Day of the Dead (DIa De Los Muertos) - Part 1 of 4 "The Marigold Path"

0:03 Caloroga Shark Media. Hello and welcome to Ghost. Scary Stories. This episode is titled Dia de los Muertos. Part 1. The Marigold Path.

0:33 The chill of December in Mexico City was an unusual kind of cold, one that seeped into your bones and lingered there. The city streets were quieter than usual, the air crisp and tinged with the scent of burning wood from distant hearths. I pulled my scarf tighter around my neck as I approached my late grandmother's house, the old colonial structure standing stoically amidst modern apartments and bustling markets.

1:00 The iron key she had left me felt heavy in my pocket, as though it carried the weight of untold secrets. The house was a relic of the past, its walls adorned with vibrant tiles depicting ancient myths, its courtyard home to a garden that seemed out of place in the urban sprawl. As I pushed open the wrought iron gate, the hinges groaned, a melancholic sound that echoed my own grief.

1:29 We had buried Abuela Elena three months ago, under a canopy of stars and whispered prayers. She had been the matriarch, the keeper of traditions my mother had long since abandoned. Stepping into the garden, I froze. Amidst the frost-kissed soil, bright orange marigolds, Sempasuchil, were in full bloom. Their petals glowed with an inner light, a stark contrast against the pale backdrop of winter. Marigolds weren't supposed to bloom in winter.

2:00 They were flowers of the dead, reserved for Dia de los Muertos in early November. This defiance of nature sent a shiver down my spine. I knelt beside one of the flowers, reaching out to touch its velvety petals. They were warm, pulsating gently as if alive with more than just botanical life. As I traced my fingers along the stem, I noticed they formed a path, their alignment too deliberate to be accidental. They led toward the back of the house, to my grandmother's old workroom, a place that had been locked since her passing. Some families carry more than memories, she used to say. Her eyes, deep pools of wisdom and sorrow, reflecting the flickering candlelight during her elaborate ofrendas.

2:46 Some of us carry doors. I had never understood what she meant, chalking it up to her penchant for mysticism. But now, Standing amidst impossible marigolds, I felt the veil between reality and myth thin. The iron key in my pocket grew warm, almost burning against my thigh. I hesitated, fear and curiosity warring within me. Finally, I followed the glowing path, each step feeling like a descent into a world I wasn't sure I wanted to enter. The door to the workroom was old, carved with intricate symbols that seemed to shift when I wasn't looking directly at them.

3:29 I slid the key into the lock and it turned smoothly, the door creaking open to reveal a space frozen in time. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters, their scents mingling into an intoxicating aroma. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars of mysterious liquids that caught the dim light, casting eerie reflections. At the center stood a large work table, and atop it lay a leather-bound book. Its cover bore no title, only the impression of a skull wearing a crown of marigolds. As I approached, the air grew thicker, heavy with anticipation. I reached out, my fingers trembling as they brushed the book's surface. Finally... A voice whispered, a sound like dry leaves rustling in an autumn breeze. We've

4:23 been waiting for you, Marisol. I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat. Standing in the doorway was a woman unlike any I had ever seen. She was tall and elegant, her presence commanding yet ethereal. She wore a magnificent hat adorned with marigolds that seemed to sway despite the absence of wind. Her face was a beautifully painted skull- Intricate designs swirling around empty eye sockets that somehow still held a gaze. Her dress flowed like liquid night, shifting between silk and shadow. La Catrina, I breathed, recognizing her from countless depictions during Dia de los Muertos celebrations.

5:06 But she was more imposing, more real, than any artwork could capture. Your grandmother was our last true baker, she said. her voice echoing as if coming from a cavernous depth. She glided into the room without moving her feet, her dress whispering against the floor. The last who knew how to feed both worlds. And now, mi amor, you must learn her secrets before the hunger consumes us all. I glanced back at the book, which had fallen open on the table. The scent of anise and orange blossom wafted up, enveloping me. The pages were filled with recipes in my grandmother's meticulous handwriting. Bread of the dead for the lost ones.

5:55 But these weren't ordinary recipes. Ingredients like three drops of starlight and a mother's first lullaby leaped out at me. This can't be real, I whispered, shaking my head. I don't understand. La Catrina moved closer. her skeletal fingers tracing patterns in the air that left trails of golden light.

6:17 Your grandmother fed the dead for 60 years, she explained. Each Dia de los Muertos, she baked bread that kept the ancestors strong enough to protect their families. Without her, the doors are closing, the memories are fading. Soon, the dead will forget they were ever alive at all. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold air. But I'm not her, I protested. I'm an accountant.

6:46 I deal with numbers, spreadsheets, not... spirits. She tilted her head, the marigolds on her hat rustling softly. Your grandmother didn't choose you for your skills, Kirito. She chose you for your heart. She gestured toward the mirror in the corner, draped in black cloth. And you won't be learning alone.

7:08 She pulled the cloth away, and I gasped. The mirror's surface wasn't reflecting the room as it was, but showed my grandmother's kitchen as I remembered it from childhood. Warm, filled with the aroma of baking bread and the soft glow of candles. There she was, younger and more vibrant, her dark hair pulled back as she kneaded dough with practiced hands. Around her, spirits gathered, translucent figures from different eras, their faces a mix of hope and sorrow. Each held an object, a locket, a worn photograph, a child's toy.

7:46 For three days before Dia de los Muertos, La Catrina said, her voice softer now, the veil between worlds thins enough for the dead to teach the living. Your grandmother's spirit will guide you, help you learn the ancient recipes. But be warned, such knowledge comes with a price. I tore my gaze from the mirror to look at her. What kind of price? She met my eyes, and for a moment I thought I saw compassion in those empty sockets.

8:16 Each loaf of pan requires a memory from the baker, a fair trade, your memories of the dead in exchange for their continued existence. A knot formed in my stomach. The weight of what she was asking settled heavily on me. I have to give up my memories? Only pieces, she assured me, but memories are powerful, and the dead feed on them to remain connected to the living. Through the window, I saw more spirits gathering in the garden. They moved slowly, their forms flickering like old film reels. The marigold path glowed brighter, illuminating their faces etched with longing. I don't know if I can do this, I said, my voice barely above a whisper. La Catrina placed a skeletal hand on my shoulder. The dead are not the only ones

9:06 who hunger, Marisol. The living crave connection, understanding closure. By feeding them, you feed yourself. I looked back at the mirror. My grandmother smiled warmly, flower dusting her apron. She nodded encouragingly, and I felt a swell of emotion. Love, loss, and something else. A sense of duty, perhaps. Will it hurt?

9:29 I asked. Only if you resist, La Catrina replied. Embrace it and you will find it rewarding beyond measure. I took a deep breath, steadying myself. All right, I'll try. Excellent, she said, a hint of satisfaction in her tone. We must begin immediately. She led me toward the mirror, and as I reached out to touch its surface, it rippled like water under my fingertips. A warmth spread through me.

10:00 and suddenly I was stepping into the scene, the aromas and sounds enveloping me fully. Welcome, my grandmother said, her voice rich and comforting. She took my hands in hers, solid, warm, alive. There's much to teach and little time. As we began, She guided me through the process, her hands demonstrating the techniques while I mirrored her movements. We sifted flour that shimmered like ground pearls, mixed in honey that glowed amber, and added spices that released fragrances I couldn't name. Each ingredient holds significance, she explained. The anise represents the bitterness of loss, the orange zest the sweetness of life, and this, she held up a small vial of shimmering liquid, is distilled from moonlight. I raised an eyebrow. Moonlight? She chuckled.

10:56 There's more to this world than you know. As we worked, she told me stories, some familiar, others secrets she had kept, tales of ancestors who had made similar sacrifices, of spirits who had been saved from oblivion, of the delicate balance between the worlds. Time seemed fluid here, hours felt like minutes, and yet, By the time we placed the loaves into the oven, I felt as though I'd aged years. The exhaustion was mental and emotional more than physical. Now comes the offering, she said, leading me back to the work table where the spirits had gathered. They approached one by one, presenting their tokens. I recognized some, a great aunt's brooch, a neighbor's pocket watch. Each held stories, memories that I

11:46 had heard in passing or not at all. Hold their items and think of what you know of them, my grandmother instructed. As I did, flashes of images flooded my mind. Moments from lives I hadn't lived but now felt intimately connected to. Laughter at a family gathering, tears at a farewell, the simple joy of a shared meal. These are the memories you will share, she said softly. They will become part of the bread, nourishing the spirits. I felt a tug, a gentle pull, as pieces of these memories settled into the dough. It was both exhilarating and draining, like giving away a part of myself while becoming part of something greater.

12:51 When the bread was finally baked, golden and fragrant, the spirits received their portions with gratitude, their forms solidifying, faces becoming clearer. The atmosphere lightened, a sense of peace settling over the kitchen. You've done well, La Catrina said, appearing beside us. But this is only the beginning. There are many more to feed and the days grow short. I nodded, exhaustion washing over me. I don't know if I can keep this up. You are stronger than you think, my grandmother assured me. Rest now. We'll continue tomorrow. As I stepped back toward the mirror's edge, ready to return to the real world, La Catrina's voice echoed in my mind.

13:40 And Marisol, remember, tend the marigolds. They are not just flowers. They're doorways home for the hungry dead. And this year, mi amor, they're hungrier than ever. I emerged from the mirror, the workroom around me dim and silent. The iron key was cool in my pocket once more. Outside, the marigolds pulsed gently, their glow a beacon in the darkness. I knew sleep would elude me, but I needed to rest. Tomorrow, the true weight of my inheritance would reveal itself, and I needed all the strength I could muster to carry it.

14:26 Ghost is a Calaroga Shark Media production, written and hosted by Alexander Ian McIntyre, produced by Mark Francis, executive producers Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast may have been created with the assistance of AI.

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