There's a cat, there's a cradle, there's a silver tomb, there's a deep dark hole by the light of the moon.

We know she will rise, but we don't know when.

Our mistress returns again, and the ceremony can begin.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

You're listening to spooked. Stay tuned. I have a buddy whose grandparents live right outside of Ann Arbor, Michigan, where I went to school.

And I went with him

occasionally to meet with them, to check in, frankly, to enjoy some home-cooked meals that

the grandfather, not the grandmother, prepared. Oh, you wouldn't want to eat my cooking.

She laughed. We'd feast on warm rye bread, dunking chicken soup, bors,

all manner of things I'd never heard of. It was nice. Really nice. But there was this thing.

They each smiled fondly whenever they looked at their grandson. They even smiled when they looked at me. But when they looked at their grandson.

They even smiled when they looked at me.

But when they looked at each other, their eyes narrowed.

Their mouths grew tight like you'd almost touch the shards of anger, of fury.

And one day in the kitchen, listening to Klesmer music, frying up potato pancakes,

the grandfather says to my friend, don't bury me next to that woman. And my buddy pretends not to hear. So the grandfather turns to me a stranger in their home and says, don't let them bury me next to that woman.

And I don't know how to respond to this.

I don't.

So just kind of look around like I'm simple.

But he says it again.

And every time we visit, he says something similar.

Don't let them bury me next to that woman.

...