The Burning Man: A True Ghost Story

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Welcome to a special bonus episode of the Pan To Pen podcast, where a chef leaves the kitchen to write a story. Our podcast is set to launch tomorrow officially, but our chef insisted on serving up this special pre launch Halloween episode just for you. We know it's unconventional, but that's how we roll. 

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So here's a spooky treat. A bonus episode with a Halloween themed story. 

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Have you ever found yourself pondering the existence of supernatural occurrences such as ghosts and spirits, and the possibility of an afterlife? Specifically, do you believe certain souls may remain tethered to the earthly realm even after their physical bodies have perished? Today we are privileged to listen to Tate's narrative about one of his childhood. 

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Experiences despite your belief in ghosts, Tate will share his experience with the afterlife or the beings in the afterlife without further delay. I present Tate's childhood story as he recounts his remarkable journey in a piece called the Burning Man. 

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When I was 8, my parents leased a single story home on the outskirts of the bustling capital city in my Caribbean birthplace. 

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The house was historically significant and spacious, providing plenty of room for our family. 

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The location was perfect for us, allowing us to experience the city and the suburbs. I stepped through the door of our new home and immediately my senses were overwhelmed by the captivating charm surrounding me. The house, constructed in the late 1800s, was a true masterpiece. 

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Its numerous rooms were each adorned with unique character, but more than just the number of rooms caught my attention. 

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It was the enigmatic secrets that were hidden within the walls. 

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As I explored, I discovered several cupboards that were expertly concealed behind unassuming doors, their existence unknown to me until that moment. 

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The intricate details of the house left me in a state of wonder, and I felt an insatiable urge to uncover more of its mysteries. 

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The Caribbean architecture of the 1800s was notable for its unique and practical approach to dealing with the regions hot and humid climate. The houses were designed with an open air plan to ensure maximum air circulation and maintain a pleasant interior temperature. 

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A distinguishing feature of these houses was the approximately 12 inch gap between the top of the walls and the ceiling, which allowed the tropical breezes to flow freely throughout the home, keeping the environment cool and comfortable. This clever architectural design was not only functional, but also added to the aesthetic appeal of the houses, making them an integral part of the vibrant Caribbean. 

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Culture. The spaces were usually made of intricate wooden designs and on very windy days the wind passing through the designs in our house made it sound like multiple voices whispering constantly. 

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In the 1800s, it was a common practice to construct houses with a unique architectural design that involved building them as two separate structures. 

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The main building was a comfortable and inviting gathering place for everyone. It had cozy bedrooms, a comfortable living room and a warm dining area. There was also a service pantry. 

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The second structure was located behind the main building. It was purposely built separately from the main structure when cooking was still done in fireplaces and there was no plumbing. 

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As a result, the kitchen was kept away from the main building to keep it cool and out. Houses were held at the back of the house in a separate structure. Over time, the outer building was renovated to have a modern and fully equipped kitchen, a shower room that was quite spacious and an ample storage room. 

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At the end of the structure, two separate toilets ensured privacy and convenience for. 

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The two buildings were connected via a galvanized roofed open air corridor that led to the outside yard on both sides to shower or use the toilet. You must leave the main building to go outside to the outer building, which could sometimes be creepy at night as the corridor had no doors and opened out outside the kitchen. A large, sturdy. 

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Concrete sink was in that corridor designed for washing dishes and utensils. 

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The sink had a spacious concrete counter that provided room for drying and arranging dishes. 

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The open air design of the corridor allowed fresh air to circulate, making it an ideal spot for completing kitchen tasks. 

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With its fresh coat of paint and Victorian architecture, the house exuded an air of mystery and excitement. However, upon closer inspection, certain eerie aspects couldn't be ignored. The interior was fully furnished with every piece of furniture seemingly untouched and pristine. 

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In the living. 

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Room 2 aged rocking chairs sat with their backs pressed against the wall on either side of the doorway leading to the dining room. 

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The creaky floorboards only added to the unsettling feeling that something wasn't quite right in the dining room, just above the entrance, a painting of the Sacred Heart of Jesus hung. 

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This painting was unlike any other, with its unique features and distinct style. 

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Such paintings are often found in Catholic homes, but this one stood out. 

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High above, perched near the ceiling, a depiction of Jesus's face gazed down on the room. His eyes seemed to follow your every move, but his features were hardened. Instead of a serene or peaceful expression. 

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The quietness of the night was often disturbed by an eerie occurrence at around. 

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You in the morning, one of the two old wooden rocking chairs in the living room would start rocking on its own. 

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My stepfather brushed it off that the cat jumped off the chair, making it rock, but every night at 2:00. 

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Did the cat leave for work at that time? I couldn't shake off the feeling that something else was responsible for the movement. So one night I stayed awake to observe what was happening. 

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I peered out of my bedroom door, my eyes fixated on the rocking chair, waiting to see what would happen next. 

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As I stared into the dimly lit room, my eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, and I noticed the silhouette of the rocking chair. The soft glow of the outside light seeping through the curtains cast a gentle illumination on the chair, creating a peaceful and serene atmosphere. 

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In disbelief with the cat nowhere to be seen, the heavy wooden rocker began to sway gently back and forth, as though it had a life. 

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Its own. 

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The smooth, polished wood of the rocker creaked softly while the rhythmic movement filled the room with eerie calmness. It was as if an invisible hand was guiding the chair, moving it with a gentle, almost hypnotic motion. 

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I raced to my bed, my heart pounding with fear, and yanked the covers over my head. 

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As I lay there trembling, the heavy rocking of the chair filled the silent room, creating a haunting melody that seemed to echo in my. 

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The old floorboards creaked and groaned as the chair made a rhythmic thump, adding to the eerie atmosphere of the night. 

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Another strange thing about the house was the magnificent bed, with its grand wooden headboard in my parents room, one side of the headboard was considerably darker than the rest. The woods seemed to have absorbed darkness, creating an eerie yet beautiful effect. 

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The stains seemed at its darkest near the mattress and then radiated out in a mesmerizing pattern resembling a dark sunrise illustration. 

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I couldn't help but be captivated by the striking contrast between the dark pattern and the rest of the headboard. 

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Then the floor in front of the pantry refrigerator was darker than the rest. 

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Upon closer inspection, the area of the floorboards had begun to rot. 

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After replacing the affected boards, we thought the issue had been resolved. However, to our surprise, the dark stain reappeared within a week and the board started to rot again despite multiple attempts to fix the issue, including replacing the refrigerator which was suspected to be leaking, the problem continued to persist and caused frustration for my parents. 

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My mother was a hard working woman who believed in instilling self-sufficiency in my brothers and me from a young age. She taught us how to do things for ourselves. Among these skills were cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, and ironing. I recall the pride I felt when I was around six or seven when I ironed my school uniform for the first time. 

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As we finished dinner one night, I excitedly tackled washing the dishes. 

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It was my assigned chore and I took pride in doing it well. 

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I began to attack the pile of plates, silverware and glasses. 

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The water and suds enveloped my hands, and clinking dishes filled the air. 

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Despite the work, I relished playing in the sudsy water, and I was satisfied seeing the countertop cleared and clean, ready for the next meal. 

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The sink was my refuge that night, and I stood there alone. 

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Gazing out into the darkness that loomed beyond the open air corridor. 

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The rest of the family was assembled around the dining table. Their laughter and banter echoing throughout the house. A warm and gentle breeze caressed my face as I stood there, bringing a sense of calm. 

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The only sounds were the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional ping of dishes being washed. 

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At that moment, I felt solitary and serene, content to be lost in my thoughts while the world continued. 

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Out of nowhere, a loud blood curdling scream pierced the tranquillity within the house. The cry laden with sheer agony originated from my parents bedroom. I stood frozen, realizing instantly that the voice didn't belong to my stepfather, the only man in the house which sent a shiver down my spine. I held my breath, waiting for the inevitable. 

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Uproar from my family in response to the unknown intruder within our home. 

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But to my mounting shock and disbelief. 

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Their merry laughter and animated conversations continued unabated, as though the world outside our walls had ceased to exist. 

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With trepidation, I turned on my heels. The suspense and dread growing with every moment. 

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I looked toward the ominous direction of the bedroom and the anguished whales persisted their torment, cutting through the air like a knife. 

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An eerie orange glow spilled in the dim light from the room, casting weird dancing shadows along the hallway. 

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The agonizing screaming echoed through the house. It's torment, amplified by the eerie illumination. I stood, transfixed, seemingly alone, and hearing this unearthly Symphony of pain. I was trapped in a twisted reality where only I witnessed this unspeakable horror. 

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Then I saw it as my eyes adjusted to the eerie glow, a blaze in a monstrous fire. A haunting figure emerged from my parents room. He was a silhouette of pure torment, a human torch raging in a dance of unrestrained flames. The figure staggered through the threshold, his scorched form contorting and agony beating away relentlessly. 

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Without success at the Flames. 

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This nightmarish apparition charged into the dining room, where my family joyfully congregated, their laughter resonating in stark contrast to the horrific spectacle that had intruded upon their midst. None of them seemed to register the presence of the human torch. Their faces were painted with untroubled happiness, oblivious to the unimaginable horror unfolding near. 

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Steps away in a surreal and chilling moment, I watched the blazing spectre traverse the dining room, casting monstrous, flickering shadows upon the walls. 

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He entered the service pantry looking me straight in the eye. 

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Then he stumbled, collapsed, and lay in writhing agony on the floor, his burning form grotesquely juxtaposed against the family refrigerator. I stood petrified, my mind grappling with the implausible questioning, the very fabric of reality itself. 

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I felt my heart race and my palms sweat as the plate slipped from my grasp, shattering into a million pieces on the ground in a split second. 

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Overwhelmed by fear and shock, I could only let out a piercing scream that echoed through the house as a 7 year old, it seemed the only way to express the intense emotions that had suddenly overtaken. 

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A man, a man, was all I could say. 

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A heavy silence descended upon the dining room, broken only by the piercing scrape of chairs against the polished wooden floor. 

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The abrupt hush left an eerie, anticipatory stillness as each family member swiftly transitioned into their respective roles in this sudden tableau of chaos. 

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It was as if time had frozen and the room crackled with tension. 

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I sense their collective awareness, their bodies tensing and readiness for the unknown. 

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That the room transformed into a battleground of instinct and survival, assuming my cry signaled the presence of an intruder, my stepfather, a man of steadfast resolve, moved with a purposeful stride toward the bedroom. His intentions were evident as he returned with his prized double barreled shotgun, embodying his. 

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Commitment to defending his home and family. 

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My brothers dashed to the front of the house to intercept. Any would be assailant who dared encroach upon our property. Their footsteps echoed through the house as they assumed their positions, their determination evident in the set of their jaws, and the readiness of their stance. 

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Amid this unrehearsed, orchestrated response, my mother was quick to my side. 

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Her presence provided a comforting anchor amidst the chaos. She offered solace, a steady hand on my trembling shoulder, her eyes filled with concern and determination. 

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At that moment, her unwavering support was a lifeline in the tumultuous sea of uncertainty. 

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My stepfather meticulously combed through every inch of the yard, searching for the elusive intruder shotgun at the ready to blast, but to no avail. Meanwhile, my mother did her best to. 

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Console me what happened? What did you see? 

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My stepfather asked as he approached me, his footsteps marking a slow and deliberate path as he scanned every corner of the. 

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I stood there paralyzed by shock, tears streaming down my face, my voice held captive by the weight of the unspeakable. 

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I struggled to find the words to explain the horrifying reality that had unfolded before my eyes. A man had just combusted his anguished screams echoing in the silence, and yet it seemed as if the world had paid no heed to the tragedy that had just transpired. 

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I gestured, frantically and wordlessly toward the front of the refrigerator, my lip quivering with shock and disc. 

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What are you trying to tell us, boy? Speak up. 

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Leave him alone. He saw someone and they're gone now. He's terrified. 

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My mother told my stepfather as she led my sobbing self inside the house. 

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Should we? 

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Call the police. 

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For what they are gone. 

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Lock up the house. 

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I'll finish the wares in the morning. 

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Tenderly and filled with maternal concern, my mother extended a heartfelt offer. 

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She asked if I wanted to sleep in her room for the night, her words a soothing balm amid my torment. 

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However, the mere suggestion intensified my emotional turmoil, causing my distress to escalate. She then offered to stay with me. 

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In my room. 

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That night was a relentless ordeal, a nightmarish replay of the gruesome images. In my mind, the visions of the man, a living inferno plummeting to the floor at the foot of the fridge, tormented. 

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My every thought. 

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Each iteration of this mental torment was an excruciating loop, a relentless cycle that refused to release its grip on my consciousness. 

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As I lay there, my bed shrouded in shadows, the room filled with an eerie, haunting stillness. I couldn't help but dissolve into inconsolable sobs with each recurrence of the horrific scene, the room, my sanctuary became a spectral Chamber of torment, a canvas upon which my distress was painted in the shades of my tears. The night was a haunting. 

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Symphony of Anguish and I was its unwilling conductor. 

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After a tense silence, my mother's patience emerged like a beacon of solace in the dim. 

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Her voice, gentle and tempered by concern, cut through the oppressive atmosphere. 

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She implored me to recount the events that had unfolded, her words laced with a tender understanding of the weight I carried. It was as though she extended an open hand, inviting me to unburden my soul, each syllable A lifeline to navigate the murky waters of my experience. 

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I gradually steadied my breathing, my voice carrying the tremors of a horrifying tale as I recounted every harrowing detail of the incident, my words unfolded like a chilling narrative. 

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Weaving A tapestry of dread. 

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A pregnant pause lingered between us, a heavy silence stretching into eternity while the stories gravity settled upon her like a suffocating shroud. 

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Her gaze, previously fixed in contemplation, suddenly shifted to meet mine. 

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I detected a storm of emotions in her eyes, a mix of shock, empathy and understanding. 

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It was a profound connection, a silent acknowledgement that transcended words. 

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With a deep inhalation, she exhaled slowly, releasing air, mirroring her acceptance of the haunting truth. 

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I could see it in her eyes at that moment, she believed me. 

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She called my stepfather into my room with urgent. 

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He burst into the room and seemed to blend with the shadows, moving with an almost supernatural swiftness. 

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His thoughts raced, fueled by the fear that another intruder had brazenly breached the sanctity of our home once more. The darkness cast eerie shadows across him, underscoring the tension gripping the entire household, turning every creak of the floor, and the curtains rustle into a potential harbinger of danger. 

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I told. 

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I told you something happened in this house. 

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My mother began to recount a haunting nightly ritual, her words carrying a weight of unease and disquiet. She spoke of how, with each evening, her room would be enveloped in the stale, lingering aroma of cigarette smoke, a manifestation of the houses, unhappy history. 

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The scent seemed to concentrate around the side of the bed where the headboard bore an ominous stain like a spectre's mark etched into the fabric of exists. 

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As the knight pressed on, a sinister presence seemed to materialize. It descended upon her like an invisible vice, squeezing the very breath from her lungs. She described the sensation as an oppressive weight on her chest, making it increasingly difficult to draw in life giving air. 

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Her words quivered as she narrated the relentless struggle to escape this evil force. Eventually awakening from these torments, her heart pounding with. 

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Year the following day, my mother called the homeowner, her voice trembling with curiosity and trepidation as she broached the subject. She inquired about any previous fatalities that might be linked to the House. The homeowners response was delivered with a heavy tone, a melancholy recounting of a tragic event that had unfolded years earlier. 

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In a sad and measured voice, the homeowner revealed that her husband had been recklessly smoking in bed a decade ago, only to surrender to drowsy. 

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The cigarette ignited a deadly dance enveloping him in an inferno as he awoke in shock and agony. Desperate, he staggered out of the room, flames licking at his terrified form until he collapsed in front of the pantry refrigerator. 

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The homeowners were counting continued, detailing her frantic efforts to extinguish the fiery torment that consumed her husband. 

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Despite her brave attempts, he ultimately succumbed to the grievous burns he had suffered, passing away on the floor in front of the fridge. 

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The revelation hung in the air, a chilling testament to the houses tragic history. 

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The image of the Burning Man, a haunting apparition, continued to haunt my thoughts like a relentless spectre that refused to be exercised. It appeared before me with a dreadful consistency, like a fresh wound ripped open each time. 

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I was trapped in an unending cycle of torment. 

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Over the next few years, I witnessed that ghastly scene multiple times, each recurrence driving me further into despair. 

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Only when my mother, her resolve unwavering, sought the assistance of a woman deeply rooted in the spiritual community, did the relentless cycle of nightmarish apparitions end. This woman embarked on a profound and mystical journey to energetically cleanse the house, purging it of the evil forces that had taken residence within its walls. 

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With her intervention, the burning figure of the man ceased to plague my existence, finally allowing me a reprieve from that traumatic ordeal. 

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Yet the House continued to be a repository of enigmatic occurrences. 

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The chair would still rock as if moved by unseen hands, and inexplicable events would unfurl in the shadows of that mysterious place. 

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These tales, rich with mystery and dread our stories for another time, each a testament to the enduring uncanny mysteries that lingered in the houses. Darkened corners. 

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We hope you enjoyed this special Halloween bonus episode of Pan to Pen where we explored the realms of reality and the supernatural through the eyes of Tate and his spine, tingling narrative of the Burning Man, a tale that defies explanation. Remember, the world is full of mysteries. 

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And some stories like Tates leave us questioning the boundaries of our reality. We'll be back with more intriguing stories, so stay tuned for the next episode of Pan to Pen. 

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In the meantime, keep those eyes and ears open. You never know what stories might be lurking just beyond the shadows. Thank you for joining us on this episode of PEN to Pen. We're committed to keeping this podcast ad free to ensure your listening experience remains uninterrupted. However, producing a podcast. 

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Like this demands significant resources. 

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If you enjoy what you hear and want to support us, please consider visiting the link in the show notes. Your contributions will help us continue to bring you captivating stories free of interruptions. Thank you for being a part of the PAN to Penn Community. If you haven't done so already, please subscribe rate and follow us. Also share this podcast with your friends and family. 

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If you enjoyed this story or have any comments, you can find us on social media and Tate's website, which are listed in the show notes. 

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We would love to hear from you. Thanks for tuning in. Wishing you all the best until we meet again. And remember stories never end. They just take a break until next time. Keep the tails alive. Pan to Pan where a chef explores storytelling beyond the kitchen is written, produced and edited by Tate Basildon. 

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Who holds the copyright herein?