I burned the books of wind and rain, of sleep and rage, and joy and pain, and all the books that gods could write.

Why did they hide the book of light?

You're listening to Spooked.

Stay tuned.

The book. Stay tuned. I don't I don't see the I don't see the shadows, and I can't even remember the last time my grandmother sat at the foot of my bed to tell me stories of back when she was alive.

To sing songs, to rail against my aunties.

No more visits in the night time.

And at first, this absence, this quiet, it comforted me.

Huge uninterrupted stretches of sleep without the nocturnal parade, glorious, wonderful.

But now it's been a while, a long while, and I wonder if a door has locked fast behind me,

one I didn't even notice, and now I'm refused entry into the castle I've lived in all

my life, a passage I assumed as my birthright.

Sometimes I wonder too in the middle of the now quiet night, what price I would have to pay

to make them return my key.

Yeah. to make them return my key. Stook starts now.

Now. Now. I'm The

The Now, Ireland, it's one of those places where some claim the veil between the quick and the dead is particularly thin.

Everyone seems to have a ghost story or two or three.

And our storyteller, Ashlene, she is no exception.

Except Ashleen, she spent a lot of time thinking about what a ghost even is in the first place.

Spoot.

Sput. I'm . I was raised in such a way that's not unusual in Irish families, where the supernatural ghosts and the afterlife are kind of talked about as if they're a normal everyday thing.

...