisle, and kept my eyes on the door.
[SPEAKER_00]: As I was reaching for the handle I heard it again, a single note, just one, from behind me, from the piano.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was softer this time, almost careful, like it didn't want me to leave.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't look back, I stepped outside, locked the door, and got into my truck with my hands shaking so bad I dropped the keys twice before I could start it.
[SPEAKER_00]: I sat there under the parking light, looking at the stained glass windows, waiting to see if anyone came out.
[SPEAKER_00]: If anyone looked out at me.
[SPEAKER_00]: No one did, I drove home, and I didn't go back until Sunday morning when people were there, and the sunlight was coming through the windows, and the building felt normal again.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't tell anyone about it, not even my wife.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't want people to think I was losing it.
[SPEAKER_00]: I still have the piano in the sanctuary.
[SPEAKER_00]: I thought about getting rid of it, but that felt like admitting something I didn't want to admit.
[SPEAKER_00]: Sometimes I stand there before service starts, looking at it, remembering how it sounded that night.
[SPEAKER_00]: Those broken notes in the dark.
[SPEAKER_00]: It hasn't happened again, not once.
[SPEAKER_00]: I've been in that church alone plenty of time since, and it's just a building, just wood and old carpet and stained glass.
[SPEAKER_00]: That's what I tell myself anyway, but I don't stay there too long after dark anymore.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't need to.
[SPEAKER_00]: Story nine, I don't tell people this often, and I'm not looking for it was just your imagination replies, because I know what I saw.
[SPEAKER_00]: I'm a pastor, have been for almost 15 years, and I live in a small town in northern Kentucky.
[SPEAKER_00]: The kind of place where the biggest building for miles is the church, and everybody thinks they know everybody.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't scare easily, but this shook me in a way nothing else has.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was a Wednesday night, just after 11.30pm, and I was driving home from a late hospital visit.
[SPEAKER_00]: I'd gone to pray for an older lady who wasn't doing well.
[SPEAKER_00]: The church sits on a corner I passed every time I head home, and I've seen it a thousand times at night, dark and quiet like it should be.
[SPEAKER_00]: Except that night, I saw the lights on in the chapel.
[SPEAKER_00]: At first I slowed down, thinking maybe I'd left them on after locking up earlier, but I was sure I hadn't even been in the sanctuary that day.
[SPEAKER_00]: It wasn't just the lights either.
[SPEAKER_00]: There was movement, like shadows pacing, visible behind the stained glass.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was pale yellow light, the overheads in the chapel, and silhouettes were moving across them back and forth.
[SPEAKER_00]: I parked across the street, engine running, and just sat there watching, trying to figure out if I was looking at a break in, teenagers messing around, or something else.
[SPEAKER_00]: I pulled out my phone thinking about calling the police, but something made me pause.
[SPEAKER_00]: I wanted to see who it was first.
[SPEAKER_00]: That's when I realized the shadows weren't moving normally.
[SPEAKER_00]: One would stretch, then fold back into itself, then split.
[SPEAKER_00]: Like you'd see a drop of ink separate in water, they were multiplying, shapes pulling away from each other, forming new figures.
[SPEAKER_00]: They didn't walk, they floated or twitched across the windows, stopping and starting.
[SPEAKER_00]: I could feel the hair on my next stand-up.
[SPEAKER_00]: I got out of the car, left the door open, and took a few steps closer across the gravel trying to get a better look.
[SPEAKER_00]: I remember whispering, what the hell?
[SPEAKER_00]: Because I just couldn't process it.
[SPEAKER_00]: I wasn't scared yet.
[SPEAKER_00]: I was confused trying to rationalize it.
[SPEAKER_00]: Then all the shadows stopped moving at once.
[SPEAKER_00]: They turned, I swear they turned toward me.
[SPEAKER_00]: Even though there was no way they could have seen me through that stained glass.
[SPEAKER_00]: One by one, they slid toward the windows, pressing up against them, so many that the yellow glow started to vanish behind the shapes.
[SPEAKER_00]: I took another step back, clutching my keys, trying to decide if I should run or go inside.
[SPEAKER_00]: That's when it happened.
[SPEAKER_00]: All those shadows started to melt into each other, sliding together like liquid darkness, forming into one massive shape.
[SPEAKER_00]: It filled the windows, a giant black mass that was vaguely human, with what looked like shoulders and a head pressed up against the glass.
[SPEAKER_00]: taller than the windows themselves, blocking out every bit of light.
[SPEAKER_00]: I froze, staring at it, unable to move.
[SPEAKER_00]: Then it moved, it leaned forward, and the entire stained glass window bowed inward, like it was breathing against it, pushing it out toward me.
[SPEAKER_00]: I heard this low vibrating hum, like a thousand voices whispering at once, but I couldn't make out any words just that it was angry or hungry or both.
[SPEAKER_00]: My instincts finally kicked in, and I backed away fast, stumbling, and almost dropping my keys.
[SPEAKER_00]: I ran back to my car, slammed the door shut, and floored it.
[SPEAKER_00]: Gravel spraying as I peeled out of there, driving way over the speed limit with my heart pounding so hard I thought I'd pass out.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't go home, I didn't want that thing to follow me back to my house, where my wife and kids were sleeping.
[SPEAKER_00]: I just drove in circles out to the inner state and back until I calmed down enough to breathe.
[SPEAKER_00]: It was around 2am when I finally worked up the nerve to go back.
[SPEAKER_00]: I drove by slow, headlights off as I approached the church.
[SPEAKER_00]: The chapel was dark again.
[SPEAKER_00]: No lights, no shadows, just the normal empty building I'd seen for years.
[SPEAKER_00]: I parked, engine running, and stared at it for a long time, trying to see if anything moved inside.
[SPEAKER_00]: Nothing did.
[SPEAKER_00]: I never saw that thing again.
[SPEAKER_00]: I never saw the lights on at night again.
[SPEAKER_00]: I checked the security system the next morning, but the cameras in the chapel had stopped recording at 11.28pm and didn't come back on until 2.03am showing nothing but empty pews.
[SPEAKER_00]: I thought about telling the congregation, but what would I even say that something in the church wasn't what we thought it was, that I saw shadows splitting and merging, forming into something that pressed against the windows and watched me with nothing but hunger, or hate, or whatever that feeling was?
[SPEAKER_00]: nobody would come back.
[SPEAKER_00]: I wish I could say I found an explanation, but I haven't.
[SPEAKER_00]: I wish I could say I felt safe in that building since, but I haven't.
[SPEAKER_00]: Every time I walk into preach, I look up at those stained glass windows, remembering how they looked at night, blacked out with that thing pressing against them, waiting.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't know what it was.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't know what it wanted.
[SPEAKER_00]: But I know I saw it and I know it was real.
[SPEAKER_00]: I keep telling myself it was a one time thing that it won't come back.
[SPEAKER_00]: Story 10.
[SPEAKER_00]: They say you're never really alone in an empty church.
[SPEAKER_00]: I used to laugh at that until the night I locked up early thinking I just finished up some paperwork before heading home.
[SPEAKER_00]: My name's Marcus.
[SPEAKER_00]: I'm 37 and I passed to a small church in rural Kentucky where you can hear
[SPEAKER_00]: It's quiet, a good place to raise my son, but that night it felt like the quiet was pressing against the walls, waiting for me to notice it.
[SPEAKER_00]: I'd gone back inside to grab my keys from the pulpit, the church smelled like old hymnles and lemon oil, and there was this hush that usually comforted me, but I remember how it felt wrong that night, like the air was holding its breath.
[SPEAKER_00]: I bent down to pick up my keys and I heard footsteps behind me.
[SPEAKER_00]: I turned around and no one was there.
[SPEAKER_00]: Just the rows of empty pews, the shadows hanging along across the carpet.
[SPEAKER_00]: Hello, I called out trying to sound calm, but my voice echoed too much, like the building was too big all of a sudden.
[SPEAKER_00]: That was when I noticed it.
[SPEAKER_00]: The last pew on the left had a man sitting there.
[SPEAKER_00]: His head bowed like he was praying, wearing a dark suit that didn't fit right.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't recognize him, which was strange because you know everyone in a small congregation.
[SPEAKER_00]: His shoes were old and dusty, like he'd been walking for miles.
[SPEAKER_00]: Sir were closed for the night, I said, stepping closer.
[SPEAKER_00]: He didn't look up.
[SPEAKER_00]: He kept mumbling, rocking a little.
[SPEAKER_00]: His hands clenched together so tight they were shaking.
[SPEAKER_00]: I should have left.
[SPEAKER_00]: I know that now.
[SPEAKER_00]: But I felt this weird pull, like I needed to help him.
[SPEAKER_00]: Like it was my duty, you know?
[SPEAKER_00]: So I stepped into the aisle closer, and that was when I heard what he was saying.
[SPEAKER_00]: They're dead to me.
[SPEAKER_00]: over and over in this flat empty voice that made the hairs on my next stand up.
[SPEAKER_00]: Who's dead to you?
[SPEAKER_00]: I asked trying to keep my voice steady even though my stomach was twisting.
[SPEAKER_00]: He stopped rocking and slowly lifted his head.
[SPEAKER_00]: I can't explain his face, but it was like it was stuck halfway between crying and smiling.
[SPEAKER_00]: His eyes were so dark I couldn't see the whites and he blinked too slowly like he didn't understand how it worked.
[SPEAKER_00]: Backsliders, he said, his voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere far away, like it was echoing from under the floor.
[SPEAKER_00]: I took a step back and he stood up fast, too fast, like he was pulled up by strings.
[SPEAKER_00]: He wasn't tall, but he seemed to take up more space than he should have, like the air bent around him.
[SPEAKER_00]: He started walking toward me slow and steady, like he wasn't moving his feet, just gliding down the aisle.
[SPEAKER_00]: I wanted to run, but I couldn't.
[SPEAKER_00]: My legs felt like they were filled with sand.
[SPEAKER_00]: They're dead to me.
[SPEAKER_00]: He whispered closer now, reaching out a hand that looked gray in the dim light.
[SPEAKER_00]: Are you a backslider pastor?
[SPEAKER_00]: I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
[SPEAKER_00]: He was right in front of me.
[SPEAKER_00]: Close enough that I could smell something like wet dirt and rotting leaves.
[SPEAKER_00]: His hand brushed against my collar, and it felt cold, like ice.
[SPEAKER_00]: But it burned at the same time.
[SPEAKER_00]: Like it was pulling something out of me.
[SPEAKER_00]: Are you a backslider?
[SPEAKER_00]: He asked again, louder this time.
[SPEAKER_00]: His eyes locked on mine, unblinking.
[SPEAKER_00]: No, I managed to say my voice cracking.
[SPEAKER_00]: His mouth opened, and it was too wide, stretching unnaturally, and he started screaming.
[SPEAKER_00]: This high thin whale that felt like it was piercing right into my head.
[SPEAKER_00]: The lights above us flickered, buzzing, and the shadows in the corners of the church twisted and moved like something was crawling across the walls.
[SPEAKER_00]: I dropped to my knees covering my ears, but I could still hear him.
[SPEAKER_00]: That scream mixing with whispers that weren't in English.
[SPEAKER_00]: Voices that sounded like they were right next to me.
[SPEAKER_00]: Telling me I was dead, that I was next, that I would be forgotten.
[SPEAKER_00]: I looked up and he was gone.
[SPEAKER_00]: The screaming stopped so suddenly it made my ears ring and the light stopped flickering, leaving the church in that heavy unnatural quiet again.
[SPEAKER_00]: I stood up slowly, my whole body shaking, and looked around, but there was nothing.
[SPEAKER_00]: No sign he'd been there at all.
[SPEAKER_00]: I checked the pew, and it was empty, the cushion still dented, but nothing else.
[SPEAKER_00]: I ran out of that church leaving the lights on, the doors unlocked, everything behind me.
[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't go back until Sunday morning, and when I did I saw a handprint on the pulpit where I left my keys, a gray smudged handprint that wouldn't wipe off no matter how hard I scrubbed it.
[SPEAKER_00]: The congregation never noticed, or if they did, they didn't say anything.
[SPEAKER_00]: They just sat there smiling, singing, praying, like nothing had happened, like they couldn't feel how cold the air had become in that church.
[SPEAKER_00]: Sometimes when I'm standing there preaching, I see him in the back row, head bowed, rocking, whispering to himself.
[SPEAKER_00]: And sometimes when I lock up at night, I hear him walking behind me, whispering that same phrase over and over.
[SPEAKER_00]: They're dead to me.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't know what he was or if he was ever alive.
[SPEAKER_00]: I don't know if it was something tied to the land or the church or the people who used to preach here before me.
[SPEAKER_00]: All I know is I don't stay late anymore and I never ever pray alone in that building after dark.