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Chapter 1: What unique experiences does the host share about growing up on the Blackfeet Reservation?
Spectre Vision Radio You've heard ghost stories, but not like these. These are the ones we were told to never share. Now I'm breaking the silence. Welcome to Lodge Tales, coming to you from Spectre Vision Radio. I'm your host, Rod Williamson. I grew up on the Blackfeet Reservation, where the past doesn't stay buried. Where little people and shadow people walk.
Where UFOs hover over the sacred lands. Where Bigfoot isn't the only thing stalking Indian Country. Where our ancestors still speak. Here we bring you never before shared accounts of reservation hauntings. Tribal cryptids, UFO encounters, and spirit warnings our ancestors left behind. These come from all tribes across North America and beyond. They aren't just campfire tales.
These are living histories. Subscribe to Lodge Tales, where sacred meets the supernatural.
Many of the stories you've heard in this series trace their roots to what I heard on what I've come to refer to simply as the source recordings. I'm obliged to keep their origins and their location confidential. I listened to them and I chose to adapt them because nuancing relatable pros from these felt safer somehow.
Having heard all the source recordings and even handled them, I still can't totally vouch for their authenticity.
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Chapter 2: How does the story of Michael Bach connect to themes of family and haunting?
And so, for the time being, they have to remain, for me, in the category of fiction.
Just before my sister died, she and I went to Russia, just sightseeing mostly, looking a little into the family tree. And we were sitting in Red Square one day, a thousand tourists all over the place. And I spotted these people a ways off, sort of staring at us. This family, four people, man, woman, two little kids. A little boy was in a wheelchair.
And they were all staring at us really intensely. I nudged Tabby and I said, what's up with these people? But she didn't see them, even when I pointed right at them. Over and over, I was like, right there, follow my finger, there. It got creepy because she just could not see them, no matter what, and I got worried she was having a medical spell of some kind. She was so weak then.
I dropped it, and when I looked up again, the people were gone. Then a couple of months later, I was in a movie theater with a friend of mine. And the lights came up, and I saw those same people over near the emergency exit, near the screen, off to the side of it. I was just baffled. They were in the same position. I mean, their bodies were all situated the same exact way as back in Red Square.
You had the man and woman beside each other, and then the kids in front of them, and they weren't taking their eyes off me. And I got so scared, I basically leapt out of my seat and pointed. And my friend reached up to grab my arm, and I remember just in shrugging him off, I took my eyes off the people for a split second, and then they were gone. Just winked out of existence.
And, you know, I realized I had something very wrong with me.
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Chapter 3: What unsettling events does Isaac Lewis recount in 'The Crack'?
Something pretty scary, maybe. So after that, there they were in Patterson Park one day, much farther away, but still just the same. They were there for maybe 10 seconds, not nearly enough time for me to get anywhere close. And then, gone. Gone.
I told my best friend from AA about it, and she gave me the smart advice, which was to see a doctor, get scanned, but she also had a theory that maybe it was psychological. I'd been on the wagon for only about six months. It was a rough adjustment. So, Tabby died in August of that year. And the funeral was my breaking point. I was at a really low, low ebb.
All kinds of negative thoughts, negative emotions. After everyone left the grave, I walked around. It was snowing. I just wanted to be like in the dark and enclosed. And I went into a mausoleum, real small. It was a memorial to veterans. And inside, it had these electric candles going.
And when I turned around and looked out through the entrance, the family was there again, way off near some graves. and I actually started yelling at them. I don't know what. They were a little closer than they'd ever been, so I got a real good look. It was like if I didn't make any kind of aggressive move, they'd linger a bit.
Chapter 4: How does Jackson Fischer's story explore the concept of compulsion?
They had real plain, dark clothes, so they looked to me almost like Mennonites, maybe, or Amish people. And that was the first time I noticed that the wheelchair the little boy was sitting in was so old, I didn't even recognize the materials. It was maybe all iron or wood. So there was the sense that these people weren't even of the modern day. And yeah, this time I actually saw them vanish.
It was like some dumb thing from movies. Kind of a jump cut. They were there one second and gone the next. And it was all just cemetery where they used to be. After that, they were just part of my life. I'd see them every nine or ten days maybe. All during the time I was getting checked out for the possible things that can go wrong with your brain. Just setting aside the depression.
It was totally breaking my money situation. Paying for all this stuff, all these tests that showed nothing. The bookstore wasn't doing well at all. And now I was trying really weird stuff when I saw the family. These experiments. Like, I'd charge at them. That did no good. it made them vanish. Or I take a picture, but they wouldn't show up in it.
I was ready to accept that I was schizophrenic or, you know, whatever went hand in hand with something like that.
Chapter 5: What insights are shared about the significance of tribal cryptids and UFO encounters?
Time for psychiatric help. Absolutely. So around that point, some lawyer called me, said that the family cabin up in Pennsylvania was now technically mine with Tabby being gone. I needed to sell it to keep the bookstore going, but I decided to go up there one more time first, all alone. It was a little ways up in the mountains, up near Tartown. Nostalgia messed my judgment up pretty bad.
Tabby and I spent a lot of summers in that cabin, so I felt like I absolutely had to spend a couple days up there for her, you know. And my AA friend, Treva, warned me. She said, do not go off anywhere alone now without letting me know exactly where you are all the time. I drove up there and my psychology at that point was I just didn't care much what happened to me.
I thought, yeah, whatever happens, just let it happen. So what if I start drinking up there? Or I see that weird family again? What difference does it make? What difference does it make if they find out I need brain surgery? Very dangerous thoughts I was having. The cabin was pretty primitive, no TV. My parents were hippies. I was okay till dark. And then it got quiet in a kind of a scary way.
Chapter 6: How do the personal stories intertwine with cultural narratives?
Because Winter up there was a different animal. You felt the woods much differently. I was in the main room and I went into the kitchen and there they were, the people. And this wasn't them in a tableau, I guess is the word, far away from me. They were sitting at the kitchen table looking at me. I mean, right there.
I had so completely absorbed them into my life at that point in a sick way that I just stood there and took them in. I was getting all these details I never had before. You know, their hair and the dress on the little girl and the boy and how his spine was crooked and he wasn't sitting in the wheelchair quite straight. And It was like we'd all become weirdly okay with each other.
Like they knew I wasn't going to be aggressive anymore, and I was sure they wouldn't hurt me. So I walked up to the woman sitting there, and I real slowly put my hand on her shoulder. I thought her husband might do something, but he just watched. And yeah, it was just like feeling a normal person. But after one second, I had the sense I'd really trespassed.
Like this was something I was absolutely not supposed to do. I'd crossed a line, so I moved back. I hit the light switch on, and of course, what happened? They vanished.
Chapter 7: What reflections does the host provide on the nature of fear and storytelling?
After that, it was twice a week they appeared. And I just kept living in the cabin. I didn't want to go back to my life. My life was overwhelming. I wanted to stay. I'll tell you what it was like. It was like when you go someplace where they're reenacting Pioneer Days in a fake settlement. And you don't really want to talk to the actors. And they don't really want to talk to you.
So you coexist without talking. That's what the family was like when they appeared. Sometimes I'd see the kids sitting in the spare bedroom like they'd just finished playing. I'd see the man and wife standing outside looking at the trees. Just these living pictures of a family. Once I walked into my bedroom and the boy's wheelchair was in there, but he wasn't.
I gave it a really good going over, rolled it back and forth a little. It was incredibly heavy, this old thing. And of course, when I took a picture, the wheelchair wasn't there. The strangest one was I went into the cellar, this totally dank, unfinished space. And the husband was sitting down there at the table my father used to sit at.
Chapter 8: What conclusions can be drawn about the impact of these stories on listeners?
And he had his head in his hands like this, concentrating. And he looked at me and then forgot about me just as quick. I thought I knew by then these people weren't in our family tree anywhere, but, you know, it gets foggy the further you go back. It gets more and more uncertain. I should say, there was another strange moment.
One time, they were all in the kitchen, and the husband was holding the little girl's hand, which was a first. And the wife, her eyes were closed. And she was holding something in her left hand under the table, something with a little circular top, like a tiny bottle. I tried to bend down to see more, but they all vanished when I did.
So what I told Trevor, because she insisted on coming all the way up to the cabin to see me, was that my feeling was that these people were content somehow to be there with me. And I'd leave at some point and see if they... you know, if they followed me. But yeah, you know, I can say definitively the thought of that was what kept me there too. I was afraid to find out that they'd follow me.
That would mean I'd never be rid of them. And if that was true... I didn't know if I could face that. As long as I stayed in the cabin, it felt like life had been put on pause. Safer that way. It was safer to stay in the pause. I can go back to Baltimore. The doctors are going to say I'm really sick, either physically or mentally. But they couldn't get at me in the cabin. So Trevor left.
That night I was listening to the weather report and I heard the kitchen door open. And I went in there, and I saw the family outside in the back. It was maybe 10 degrees, but I went out. They were standing near where the woods began, but the little boy wasn't there. There was a bunch of disturbed dirt where they were, like a grave. And their heads were bowed, like they were at a funeral.
I thought, oh my God, there's something playing out here. The whole week went by, nothing. No sign of the family. I thought, are they gone? Is that the end? Then one night, I look out my window, and the man and woman are out there alone, in the same place as before. And now you could see the outline of another grave. And she was kneeling and praying there.
And I knew right away this was their little girl's grave. Both kids gone now. And the man had his hand on the wife's shoulder, but then he just turned and left her there. Then, I made myself look away, very intentionally, and then look back again. I figured it'll be the same way it always is. They'll be gone, right?
There won't even be any trace of the graves, like a movie that ends all of a sudden. But the woman was standing there and looking at me through the window, very directly, and And I moved away real slow. The way she was looking at me, that was... I knew it was time to go. Let's just say that. My fear mechanism, it wasn't going to appease me anymore. No more appeasement. It was saying, go now.
So I started packing up. So now it's dark and I'm on my way out. I go through the living room and the man, the husband, he's slumped down in my chair and his eyes are real glassy. He's staring but his eyes are fixed and it was like his face was in two parts suddenly. Everything above his nose was like dark gray, and everything below was dark red.
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