S2- Case #20 "Ghosts of Our Past"

Welcome back to The Exorcist Files, the podcast that delivers you from boredom and dark spirits. I'm your co-host Ryan Bethea, and today we bring you another round of spiritual encounters I would love to call Too Haunt to Handle, but instead we'll have to settle for ghost stories too. Original, right? Earlier this season, we discussed ghosts, those mysterious houseguests who never seem to pay their rent. Ghost stories have a way of grabbing our attention. Whether you believe in ghosts or not, the topic raises questions that we can't easily ignore. Are these accounts just old houses creaking? A figment of someone's wild imagination? Or is there something more? A soul that refuses or cannot move on? Or perhaps even a malevolent entity? As always, we leave it to you, dear listeners, to decide. Now to help us navigate the Riviera that might scare you, here is the one and the only Father Carlos Martins. The human soul is immortal, and death is not the end but merely the next step in its never-ending journey. Given the fact that a soul must be in a state of perfection to enter God's presence, of those who are saved, most, upon departing this life, will enter a purificative state that the Catholic Church calls purgatory. At times, God permits such souls to appear to the living, both as a warning and a personal plea for prayer. Such apparitions are not simply the stuff of folklore, but signs that eternity intersects with time. In this episode, three ghost encounters will be shared. While each account is different, just as in our prior ghost episode, a common theme runs through each one. See if you can spot it. But don't worry if you can't. I'll address it at the end. Our first account takes us into the male dormitory of a European university, where Brad was attending school. What began as small get-togethers with friends soon gave way to a series of unsettling experiences. Hey, my name is Brad. I attended college in Italy and lived in the male residence for all four years. Some years, the college has a surplus of dorm rooms available. So it'll provide each senior student with a second one to use as a lounge or office. That was the case during my final year. My extra room was number 303, and I really appreciated it. It was a quiet, private lounge where I could hang out, allowing me to use my bedroom just as a place to sleep. When I returned to campus from the U.S. after the summer, I invited some friends from the dorm over for a small get-together. My lounge wasn't big enough for a full-fledged party, but it was comfortable enough to host half a dozen people. We caught up over some bread, cheese, prosciutto, and wine, as one does in Italy. By the time we finished, it was late, and I was too tired to clean up. So I piled up everything by the sink and thought, eh, I'll just clean these up tomorrow. What the hell? The next morning, I came into the room, and it was completely disheveled. The dishes, cups, forks, everything were strewn all over the place, on each tabletop and all over the floor. It was a mess. I was pretty upset, and I confronted my friends. Hey, let's call out the elephant in the room here, okay? Which one of you douchebags thought it was funny to trash my office? Brad, what are you talking about? We all left with you. You definitely locked the door. How could we even get in, man? Every one of them denied doing it. Obviously, at least one of them was lying. About a week later, I organized another get-together. This time I picked up even better things at the market. Older wines, cured sausages and meats, nice aged cheeses, and liquor. We talked and laughed well into the night. And again, it was so late when we were done that I just didn't feel like cleaning. I piled everything up by the sink and went to bed. The next morning, I found the room even more disheveled than the first time. Plates, cups, and forks were strewn all over the place. Bits of food could be seen everywhere, and spilled beverages were pulled up all over the floor. Now, I was really angry. When I saw my buddies, I unloaded. But they just stared at me blankly, like I had three heads. The room told its own story. And I knew, again, at least one of them was lying. So about three weeks later, I was in the dormitory basement doing laundry. I'd just finished one load and had another one in the dryer. It was late, somewhere between midnight and 1am. I wanted to take a finished load to my room, so I made my way to the elevator. When you exit the laundry room, you're basically near one end of the main hallway. If you turn left, there's only 12 feet before you hit a dead-end wall. But to the right, the hallway goes for like half a football field. I was holding my laundry basket as I stepped out, heading toward the elevator, which was directly across from the laundry room. As I walked, I looked down the long hallway to my right. and I did a double take. A man was standing at the far end of the hall. Young guy, early 20s, same as me. He was nicely dressed in a black suit and honestly, he looked completely out of place. He had his arms folded across his chest and was leaning against the wall, staring at me. He wasn't one of the residents. I knew the mall and his face was completely unfamiliar. He straightened up and started walking towards me. Now, look, it's unusual for anyone to be there at that hour. That's why I do my laundry late at night. No one's ever there, and I never have to wait for a machine. But more than that, no non-residents are even allowed in that part of the building. The guy was really creepy, because he was just too well-dressed for what he was doing. Which was nothing. I mean, he was just leaning against the wall. And then he started walking towards me as soon as I saw him. It's like he was waiting for me. My heart started pounding. If the guy tried to do something to me, no one would hear us down there. Look, I'm not a small guy and I've never been intimidated, but in that moment, I felt creeped out and honestly pretty vulnerable. The elevator door was now only a few steps away, and I began praying that it wouldn't take long to arrive. I moved the laundry basket under my left arm and quickly pushed the call button. To my relief, the elevator was already at the basement level. So I jumped in, hit the button from my floor, relieved that the guy was still far away. As the doors began to close, I turned to face them. The guy was right there. Just before they closed, he said the strangest thing. Pray for me. My room was on the third floor, but while the elevator was moving, I pressed the lobby button. I needed to wake up the building's prefect and let him know a trespasser was in the building. But as I was making my way to his room, I ran into the librarian, Randolph. Hey Brad, where are you running off to? Randolph. Hey man, there's a weird guy in the basement. I think we should call the police. What is he doing there? What did he do? Well, nothing. He was leaning against a wall at the end of the hallway. But when I came out of the laundry room, he started walking towards me. Almost like he was waiting for me. He creeped the shit out of me. Hold on. You don't recognize him? He's not one of us? No, he's not. No visitor should be here at this time. That doesn't make any sense. I know. That's why I'm telling you. All right. Well, we have to call the police then. They'll probably want a description of him. What does he look like? Um, he's about 6'2", scruffy beard, hair parted to the left. He was wearing a black suit. Wait, hold on. Did he have red hair and a reddish face? Yeah. Wait, do you know him? Yeah. He's not an intruder. It was about a year after I got here, which is, oh gosh, almost three decades ago. There was a student here named Michael. He was going through some personal struggles, probably some mental health issues. And then, one day, he took his own life, jumped off the roof. It was really tragic, truly shook the whole school. Oh my gosh. Randolph, that's horrible. It was terrible. It was awful, but ever since then, he periodically appears to people. Wait, what? Yeah, and this is where the story really gets interesting. Guess which dorm room was his? Yours. Room 303. In the parable of the talents, three were chosen to steward wealth. And you know what happened? The one who did it best got even more. And that, my friends, is just one of the many reasons to use Rocket Money. Now, let's all be great stewards of what we have. Let's all be 10 talent stewards, or 11 or however many talents you have. 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Please support our show and tell them we sent you. In Catholic teaching, suicide is a grave tragedy. A great many struggle with thoughts of self-harm, and some have sadly taken their own lives. We commend such souls to God's mercy, knowing that despair often clouds judgment. That Brad's apparition mouthed the words, pray for me, is significant, as it is a direct plea for intercession. This seeking of spiritual help aligns with countless other accounts in which departed souls, undergoing purgation, manifest to the living, not to terrify, but to solicit prayers that alleviate their suffering and speed their entrance to heaven. We'll now venture back 10 years before Brad's encounter and hear from another former student, Jerome. Hi, my name's Jerome. I attended the same university in Italy as Brad. Our years never overlapped. I started 10 years before him, so I'd graduated by the time he enrolled. The school has a small but nicely landscaped green space behind it where the students like to hang out and socialize. It's like a typical college quad, so to speak. One day, I was walking around that field with another student. We were taking a break from studying and just catching up. All of a sudden, I looked up and I could see someone standing at the window of the room of the guy I was with Everyone complains but I actually like that class I love it Dude look There someone in your room Uh, wait, what do you mean? Look, that's your room right there on the third floor, right? Who is that guy? Oh, shoot. Yeah, that's 303. Uh, I have no idea who that guy is. Well, it looks like he's using your sink, so maybe you have maintenance or someone coming by today? Uh, I don't know. I've never seen a maintenance guy dressed like that before. Did you leave your door unlocked or something? Anyone have a key? No, I lock my door every day. We gotta go check it out, dude. Yeah, we gotta check this out. Bob and I darted into the building and ran up the nearest flight of stairs to his room. We were easily there in 30 seconds. The door was locked. And when Bob unlocked it, we burst in. The place was empty And I was starting to think we had mistaken the room the guy was in for Bob's When it was really someone else's But then we saw it Oh, Jerome, look The sink It's all wet Someone was definitely here The sink was wet and had definitely just been used someone had been in the dorm room. This, of course, would be an opportune time for a soap sponsor. But alas, we don't have one. Now, I've heard of a lot of ghost stories, but never one as hygienic as this one. So far, we have ghosts frequenting laundry rooms and kitchens. What's next? Well, glad I asked. Here's our next classmate to continue the tale. Meet Chris. My name is Chris. I attended the same college as Jerome and Brad, graduating in 1999. I enrolled when Jerome was in his senior year. Brad enrolled five years after me, so our time didn't overlap at all, but we got to know each other at alumni events. The college attracts a lot of Americans, and we form a close-knit group. One Saturday afternoon, I went to call on a friend, Peyton. If I recall, I wanted to see if he had a book I could borrow. I arrived at his door, room 303. I didn't see Peyton anywhere, but the door was wide open, and standing at the sink with his back to me was a guy I didn't recognize. Hey there. Where's Peyton? The guy didn't acknowledge me. He just kept washing his hands. Hello? Hey, is Peyton here? Again, he didn't make the slightest acknowledgement that I was there. Hey, buddy! The guy turned around and looked past me a couple of inches, turning his head slightly left and right as anyone might do if he thought he heard something and was checking to see for evidence that he did. After a moment, as if convinced that he hadn't, he turned around and continued washing his hands. I thought, what a complete jerk, and started to make my way back to my room. Down the hall, I passed one of the student lounges, and who's sitting in a chair? Peyton himself. There you are. Hey, I need that Aquinas book. Oh, yeah. Here, it's in my room. Come with me. Peyton, do you have a guest standover? Uh, no. Why? Well, I was just at your room, and there was a guy washing his hands in your sink. Whoa. What do you look like? Um, our age? Red hair, slight beard. Unbelievable. You're the third person this week that said that. What stands out in Jerome's and Chris's accounts is not just the strangeness of the vision, but its repetition. Different witnesses, separated by years, both describing the same figure in the same room, performing the same act, washing hands. And the act itself is significant. Washing one's hands can symbolize the desire to purify oneself of guilt. Pontius Pilate famously washed his hands, seeking to absolve himself from sentencing the innocent Lamb of God to death. This is why the silence surrounding the two manifestations is so unsettling. The figure doesn't speak, yet the absence of words itself becomes a message that echoes through his repetitive hand-washing. As the letter to the Hebrews reminds us, it is appointed that human beings die once, and after this the judgment. Hebrews 9, verse 27. The soul's plea may not be heard in words, but it can be clearly heard in the haunting repetition of his act, an act that points to a confession of guilt, remorse, and a soul's desire for clemency. As we've discussed, belief in ghosts is actually fairly widespread, with some polls showing that just under half of Americans believe they've seen a ghost. Another poll showed that many Americans believe their dog had seen a ghost. But perhaps even more astounding is that one out of ten Americans report seeing the movie Ghost, with Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore. And no, most ghosts don't appear while making pottery. When you strip away the supernatural for a moment, there's still something deeply human about what these students saw. Psychology tells us that repetition is one of the brain's strongest triggers for belief. Medicine has long noted how trauma and guilt leave an imprint on the body, producing repetitive gestures, compulsions, rituals, even reenactments, almost as if the body is trying to resolve what the mind cannot. Interestingly, in many accounts of ghosts in popular culture, the ghosts appear to be repeating the very acts that defined their final moment or lives. For example, the soldier endlessly marching, the woman searching for a lost child, or the prisoner rattling his chains. Could there be some scientific explanations for these patterns and repetitions? Perhaps. But, for now, let's head back to Brad, whose Saturday night get-togethers in his lounge were nightcapped with scattered plates, strewn food, and spilled beverages on the floor. When Randolph told me about the guy who committed suicide, I did some digging. The school kept a binder of every enrollment and graduation class. Each had its own roster of photos of that year's incoming students and graduates. If the man I saw in the basement was the student who committed suicide, then he had never graduated. But there would be an enrollment photo. I went to the admin office and thumbed through the binders year by year, going back in time, beginning with the year 1975. When I finally hit the binder for 1967, boom, I found him. the exact same guy I saw in the basement hall outside the laundry room. Sure enough, just like Randolph said, his name was Michael. He had medium-length red hair, an angular face, and fair skin. The only difference was that in the photo, he was clean-shaven, while in the hallway, he had about two weeks worth of unshaven beard. It was all just too surreal. Finding his photo proved that I had just met a dead man. Look, I was raised Catholic and always practiced my faith. When someone dies or when someone just needs a lot of prayer, we arranged to have a priest offer a mass for him. So that's what I did. Being in Italy made it easy. There's a church in almost every street corner. So I arranged for a priest to offer a mass, and I offered my daily rosary for Michael. I also offered every Eucharist I received at Mass for the rest of that school year for him. About a week before I graduated and returned to the States, I had another get-together with my buddies. It would be our last time together as most of us were graduating. Again, I bought fancy meats and cheeses, wines and liquor. We hung out well into the night, and when it was all said and done, I decided that I was too tired to clean up and would just do it in the morning. When I entered the room in the morning, I was expecting to find messy chaos, just as I had the other times. What? Oh my gosh. And get this. Instead of a mess, I found every plate and cup washed, dried, and neatly stacked on a table. The room was swept and obviously mopped, and all the surfaces were wiped down. Everything was immaculate. For years, I kept in touch with Randolph and others I knew at the school, and I never heard of Michael appearing again. Before we move on, I'd like to do a refresher segment called What's the Story? Purgatory. What's the Tale? Ishmael. Did you hear about Vini Hilsson? That's a deep cut for the musical fans out there. To oversimplify, the essential idea of purgatory is that it's a kind of waiting state for souls who are heaven-bound, but still need one final purification before entering the full presence of God. The notion comes from passages like 1 Corinthians 3, where Paul describes each person's work being tested, quote, as through fire. Catholics and most Orthodox Christians agree on the idea of a final purification or refining fire, while many Protestant traditions reject it. But before we go too deep into the theology, you'll have to indulge me, because one of the biggest controversies that still colors this discussion is the medieval abuse of selling indulgences. During the late Middle Ages, some clergy turned a blind eye as indulgences, meant to encourage repentance and acts of charity, were distorted into fundraising tools. The message was basically, hey, for the right donation, we can shorten grandma's stay in purgatory and get her TSA pre-check to God's throne room. This is where we get the old saying, as soon as the coin and the coffer rings, the soul from purgatory springs. Martin Luther rightly condemned this, and the church later did too at the Council of Trent, formally banning the sale of indulgences. Indulgences are still practiced, but it is strictly prohibited to sell them. Now, let's turn to Father to help nuance this further for us. Many Protestants wrestle with the notion of purgatory. For many, the disagreement is rooted in the belief that such a process undermines Christ's atoning sacrifice. However, there is a key distinction that I would like to invite you to consider. The difference between atonement and repentance. Repentance restores us to friendship with God, and it is at the heart of Jesus' message. After all, his opening words in the Gospel of Mark are, Repent and believe the good news. Nevertheless, even when sins have been forgiven, they leave behind their effects, weakened virtue, disordered attachments, and injury to others. Anyone who has been hurt by the actions of another understands this. Atonement is the work of repairing those effects. That's why Catholics practice penance and pray for the dead. For Catholics, purgatory is not a second chance at heaven, but the completion of Christ's healing work through atonement. It is a state where God's love finally burns away every effect of sin so that the soul may enter heaven. While it is true that the word purgatory does not appear in Scripture, neither do the words trinity or incarnation, But there are texts in Scripture that clearly show that although God may forgive our sins, He still imposes on us the obligation to atone and suffer for them. God forgave Adam for the fall, and yet He rejected him from the garden and forced him to labor for 900 years. Then there is David, who against God's will ordered a census to be taken of Israel. He later repented and begged God's pardon. God did pardon him, but he still had David choose from among three scourges as punishment, plague, war, or famine. David chose the pestilence, which lasted three agonizing days and killed 70,000 of his people. In fact, Scripture ominously adds that if the Lord had not stayed at the hand of the angel, all Jerusalem would have been slaughtered. Then there is the New Testament evidence. In 1 Corinthians chapter 3, Paul describes a post-death purification for those whose salvation is certain. Quote, the person will be saved, but only through fire. End quote. That's verse 15. Key to understanding this verse is that Paul states this fire that will test each man's work occurs after death. Thus, although a person is dead and saved, meaning that he is not in hell, he will still undergo fire, a metaphor that Scripture constantly connects to purification. When speaking about forgiveness, Christ himself states in Matthew chapter 12, quote, Whoever speaks against the Holy Spirit will not be forgiven, either in this age or in the age to come. That's in verse 32. But this implies three things. One, some sins are forgiven only in the next life. Two, this forgiveness cannot take place in heaven because forgiveness is not needed in heaven. Three, it also cannot take place in hell because forgiveness is not possible in hell. Therefore, another post-death state must exist, one in which the saved are purified by God before entering heaven. And this state is what the Catholic Church has always called purgatory. Do you know what one of the definitions of a miracle is? Well, it's put as a highly improbable or extraordinary event, development, or accomplishment that brings very welcome consequences. Well, let me tell you, a good night's sleep brings very welcome consequences. 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In fact, he helped start a chiropractic school in the area. He had died several years earlier, and his wife had died just a couple years before we arrived in Spartanburg. The home was a very simple home, three bedroom, two bath. It had been vacant for two years after Mrs. Branion died. Her daughters were selling it now. I'm not sure why they waited two years before putting it on the market. But by the time my wife and I saw it, all the furniture and belongings had been cleared out. About a week before the closing date, my family was allowed to start working on the house. We needed some painting, some carpeting, and do some small repairs. The place was 50 years old and was built by Mr. Brandy and himself, board by board. He used thick lumber and worked into tight tongue and groove joints, the kind of old-fashioned craftsmanship that makes a place feel solid. My wife and I were very excited to own the home. It was such a model of craftsmanship. It felt less like we were claiming something new and more like we were entering into somebody else's legacy. It felt like a privilege to own it. For some reason, the Branion's daughter had left their father's belongings up in the attic. There was his old World War II uniform hanging from one of the rafters, along with other clothes, a bedpan, an enamel water pitcher, and remnants of home health care supplies. Everything else was gone. I mean, everything was gone. But for some reason, that stuff was left behind. I would have asked the daughters why, but I never met them. My wife and I dealt only with the real estate agent. Then at the signing, when we closed on the house, we never saw them because they didn't attend. That morning, I was painting baseboards in what would become my two-year-old daughter's bedroom. I was on my knees, crouched in the far corner of the room, brush in hand, doing the trim. I had already pulled up the old carpet and discarded it outside. Then I felt it. It's an intense sensation like you're not alone, like somebody's in the room with you. I turned my head towards the door, certain that I see someone there. Researchers in environmental psychology note that a person-place bonds can shape how later occupants experience a space, sometimes producing the sense that the house itself is watching. Psychologists even have a name for such an eerie moment. They call it a felt presence, or a presence hallucination, and they believe that it's the mind's way of processing a surge of vigilance, a sharpening of awareness, as though someone else must be around. It seems to happen in moments of stress, fatigue, or deep focus, yet it feels utterly real, even when we know we're all alone singing all by myself. But what Claudio is describing here is actually something very different. As I turned my head, she was there, an older woman, standing on the doorway, still, silent, staring at me. Early 60s, I'd say, she wore a blue and white kitchen apron with little flowers on it, two front pockets, her right hand tucked in one of them like someone pausing between tasks. Her hair was arranged in a neat 1950s beehive hairdo. Not the over-the-top kind, just the tidy style you'd see in your grandmother's photographs. She looked solid, like any person would, but eerily, she didn't move, or she didn't speak. I don't know how I knew, but I knew who it was and I knew she was dead. Hello, Mrs. Brandon, I said. We love your home. We promise to take good care of it. Mr. Brandon did an excellent job building it. It's an excellent house. The room is going to be my little girl's room. I know you had the walls painted green, but I painted them pink because that's my daughter's favorite color. I hope you approve. She's gonna love this room. You don't have to worry about your husband's belongings in the attic, I said. I know they're his, and I will show them the respect that they deserve. I'm not gonna get rid of them. And then after a brief moment, she just disappeared. I heard no footsteps going down the hall. I saw no shadow receding. I just looked down at my brush, and then I returned my glance to her, and she was gone. She vanished. Later, I learned Mrs. Brandon had been sick in that very room I was painting. The room still had that old nurse-call toggle switch that she could summon help from. She never appeared to me again, nor anybody else in my family. but frequently we felt her it didn't feel like she was watching me or like staring at me but I always felt that we weren't alone like she was around I know it sounds strange but that's the only way I can think of it from then on whenever I worked on the house I talked to her out loud when I painted any room for example I'd say I'm painting this one too now we think it's a nice color. I hope you approve. I'd say things like that before moving furniture or if I went up into the attic. Not because I was frightened, but more because I felt like it was a sign of respect, a courtesy to her. I never treated her as an intruder. I felt that it was still her home in some way and she obviously had anxiety about it. Her presence definitely communicated that to me. in the attic. I never messed with her husband's World War II uniform or any other stuff that was left behind. I would say, this is your husband's. I will treat it with respect. I won't get rid of it. And I never did. I never saw Mrs. Brandon after that first date, but I sensed her, especially in the ordinary moments like she was keeping watch. Spartanburg felt like a time capsule back then. 24,000 people all with old school manners. I say that because the woman I saw looked as though she belonged in that earlier time. The apron, the hair, the way she stood in the doorway as if the household were still her responsibility. The closest thing to her appearing again happened one day when we were out shopping. We were outside and came in through the carport into the kitchen and we smelled smoke. I followed it into the house to the fuse box. I placed my hand on the door cover. It was really hot. Ordinarily, I would open it up to see what's inside. I'm a handy guy, and if there's something wrong, I can fix it, and I'm not going to turn away from it and hope it goes away. I want to know what's going on. While I didn't hear anything with my ears, something clearly told me, Don't open that. The words were strong and intense. So, against all my instincts, I didn't open the panel. Instead, we called the fire department. Sure enough, there was a fire inside the box. They said that if I had opened the panel door, I would have created a backdraft, and the flames would have shot out and burned me and possibly the house. Again, in a way, I cannot explain it. I can't. My absolute belief is that Mrs. Brannan alerted me, not with words, just a nudge I couldn't ignore. It was an experience like I've never had before. I think she respected how we had treated her, never as an intruder. We never moved her husband's stuff. In fact, when we moved three years later, I left it in the attic just as we had found it, with her husband's stuff exactly where it was. Our final account comes from a place very close to home, or what was my home, in 2003-2004 during my first year of seminary. A Catholic priest is ordained either for a diocese, a geographical area governed by a bishop, or a religious community, a community of priests united by a common spirituality and purpose governed by a general superior. I was ordained for the latter, a religious community called the Companions of the Cross, founded for the purpose and mission of evangelization. A seminarian's first year of formation with the Companions is spent at a location that we call Assumption Farm. It is an old farming homestead, hence the name Farm, on approximately 90 heavily wooded acres in rural eastern Ontario, Canada. Nestled within the rolling hills of the Madawaska Valley, away from the distractions of urban life, it provides an ideal setting for formation to a vocation in service to the gospel. Here to tell the story is Fr. Martin's good friend and companions of the Cross priest, Fr. Isaac Longworth. Hi, I am Fr. Isaac Longworth. Like most of the Companions, I spent my first year with the community at Assumption Farm. The Companions purchased the farm in the early 1990s. Along with the purchase came some curious history about the property Sometime during the late 1960s or early 1970s the property was sold by the original homesteading family the Mayhew family For decades the property was known as the Mayhew Farm. The purchasers, a family with several young children, would occasionally see a young man in his 20s or 30s wearing a plaid shirt and trousers, both of which looked homemade, walking the property. He never walked near the house, but always remained at a distance, usually across one of the fields near the tree line. When family members called out to him, he never responded, nor did he even give the impression that he heard the greeting. Josiah! Come here, dinner's about ready. Coming! What sort of trouble you've been in, boy? Getting grasshoppers. You're all covered in mud. Look at your son here. Hey, Dad, who's that man? What man? Over there across the field, see? Hello there Hello If you're lost we'd be happy to point you in the right direction You're welcome to stay for supper Maybe he can't hear you He didn't even turn his head He heard me He had to have Oh well, looks like he's got to get somewhere Well maybe he's just a curmudgeon like you Oh hush Come on, let's get you cleaned up As the years went by, the man's occasional appearance continued. He was always doing the same thing, crossing the property to some unknown destination, seemingly oblivious to anyone else around him. With each passing year, however, he appeared closer and closer to the house. Beautiful day. Mm-hmm. It really is. You know, I was thinking for... Hold on. Look, look. Wait, what? Out there. Is that him? Okay, this is getting ridiculous. He's halfway to the house now. Well, should we go out and get him? I don't know. Here, stay here. I'm gonna go see if I can finally catch this guy. Be careful, okay? Then, one night, several children awoke to find the man standing silently and motionless at the foot of their beds. Terrified, they rushed to their parents' room. What's going on? Josiah! What's going on, buddy? You okay? What's wrong? He's in my room! He's in my room! Who's in your room? That silent guy. He was right there at the end of my bed. Okay, come here. It's going to be okay. Come here. Everything's going to be fine. Stay with your mother. Shh, it's okay. Come here. Your father has this. It's okay. Okay. Okay. Their father went through the house, looking for the intruder, but found no one. When morning came, he walked the two miles into town to the general store, which had one of the only telephones in the area, to call the police and report the invasion of his home. As he recounted the story to the old lady who worked at the store and described what the man looked like, she said to him, You don't need the police. I know who he is. About 60 years ago, a man died in a farming accident on your property, on the Mayhew farm. I was a little girl then, and I can't recall his name, but I remember him. He was a Polish immigrant, and he came to Kombermier looking for work. Kombermier is only 16 miles from Wilno, the first Polish settlement in Canada. Fleeing political and social turmoil in their homeland, beginning in the 1860s, waves of Prussian poles settled in what is now called Wilno, which at the time was pure Canadian wilderness. They built a thriving settlement that survives to this day. Many of them went to nearby towns and villages in search of work. The old lady continued. At the time of the accident, there was no priest in the area, so he was buried on your property without a funeral mass. The woman's story made sense. The clothes the man wore looked like they were from another time. They were not like what people wear today. Shortly after this, the man discovered a crude and makeshift gravestone on a corner of his property, indicating that someone was buried there. There was one sentence from the woman's account that kept resonating in the man's mind. When the migrant died, there was no priest, so he was buried without a funeral. That sentence caused his feelings to turn from anger and frustration toward the intruder to sympathy and pity. The man who wandered on his property, whose name was unknown and had withered off his gravestone, was no longer an intruder or a vagrant. but a brother in need, whose itinerant spirit was soundlessly pleading for help. The man contacted the local church and had the priest offer a mass for his soul. The wandering man never appeared again. Did you catch what all three accounts share? In each story, the actions of the deceased point to unfinished business, not random appearances, but manifestations tied to unresolved matters. And in every case, that unresolved issue is atonement, repairing the effects of sin that had not yet been purified at death. Michael's repeated hand-washing and his presence near the laundry room, a place where cleaning is done, are symbolic confessions, gestures of someone aware of guilt and longing for release. The Church teaches that suicide is objectively grave, yet also that mental illness or overwhelming fear can reduce a person's responsibility. Still, Michael's restless behavior and his request for prayer suggest he bore some level of culpability. His final act, cleaning up after the party, signals gratitude, a sign that prayers were helping bring him peace. It has been 20 years since that mysterious cleaning of the dorm room, and I have never heard of his appearing again, and I have inquired many times over the years. With regard to Mrs. Branion, her guarding of her husband's belongings in the attic, her lingering concern for the house he built, both of which lessened when Claudio promised her their preservation and care, suggests that at the time of her death, her heart was not fully surrendered, not yet ready for the final letting go that propels a soul to God. A clue as to the reason might be implied in the behavior of her daughters. Their leaving behind their father's belongings when they cleared out the place and their absence when the house was sold may indicate that they had long ago cut themselves off from their mother or at least that she perceived they had. This perceived distance may have exacerbated Mrs. Branion's clinging to the house and its belongings. She may have felt that they were all she had left and that she was responsible for their safety and longevity, possibly as a way to honour her late husband. All of this indicates that Mrs. Branion's heart was ill-prepared for death. They point to an undue earthly attachment, a refusal to surrender life and its circumstances to God. When Claudio told me this account, I asked him whether he prayed for Mrs. Branion. His response was, no. While I've always been a believer in those days, I wasn't even praying for myself. However, Claudio did in fact pray for her. His respectful gestures, speaking kindly to her, promising to preserve the house were, in fact, prayers of the heart, offerings of love. And because God is love, Claudio truly offered her God. Her gentle nudge at the fuse box was likely her way of acknowledging that charity and returning it. Finally, the Polish migrant's case gives even fewer details, yet his behavior reveals a soul undergoing purgation. His gradual movement from the property's edge toward the house illustrates that purification is a process. God allowed one final manifestation, enough to prompt the family to have a Mass offered for him. While we don't know what sins the migrants carried into death, sins whose effects obviously required purging, we do know that the prayer of the Church, the Mass, set him free, releasing him from his lonely wandering. In every Mass, the Church prays for this very grace, and God, in His mercy, hears that prayer. As St. Ansem of Canterbury once wrote, a single Mass offered for the repose of a soul is of inestimable value before God. After Mass was offered for him, the migrant was never seen again. His silence was his thank you. In all three stories, the pattern is the same. A soul is burdened, the living respond with charity, and God completes the work of mercy that binds the living and the dead together until we meet again in the life to come. And that, friends, is the end of our ghostly journey. But fear not, I have a little ghost mortem for us. It seems that as long as humans have gathered by the warmth of a fire under a starry night, They've been telling stories of hauntings and sightings of those who've gone before. Now, are these encounters a quantum anomaly? Energy trapped in a cycle, or some tear in the space-time continuum, allowing us to gaze beyond our material world? Are they glitches in a matrix, used to sedate us into silently acquiescing to having our energy harvested by robots, just like the matrix? Or are these the souls of those who are undergoing a final refinement before entering into the presence of the Most High? Questions remain. With accounts of near-death experiences, for example, many of them report nothing like purgatory, but instead just a bright light, family members welcoming them, and a sense of complete peace and joy. Does that argue against it? Or are these experiences akin to the reception desk at your dentist appointment, moments before your root canal? And here's some more food for thought. What happens to your character flaws and personality defects the moment you die? Do they instantaneously dissipate in that meeting with Jesus in heaven? Are we perfected in an instant? That certainly seems possible. The closer we get to Christ, the more everything seems to become perfect. Or does God have some final polishing to do on his choice diamonds before they can enter into heaven and leave behind a reminder from beyond that death is not the end, but rather just the beginning? Are these lost souls allowed to appear as a mercy to all of us? Many questions loom, and so I leave you with a poignant quote from the worst exercise guru of all time, Pontius Pilates, who says, What is truth? That is all. Good night and prayers up. Thank you for listening to The Exorcist Files. To keep in touch with us and get some of our anointed merchandise, you can visit our website at exorcistfiles.tv. You can also email us absurd and overly specific criticisms at exorcistfiles at gmail.com. All cases are recounted by Father Carlos Martins from his personal archives. We want to thank Chris Cavell for his role as the friend, as well as our very own Ethan here at the studio for playing another friend. Joe Coffey for his role as Brad, Reggie Brown as Jerome, the role of Randolph the Librarian by Bill Stewart, the role of Chris by Justin Cowden, and the role of the young couple was played by Brandon and Rachel Collins, and the role of the adorable little kid by Micaiah Kirshman. The role of Claudio was voiced by Claudio and Father Isaac by Father Isaac Longworth. The role of the old storewoman by Ronnie Richards. It does take a legion of people to make this show possible, and so thank you to our sound designer, editors, and mixers, Dan Blessinger and Michelle Martinez, music and scoring by James Cavell and Tom Straley. The script was written by Ryan Bethea and Father Carlos Martins. Executive producers are Father Carlos Martins and Ryan Bethea. Stay demon-free, y'all. Transcription by CastingWords