Creepy - Turnpike Mary Answers Prayers & The Mother of Sands

Episode Date: January 19, 2023

Turnpike Mary Answers Prayers***Written by: Trisha J. Wooldridge and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***Content Warning: Death of loved ones; miscarriage***The Mother of Sands***Written by: Stewart C. Baker and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence, Silence and explicit language.

Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. He answers prayers. Written by Trisha J. Waldridge. And narrated by Michelle Kane. The night of my high school graduation, I drove out to the Turnpike Madonna to say one last prayer for my best friend's mother.

I told my parents about where I was going. Graham even understood. It was one of her more lucid days. After the rest of my family left, right when Graham started going downhill for the day, keys and updated car papers in hand, I left for this task. I knew this would be the last prayer I'd say for Tracy's mom,

a.k.a. Mom Fisk. Because I knew the prayer would come true. I just needed to pray for the right thing time. For those who don't know Western Massachusetts, there's a shrine on the turnpike to Virgin Mary. You can see it heading eastbound between the Palmer exit and the Sturbridge one. At night, a spotlight shines on her church marble white form. She glows like, like heaven's light. According to local stories, miracles happen when people pray there. The man who erected it was fulfilling a promise he'd made if his wife survived cancer. She did, and there it is.

Pilgrims are instructed to get off one of the exits and approach from the farm that owns the land she stands on. Sometimes, though, you'll see a car parked in the breakdown lane by her, or pulled over just past the guardrail. That was my plan. I'd drive, keep my eyes peeled for that small beacon after passing exit eight, pull over, say the prayer, pay my toll to turn around in Sturbridge, and be back home in under an hour. Maybe a full hour. It was graduation day for several schools in the region. I hadn't even gotten on the pike, and I'd already passed three speed traps. I didn't want any more delays. It was already getting dark. I felt bad enough for having waited so long to make this particular pilgrimage and to say this particular prayer, that I needed to do this

alone. It probably didn't matter, but I didn't want anyone else tied to my actions. That's why I'd waited for graduation day. Graham's car would be mine. I wouldn't be borrowing it as I spoke the words I hated even thinking about. Before I was born, my Graham, the one who'd given me the car, had been diagnosed with some form of brain cancer. Back then, in the 70s, it was a death sentence. But my dad had said a prayer at this statue, and she didn't die. I'd heard the story more times than I can count. After hearing the options of keeping her comfortable or try a risky but promising trial surgery, dad drove out to the St. Anne Shrine in St.erbridge. His parents had taken him and his sister there as kids, and shown them the left behind crutches and old wheelchairs for miracle healings.

On his way to pray for a miracle, the little white virgin on the highway captured Dad's attention. He didn't know why, but when he pulled over and prayed for his mom. St. Anne's was closed when he arrived. He set a prayer in the parking lot, but the vision of the highway statue stuck with him. Graham survived the experimental surgery, but ended up different. She would sometimes be the usual grandmotherly type, baking, teach me old games with wooden boards and telling stories. Then, out of the blue, she'd get angry and start screaming at me. Or worse, she'd scream at people who weren't there.

I didn't know if they were ghosts or old memories or maybe invisible monsters. She never hurt me, never raised a hand to me, but she terrified me. When her outbursts and memory got so bad she had to move in with this, my parents got to experience these things themselves. And as I grew older, I could see Graham's episodes even scared my dad. As I entered the mass pike under the Worcester-Boston sign, I wondered what dad had specifically prayed for when he'd pulled over that night. Staying in the right lane and watching my speedometer,

I felt vindicated in my efforts when I saw the cruisers sitting right in the first cut of cross. My grandmother's car was as old as I was, 78 Chrysler-Liberin. I'd been driving it since my learner's permit, and when Graham moved in with us because someone from the Great Church in two towns over had called about her screaming at the priest speaking English for 1030 Mass. Being allowed to use her car meant driving Graham for errands, so I got plenty of driving practice. I knew how easy it was to speed in that boat. It responded like turbocharged silk to the slightest touch of the gas pedal. The amount of effort to stay at that speed limit didn't stop the parade of thoughts and memories triggered by my maiden solo trip to turn Pike Mary. My first trip to the roadside shrine was when I was

six, when Mom should have died, according to the doctors, from a late pregnancy miscarriage. Mom was in the shower and I had to pee, so I asked if I could use the toilet. She had said something like, okay, so I went in. But before I pulled down my pajama bottoms, she started screaming. Then I started screaming. Dad ran in as she fell, tearing the shower curtain with her. I'd never seen so much blood. Dad had to yell in my face to get the phone and call 911 and stay outside of the

bathroom. Later, Dad drove us both out to turn Pike Mary. He let me sit in the front seat, and he held my hand as we prayed for Mom to be safe, and the baby. Tad nearly forgot to mention the baby, I remember. He added something I didn't hear, but I'm pretty sure it was in, if there can be only one, addendum. Then he ended with, Thy will be done, amen. It felt like church. Mom lived, but they lost the baby. It would have been a sister. When I was old enough to bleed and get pro-life lessons in CCD, mom explained how she nearly lost me before I was born.

But the doctor and the church had advised against getting any surgery to avoid future pregnancy. She sometimes had to visit a planned parenthood, in a scarf or a jacket, with the hood in case people from our church were protesting there. to get her uterus scraped out when periods kept her in bed with pain. I never asked about another brother or sister because I saw how it hurt my parents when someone else would ask. Though things weren't great, mom and grand were both at the graduation ceremony. My best friend Tracy and her mom were still in the hospital. Tracy had opted not to graduate, so she wouldn't have to leave her mom's side.

Thinking of Mom Fisk in the hospital, what put her there? I checked my speed again and frowned. I was going just above 50. Too slow could get someone pulled over as much as too fast. I nudged the gas as I approached the Ludlow Plaza, where no less than three cruisers were parked. And one of the cruisers decided it was time to get back into the speed trap game. The cop and I approached the exit ramp at the same time.

Taking deep, calming breaths, I checked thoroughly to make sure I wouldn't cause an accident. accident and pulled into the left lane while maintaining an exact 65 miles per hour. The cop hovered beside me for a few minutes before finally speeding off. I moved back to the right lane as his fading taillights shifted left. I wasn't doing anything illegal. I was 18 in my own car and following every traffic law, but I also knew I was a teen in a car on graduation day. I hadn't had any alcohol that day, or ever again after that one time. But I was well aware others would be driving drunk, and I didn't want a cop wasting their time with me if they could keep some other

innocent person from being hit by a drunk driver. More importantly, Tracy and her mom didn't deserve to suffer any extra time if I got pulled over. It was my fault. Mom Fisk was in the hospital in the first place. And my fault, she was still there. Our friends held an anti-homecoming party last October. While we weren't going to get drunk and stupid, like the people who went to actual homecoming parties, we did have unsupervised access to a few choice bottles. Someone handed me a drink heavy on Kalua. It was delicious, and I drank the whole thing, even though I had driven me and Tracy to the party. When the host's parents came home early, I did not feel comfortable driving. So Tracy and I did the responsible thing. We called her mom for a ride. Someone else, probably from

a homecoming party, made the less responsible decision. They swerved through a red light, tea-boning Mom Thist's Corolla right at the driver's door, right on Mom Thist's. Then driven off before any of us came two. I don't know who called for help. I vaguely remember flashing lights and recovering in the hospital. I'll never forget, not recognizing Mom Thisk when I finally saw her in that hospital bed. When we were discharged, I asked Dad to take me and Tracy by Turnpike Mary before he even brought us home. He did, and we prayed that Mom Thisk wouldn't die. That was all our medicated. and traumatized brains could manage. I'd ad-dipped to 60, and a car that looked like it had a light rack was coming up on the left. I nudged my speed back to 65, and breathed in relief as I saw

the station wagon with the bike rack fly by. Good, they can be the speed trap bait, I thought, as I took another glance around my surroundings, trying to figure out how close I was to X-8, the Palmer exit. The statue was some miles after that, but the dark highway had few outstanding features between the exit and the statue. I didn't want to blow by or slam on my brakes to stop in time. The green and wide of a highway road sign hovered like a ghost beyond the godrail. The Palmer exit was seven miles away. Though I tried to focus on the road, on my speed, and on getting to the shrine safely, the events of the past few months wouldn't allow that peace or focus. Mom Fisk didn't die.

She stayed in a coma in the hospital, unresponsive. Tracy and I lived at her side whenever we weren't at school, dropping all extracurricular activities. It would look bad for college, but we didn't care. After the first month, visits from her aunts and uncles and grandparents dropped off. Most lived closer to Worcester or Boston. I was Tracy's only constant, lucid, companion. In March, Tracy got noticed that insurance would no longer pay for life support.

Donations from the church only covered a few extra weeks. Then the doctors pulled the plug, despite our protests. Mom Fisk didn't die. For hours, her chest shuddered breaths. gurgles bubbled up in her throat. She choked and gasped while her empty eyes flicked in all directions. Her body convulsed.

A nurse would turn her on her side as she wretched up green pink foam that smelled of the sewage. One time, Tracy and I were the only ones in the room and had to do it. Mom fist's skin felt flabby like raw chicken. I remember thinking, so clearly, she shouldn't be alive. Tracy sobbed, begged, and pleaded. The doctors had to

pluck her back in, reinsert the tube down her throat, and the IVs in her arms that look like purple and white cauliflower. Mom Fisk wouldn't die. Tracy dropped out of school. No one in her family or mine, no one from the church could convince her otherwise. Tracy was going to to lose everything, her diploma, her college acceptance, and her future. The Palmer exit sign caught my headlights. Now I had to pay attention. As I passed the highway entrance ramp, a cruiser pulled up behind me. I held my tongue and held my prayers, focusing on my speed, staying in my lane and looking for the spotlight illuminating turned Pike-Mary. The cop stayed behind me. my lip and stayed my course. To this day, I can't tell you how many miles are between the

Palmer exit in the little shrine. It might be a million. Hyper aware as I was, I noticed the spotlight in plenty of time to safely slow down and pull into the breakdown lane. The cop followed me, and when I stopped, he flipped on his blue and whites. After a moment of flashing back to waking up after the accident, I pulled myself together. only have the time it'd take for the officer to run my plates to say my prayer. I had to pray right now. Dear Mary, blessed mother, please, please, please let Madeline Annette Fisk, Tracy's mom, Mom Fisk. I had to be specific, no ambiguity. The cop was getting out of his car and I hadn't even grabbed my license and registration. Please let her die. Let her die peacefully and pain-free.

and let Tracy be free. Thank you. Amen. I blessed myself, as I said, in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, amen, while rolling down my window with my left hand. License and registration, the officer beamed his flashlight at me. Yes, sorry, Officer, one sec. I flailed toward my purse in the passenger seat and pulled out my license, registration, title, and the whole big packet I'd gotten and to show everything was now in my name, tucking his flashlight under his arm, relieving some of its blinding pain that did nothing to stop the tears

already falling down my face. He took my pile of stuff and fished out my license and registration. Teresa Agnes Christopoulos, I said out of habit, then flinched, was it rude to correct an officer? Miss Christopoulos, he said, fairly accurately, and looked at me for an uncomfortable minute. You're a long way from home.

What's wrong? Tears soaked my face and snot threatened to flow from my nose. I grabbed at the wad of clean tissues that had popped out of my purse with all the paperwork and did my best to look presentable. The officer waited patiently as far as I could tell. Finally, I said, my best friend's mom is dying in the hospital. I just wanted to say a prayer for her. My family said prayers here before, and they came true. I opened and closed my mouth, but I had run out of words. I wiped my tears and nose again, awaiting my judgment. Have you been drinking tonight? He asked, voiced gentler than I expected. I shook my head. No, sir, I don't. Drink. It was a, it was a drunk driver that hit her. As I said it, I knew I would never drink again. I sent that thought in

the direction of the statue and added sacrifice to bolster my prayer. The officer handed me back my license and registration. Are you all right to go home, miss? Possibly smearing, more than wiping tears and snod at this point, I nodded. Yes, sir. And my parents know I came out here. They're waiting for me to get back home safely. All right, he said, my best to your friend's mom. He nodded at the statue and then at me. Have a safe drive home. Please, please, please, don't pray for her too. I mentally screamed while thanking him as he headed back to his cruiser. After a minute, his lights turned off and he pulled away. He hadn't said it, but there was an understood, take the time you need in his retreat. But I couldn't stay a minute longer.

As I shifted into gear, I gave the brilliant white statue one last look. And said my last prayer, please just let her die. Please, just let her die. I hadn't planned on telling Tracy about that last trip. I'd spent the school year watching her die in her mom's place. By graduation, Tracy was as pale and purple, veined as Mom Fisk.

Sobs strangled air from her lungs, and she was barely eating. I didn't know if Mom Fiske's actual death would change anything, but her continued survival was turning them both undead. At the funeral, my parents told Tracy that I had gone to the statue to pray again. With a vigor impossible for her skeletal shell of the body, she stormed over to me. You didn't take me to pray at the me? Miracles at you? She just about shouted. Why not? What did you say? Why? Why didn't it work? Why didn't you just take me? She's my... I'm sorry. I stammered and mumbled. Don't know, I wasn't thinking. I wasn't thinking, but I wasn't

sorry. My prayer had been granted. No, you weren't. How could you be? How could you be? so selfish, she spat. One of her aunts pulled Tracy away, looking at me like I were a vile rat, not the person who'd spent every possible hour in the hospital with her best friend and her best friend's dying mom. More time than that contemptuous aunt had. But I was selfish. I'd wanted Mom Thisk to stop suffering. That was true. But even more, I'd wanted my best friend back. I'd prayed for mom fisked to die so Tracy could be free, be free to be my friend again. That night, or early morning after the funeral, Tracy borrowed some family member's car. She drove out to the shrine by herself. The morning news reported a major accident on the mass pike eastbound between Palmer

and Sturbridge. All traffic lanes were closed, and there was a fatality. A teenage girl they didn't name. I knew it was Tracy. I knew she probably had prayed to be with her mom again. And the prayer was answered, just like mine. I'd prayed for Mom Fisk to die, for Tracy to be free. I hadn't prayed for Tracy to live. My prayer to the blessed Madonna of the highway turned Pike Mary.

Wasn't just my last prayer for Mom Thisk. It was the last prayer I'd ever dare make. Creepy presents, the Mother of Sands, written by Stuart C. Baker, and narrated by Rissa Montanez. Smylseumete, Mother of Sands. How I wish I had never heard that name, and that I had never learned what waits on the far shore of that river. we cross upon dying. But I have, and I did, and I must share what I witnessed with you,

my closest friends. It began last September, at the end of that hot, dry summer. I received a letter from the countess of, well, she whom I had known as a girl through my mother, who had been her lady's maid, Although as children, we had often played together, I had not heard from her in 15 years, and was much amazed that she remembered me, let alone that she had thought to send me a letter.

My dearest Clara, the letter began, and went on at some length about the rigors of life amidst the landed gentry which I, in my rented room in gloomy Stepney, cared little to read. towards the end though was a section that riveted my eyes in short my dearest clara i find myself quite bereft of the friendship we shared in our youth and should like nothing more than to renew it it would grant my fondest hope should you accompany me to my native riga to visit my mother who has taken ill the letter was signed with my old friend's given name ilsey At this I laughed and shook my head, quite certain that I was the recipient of a passing aristocratic fancy, and nothing more. So it was that I set the affair from my mind and went back to my writing. The days wound on until a full month passed, and I was surprised by a knocking at my door. I opened it, stealing myself to be set upon by some creditor or unhappy patron,

and was met instead with Ilse's smiling face. You did not return my letter, she admonished. But it does not matter. I have everything prepared. I sputtered my protests. I had work still to do. My creditors would never let me rest, but they fell on deaf ears. Ilseys spirited me down the stairs to a waiting carriage,

where she plied me with stories of her life. Such was her enthusiasm that I could not so much as speak, let alone request that she returned me to my home. Truth be told, I did not try too hard. For while I still felt my old friend would discard me so soon as she grew bored, I had resolved to enjoy the unexpected respite from my worries for as long as it lasted. We passed the day in a pleasant enough fashion, and stopped for the evening in the seaside town of South End,

where Ilsey insisted on a shared room at a common end. i considered it odd that we had not departed by boat from london and that she had no servants with her her insistence on sharing a room was doubly strange but i did not speak of it who was i to question the countess of course it was here that the first strange event of our journey occurred that evening as the sun set ilsey suddenly paled and rushed me from the inn's dining-hall to the room we were to share I asked what was wrong, but she would only say, smil sum me te. The words croaked out from between her lips like a curse and a prayer all at once. In our quarters, she walked all around with a candle, thrusting it here and there until the shadows danced with movement. After some minutes of this, she placed the candle on the sill, locked the door, and collapsed into bed, sobbing. I tried to get some sensible response from her, but it was futile.

Growing weary myself, I at last reached for the candle myself and blew it out, thinking it was time to sleep. But just as the light guttered away into night's inky blackness, I saw as clear as day a woman standing over my companion. Her eyes pooled shadows in her pinched, drawn face. My heart hammered in my ears. I scarcely dared breath. So fearful was I. At length, enough moonlight filtered through the window for me to see the woman was gone. Nonetheless, I could not calm myself and lay wakeful all through the long night with only Ilse's hiccuping sobs to distract me. Though Ilsey and I did not speak of it, the first thing we did that morning was search our quarters thoroughly. We found no sign of the woman, only a small heap of doll.

brownish-gray sand. Ilse quaked when she saw this and quickly scattered it about, muttering something in her native tongue, though she would not say why or what. It is bad luck to speak of such things, she told me. Smil Sumete? Who is she? What does it mean? But Ilse only shook her head and would say no more.

The rest of our trip passed slowly but uneventfully, and I need spend no time here in recounting it. We went by ship to Amsterdam, and from that squat bustling port, traveled again by carriage. Neither in our cabin nor in any of the inns where we stayed, did I again see the woman. Though on occasion, we found a small heap of sand,

which, Ilse, incidentally, dealt with in the same manner as the first. We then arrived in Riga, the heart of Old Livonia, on the first day of November, more than a month after setting out. You, who have never visited that distant place, will know nothing of its cobbled streets. It will mean nothing to you if I speak of the way the stately Dogaba flows past the city's many spires, with its frigid waters flowing surprisingly strong. Ilsey's mother lived in a narrow three-story house painted in a delicate green. Huddled amidst more expansive buildings, it seemed to cling to the edge of the cobblestones,

as if it were afraid of losing its place. Ilsey knocked on the door and entered without waiting for a response, and I followed her, reluctantly, for the building inspired within me a nameless unease. Inside, the walls pressed in on me. They reminded me of our worries. If Ilsey felt anything of what I did, however, she did not show it. Indeed, compared to the pale, nervous woman I had known on our journey, here in the rooms of her earliest moments, she was a different person entirely.

She strode from room to room on the ground floor, calling out in her native language, and did not seem to mind when there was no response. Mama must be out, she said with a smile. Come, I shall show you the sights of the town. But no sooner had we set out, that her face took on its familiar melancholy cast. She became listless and offered no commentary as we strolled from sight to sight,

across age-worn bridges and along the banks of the Dogava. I saw a pleasure steamer, plying the waters, festooned with flags and filled with travelers. Marvelling at its existence in this antique place, I mentioned that I should like to try it. But as ever, Ilse would not be drawn out. And I heard no word from her until we returned to her mother's home, just as the sun began to pink the sky. A light was on in the ground floor window, and my earlier unease returned. I found myself looking for sand as Ilse let me inside, and my heart's blood thrummed in my ears,

just as it had that night when I saw the woman with the pools of shadows in her eyes. My fears proved unfounded. Reclining on a chaise lounge was a woman I had never seen before, but who was clearly Ilse's mother. She had the same rich brown hair, the same slightly square face, and the set of her eyes somehow spoke to me, pulling me along despite myself. You're late, she said, in slightly accented English.

I had started to fear you would not arrive. Oh, mother, Ilsey said, reproachful. Of course I had to come when I heard you were sick. Ha, a year ago and more I sent that letter. A strange form of concern you show me, daughter, when you tarry for so long, and bring an uninvited guest when at last you arrive. Even behind Ilse, I could see her skin flush. I had pressing business to attend to, she said.

After you sold me to the count in marriage, my life has not been my own. And it is so remote here that travel alone is... Remote! You speak this way of the land where you were born? I should never have sent you to England, no matter the price. You! Ilseh quickly snapped out at her mother in her native tongue, and her mother responded in kind. Their voices grew louder as they argued, and not wanting to intrude further than I already had,

I stepped into the next room, where tables were laid out with an astounding feast. There were rolls, cheese, and butter all by the bowlful, fine cuts of roast and fowl, and other delicacies I could not name. Balls of dough adorned with hemp seed filled a plate next to pastries overflowing with a thick, white cream. Where had it all come from? I wondered. Who was it for? I had seen no servants in the house, nor any other guests. At a loss for what I might do to pass the time, I quickly popped a pastry into my mouth. almond paste in the cream, I thought, or something like it. The flavor was sweet to almost bitter. Still, I had not eaten in some time, and it was good enough. So I took another. At length,

the shouting in the next room subsided, and Ilse and her mother entered, their arms entwined for all the world as though they had not just been engaged in a fight of the most intimate sort. Your pardon, Clara dearest, Ilse said to me, breaking away from her mother. In this part of the world, we believe it better to err out our emotions. It is true, her mother said, as she ushered me to one of the chairs. No matter what part of the world you find yourself in, you English would be more agreeable, did you not bottle up your feelings so. Now sit.

and we will show you another of our customs. The feast of the dead. All this for the dead? The pastries in my stomach suddenly felt heavy as rocks. Ilse laughed. Of course not, but it is tradition to give them the first morsel and the first draught of mead, especially tonight, her mother added.

For on the night of Semudas, the dead can return to the living to take back for those who have offended them. And with a light tinkling laughter, she poured a splash of alcohol into the fireplace, following it with one of the dole balls. My tongue burned. I only hoped the color did not spread to my cheeks. Neither Euse nor her mother seemed to notice.

Each piled her plate high with food and filled her cup with meat. reluctantly, I did the same, although I suppose there was no harm in my inadvertent breaking of their pagan custom so long as they did not know it. We ate in a rather uncomfortable silence for a time, until, casting around for some topic of conversation, I said to Ilse's mother, I am glad to see that you have at least regained your health. The older woman's eyes darkened, and I cursed myself. Why had I brought up the very thing which had caused her and Ilse to erupt earlier? But I had no need for concern, it seemed. After a moment, the older woman smiled and said, I will tell you how it came about.

And with that, she launched into a story that I myself would not believe, were it not for what happened after. Last year, Ilse's mother said, I caught a coughing sickness that would not leave me. The doctors could not cure me, and the prayers of a local priest rumored to perform miracles failed as well. On the 29th of September, I began to cough blood. The day is St. Michael's,

Ilse whispered, and the start of the month of the dead. Despairing, I walked to the shores of the Dagava, certain that I had not long in this life left. As I crossed one of the river's bridges, a cold wind overtook me and I fell into a coughing fit, so violent that my knees went weak. When I recovered, so much black, clotted blood covered my handkerchief that I resolved to end my life there and then. I leapt into the river, which drew me down into its cold, smothering embrace. I awoke on a shore I had never seen before. In place of the city were trees of oak and linden

Flanked in the distance by rolling hills of a sandy yellow-gray soil I was born wet and shivering And next to me stood a woman with eyes the color of shadow You have forsaken the traditions She said to me You sent your only daughter to an uncaring land And your ancestors go hungry each year That is why you say

suffer. Her voice was like grit, fine and sharp and hard, impossible to shake free. What should I do then, mother? I asked, shivering from more than being damp. For I knew then who she was, and where I had found myself. How can I gain your forgiveness? Bring her back, she said. I will take care of the rest. And with that she was gone. And I was alone. I staggered to my feet and walked up stream, thinking to return to Riga. When at last I came upon a town, however, it was not my home.

But a clump of simple dwelling surrounded by a wall of stakes as thick as trees. The town's people seemed unable to hear me and would not meet my eyes. I returned to the river, to gaze. On its tranquil waters? At this, Ilse's mother stopped talking. Lost, it seemed, in reminiscence. Ilse, who had grown progressively paler throughout the recounting, gave no sign of talking.

My own throat being dry as parchment, I took a swallow of mead, and then spoke. What then? Ilsey's mother looked at me and smiled, but not pleasantly. Her face melted away and was soon replaced by that of the woman I had seen over Iles' bed

that first night of our journey. Why then? Of course, she said. She died. Her voice was just as Ilse's mother had described it. She stood in one fluid motion, causing the candles to flitter out. and the dark swarmed in with an inhuman shriek. The rest of that night is a blur, all shadow and terror and ash.

When I awoke in the morning, I found I'd fallen asleep in a chair in the banquet room. Ilse did too. The tables were empty, save for a layer of dust, and search as we might. The two of us could find no evidence whatsoever that anyone lived in the house. All we found was a heap of yellow-gray sand in the front waiting room, where Ilse's mother had greeted us. We passed some time huddled together, unsure and uncertain. I was of the opinion that the night's events had been hallucination,

brought on perhaps by the fatigue of our journey, or by some ailment we had gathered to ourselves along the way. Ilse, contrarily, believed that we had seen her mother's ghost. that all she had spoken was true, and that Smil Sumat, the mother of Sands, had granted her passage on the night of the feast so that she might visit her absent daughter

and take her to that other land by force. At least then, I said, you escape the last, for you are here with me, alive. Ilse only shook her head and sank once more into the gloom. Come, I said, and I will show us both the truth of life. For I myself felt a need to be among people.

Ilse protested, but not with any heart, as I dragged her to the offices of the steamer I had seen the day before. Looking back, I cannot recall what moved me to think that a visit to the river, when Sir Mother claimed to have visited the other side of death, would take Iles' mind off the previous night's occurrence. Perhaps it was the steamer itself, the only thing in that city which looked to the future instead of the past. Perhaps some stronger, stranger power was at work. Whatever the reason, we had no trouble booking passage on the afternoon's cruise,

and in short order were aboard the little ship's deck. The steamer was just as I imagined it, a modern marvel, bursting with the energy. of a new era, fueled by the powers of men turned to gods. Gliding past the banks of that provincial lands suffused me with optimistic health, but all Ilsa cared to do was stand and look into the waters of the river. I am afraid I must tell you I left her there, determined that I, at least, would find pleasure in the day's outing. But we had been out barely half an hour, when the boat began to shudder, and the deck pitched to one side with a crack and a roaring boom.

A mid-channel collision, I thought, or a fault in the hull. There was another jolt, and suddenly the air was filled with screams, and the water hit me with a slap of icy cold. As I submerged from the water, the truth came to me. It was Smil-sumate, come to claim her own. No sooner had I thought this, than the power faded from my limbs, and I resigned myself to death. But just before the blackness took me, a surge of strength burst through my limbs. A sudden passion rose in my heart. I would not die here, I resolved. Not today. I broke the surface of the water and pushed to the river's edge with surprising ease, shivering and, shivering in the river.

in my thin traveling clothes. There was no sign of the steamer. The river's surface crowded with boats and men and ropes. A rescue, I thought. But too late, and too late for poor Ilsey and the rest. I watched until evening, as cold as I was, hoping they would stumble across some miraculous survivor,

that they would pull my old friend from the water still pink and full of breath, just like me. but they found no one. As the rescuers returned to the shore, I asked what had happened, but none answered, lost perhaps in melancholy thoughts of their own.

And though I waited by that shore until the moon came full into the sky, I never again saw any sign of Ilse, shuddering to think that I had nearly shared her fate, and assuing any thoughts of Smilshu-Maté or of the dead woman who had returned from the river to claim her only child. I left the city of Riga behind me and set off for England. It was a long, cold journey home, my friends.

Without Ilse, I could not afford a carriage or an inn. I dragged myself along the continent's highways, snatching fitful bouts of sleep under trees and bushes, anywhere that I might lie unseen until morning. At first I attempted to beg for alms, but it was as though none could see me. My lack of any language, save English, I thought, or the misery written in my eyes.

I don't remember what I ate, nor where or how I drank, but I crossed that whole lonely land and the choppy seas which make England an aisle. I did these things for you, my dearest friends, for I could not rest easy until I had told you of what had happened, but now I can delude myself no longer. Smil Sumete is calling me, and I must go.

For I can admit at last, to myself as well as you, that I did not in fact survive the steamer's wreck, but drowned in the cold, stately waters of the Dugava, along with the Countess of, well, her, all those many miles from home. But do not despair, though I am leaving you, whom I have just rejoined, we shall surely meet again. All those who live must cross that river's waters, to die, and live again on its most distant shore. And if you should ever see sand in your chambers,

or the face of a woman whose eyes are shadow shrouded, please know that I shall see you soon. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at CreepyPod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Sherrillite licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.