I'm Liz Sauer, and this is Ghosts in the Burbs, a podcast about the people of Wellesley, Massachusetts, and the ghosts and monsters who haunt them.

A warning. Adults who use adult language tell me these frightening tales. These ghost stories

aren't for kids. As usual, I have no schedule or plan. I just have a story to share.

It's a short one, but a story all the same. And I'm really missing my

librarianship days, so I'm going to try and have more recommendations for you here and on my

Instagram page. Stay tuned after the story for several timely wrecks and a touch of social commentary.

But for now, we're on to ghost story number 80. What a pickle.

Do not read it aloud to me, or anyone else for that matter, but do you know what

the note says? I squinted at the tightly packed writing. It's gibberish. But if you could, could you sound it out?

Sure. Um, don't, Judith yelled, and I had to pull the phone away from my ear. Don't sound it out.

Take a picture of it and text it to me. I'll do some research. Okay. You really didn't know she was human.

I didn't, I admitted. I had a bad feeling from the second I opened the door, but when she said she was a neighbor,

I pushed it aside.

Yeah, well, don't ignore that feeling anymore, even at the risk of being rude.

Something's up.

Things feel off to you, too?

Uh, yeah, in many ways, Judith affirmed. What else have you noticed?

The ghosts. It's just that things are really quiet, too quiet. Even Claire has been disappearing

for days at a time, and she's vague about where she's been. My guides are absent, too, and there's no

shortage of creeps linking around. I saw a hellhound in the Blue Hills this weekend.

I laughed. No, really, Judith said gravely. Oh, so what do you think is going on? Nothing good.

As always, life barreled ever forward, utterly baffling paranormal activity be damned.

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