Hey, gentle listeners, it's Andrew, and welcome to Scary Stories to Tell on the Pod.

It's a podcast all about scary stories, urban legends, and spooky things you tell us about.

And today, as you might have guessed from this very strange intro, it's a different sort of podcast because, uh, for the first time ever, there's no co-host, there's no special guests. There aren't even any husbands of the pod. It is just me flying solo in a very special minisode. It feels so weird. I kind of feel like, remember that radio show host from the 90s named Delilah. And it was sort of like late at night,

she would play easy listening and people would call in being like, I'm in a relationship

with someone who I really treasure. And then she would be like, she had like such a great kind

of ASMR voice. I recall it as a kid like drinking root beer out of a wine goblet and being like, well, this is a show that's meant for me to unwind too.

The reason why I'm alone today is, is nothing interpersonally related.

Anna is having a particularly busy week writing on the show Everybody's in L.A. on Netflix with John Malaney, which is so incredibly

funny. You got to check it out. And I'm doing my solo show. I don't want to scare you in L.A.

And our schedules were just kind of a nightmare. And so I figured since I'm working on my show

anyway, that maybe I would take today's episode as an opportunity to share an excerpt

from it. Because a lot of you do not live in the greater Los Angeles area. And in fact,

some of you live as far as Poland and Australia. So yeah, I thought you might be into it.

Because it's a kind of autobiographical show told through the ghost stories that people have told me in my life that have really left an impression.

And if that's not for our gentle, spooky listenership, then I don't know what is.

So if you'll indulge me, I'd like to dive in with a few stories from it.

And I figure I'd start with this one,

which is kind of a good ease into the whole vibe of the show. Uh, this first story is called

262 Pleasant Street. I grew up in an old Victorian house on a hill called Pleasant Street, overlooking our small town in central New Hampshire.

It had enough bedrooms for our family of six, elaborate stained glass windows, exquisite woodwork, parlors and drawing rooms,

and a secret passageway between the closets. It was surrounded by a century-old garden of rare plants and exotic

trees and was so picturesque that we couldn't understand why it had set abandoned for so many years

...