Hi there, it's Alistaire, we APAs cast are eternally grateful for your continuing support throughout the year, PARCA could not be what it is today without you. We also wanted to let you know that we're taking a break for the holidays and won't be back until after the new year. But since the season is all about giving, we do have something special lined up for the next two weeks. So be sure to tune in. In the meantime, enjoy the season and we'll be back the first week of January with your regular programming.

Have a happy and safe New Year. The following episode contains descriptions of ableism, enslavement and mental illness. We advise extreme caution for children under 13. The following is from Pliny, the youngest letter to Lusciously senior surah, otherwise known as Blinis Ghost Story. There was in Athens, a mansion spacious and commodious, but of evil repute and dangerous to help in the dead of night, there was a noise of iron. And if you listened more closely, a clanking of chains was heard, first of all, from a distance and afterwards, hard.

By presently a specter appeared an ancient man sinking with emaciation and squalor, with a long beard and bristly hair, wearing shackles on his legs and fetters on his hands and shaking them. Hence the house's occupants past miserable and horrible nights and sleeplessness.

This one's of sleep was followed by disease and their terrors increasing by death. The mansion was accordingly deserted, entirely abandoned to the dreadful ghost.

However, it was advertised on the chance that someone ignorant of the fearful curse attached to it might buy or rent it. Hi, everyone, I'm Alastair Murden, and this is Haunted Places Ghost Stories, a Spotify original from podcast. Ghost stories have arisen from every century and every corner of the world, from the streets of Victorian Whitechapel to the swamps of Bangladesh with a seated around a campfire or curled up with a pair of headphones. We return to them time and again to feel our skin crawl and our hearts race.

Each week, Ghost Stories reimagines chilling paranormal tales from history's most sinister storytellers told like you've never heard them before. You can find episodes of Ghost Stories and all other Spotify originals from podcast for free on Spotify or wherever you listen to podcast. Today's story comes from Roman philosopher Ghias Phineas Highclere seconders, otherwise known as Pliny the Younger, known for his well preserved letters from the first century CE Pliny the Yungas writings have given historians invaluable insight into life in Imperial Rome, and though all of his letters are of great interest, one stands out among the others.

It's the first eyewitness account of a haunted house in the Western world. I will be telling this story from the perspective of Pliny the Younger himself. He frequently corresponded with his friend, Roman Senator Lucius listening Azura about many matters, both philosophical and political. But this letter is far more personal.

In it, Pliny asked Surah to help him decide if the supernatural is real. But this is not a question for the sake of academics. He is staying in a purportedly haunted house and he fears for his life. Coming up, we'll buy a haunted mansion in ancient Rome. My dearest, noble saraf, many years ago, we discussed the idea of the supernatural at great length, then we tabled the matter as we agreed there was no evidence to assess the claims of such strange powers.

And it seemed unfair to interrogate something as weak minded as superstition. But I think you will be intrigued by the events. I will relate here. I present to you a case unlike any other. It is based on experiences from my own home.

Many months ago, I became interested in purchasing a new home in Athens, being unwilling to part too quickly with my money. I searched for a property that was reasonably priced. It seems that my ideas of what is reasonable are at odds with those of the Athenians as it took almost a year to find one potential property. The house I finally found had been sitting vacant for several years, rotting trees littered the yard and there was a sour smell to the air that brought to mind the stench of dead animals left out in the sun when I inquired as to the owner's whereabouts.

The broker told me that the man had been deceased for several years. No family member had agreed to live in the House since. It was a strange situation, but I was not yet deterred. I asked if the place had any previous owners. Yes, a broker replied nervously. But then he cleared his throat and said in a halting voice. Several. Well, out with it then I ordered the man was clearly trying to decide how desperate he was to make a sale.

He patted at his brow as we lingered outside the gates of the property. But I had a feeling he was not perspiring from the heat alone. Finally, he spoke.

It is said that anyone who lives here dies. I paused, thinking at first that one could say that of any building when one took into account our own inevitable mortality.

I tried to point this out to the nervous man and insisted that we tour the home, but he refused. Sir, I've never been inside the place for good reason, I would prefer that we conduct our business out here. I was growing annoyed with the man's lack of reason, I clapped him on the shoulder and told him he had nothing to fear. Cowardice should not interrupt commerce. Come on. I pushed the gate open.

His eyes darted between the house and me and his breath came in rasps. It was as if my assurances were on the verge of convincing him. Then suddenly, he stilled his gaze fixed on a dark corner of the courtyard, barely visible through the gap in the gate.

My eyes followed his trying to understand what had arrested him. So we should have been moving. But as I looked, it seemed to me, at least for an instant, like the darkness of the courtyard was breathing, the shadows coiled like that of a strange snake, an ebony aspe lying in wait. Whatever horrible thing was hidden in the darkness was preparing to strike. I was frozen waiting for some kind of an attack. But then the clouds retreated from the sky above and the sun shone down onto the courtyard, clearing the gloom.

The vision was gone. I turned toward the broker to reassure him again, but he was already halfway down the street. He was quite confused when I later told him I still wish to acquire the House pending contact with any previous tenants, he gave me the address of the deceased owner's sister, Saleen, but he did so rather reluctantly. Silene herself was lovely and placid, the very picture of a noble matriarch. But when I asked her my questions about her brother and his former home, a heavy sadness overtook her more sadness than any such woman should have to experience.

She told me she could not bear to tell the tale herself. But if I would return tomorrow, she would provide a written account of how her brother had lost himself in the walls of the house. So the next day I returned. I read through her words slowly taking in the emotion on the page, there were tears, stains on the letter, a hallmark of her own grief. According to Saleen, her brother Alexander had always desired the house even long before he owned it.

The columns gleamed white under the sunshine. The tile remained cool even in the heat, and the large courtyard held a lush olive grove. Alexander told Saleen that his dreams always took place in that courtyard. Even when sleeping, he was consumed by the house's beauty. At the time, the house wasn't for sale, but that didn't deter him, he would gather in the olive grove for hours, peering into a future that he was sure would soon be his to purchase the home.

He sold all of his possessions. He begged for money from every relative he could come across, then every acquaintance and passer by. When he still did not have enough money, he robbed several of his friends. He sold his family's priceless antiquities for less than their value. And yet he showed no shame or regret. In Alexander's mind, the house was worth whatever cost it occurred. Alexander offered the deceased owner's family a hefty sum they had not wished to sell it in hopes of deterring any further occupancy.

But in the face of coin, their noble efforts fell to pieces. Alexander bought the house and brought his sister along for the first two.

When she walked through the place for the first time, the grove was still picturesque, but the plaster was crumbling, dust littered the floor and large cracks ran through the ceiling like veins. Celine remarked on the poor upkeep. But Alexander looked at her strangely. No, no, sister. He said. The decor or the glitter? The gold. Don't you see it? It is everywhere. But there was no glitter, no gold. Celine was baffled by what her brother was possibly seeing.

She pleaded with him to be reasonable. The place was in ruins, but Alexander told her that she was the one who was deluded. She lacked imagination and that wasn't his fault. Then he demanded to be left alone in the house. Celine did not see him for several weeks, and when she did find the courage to return, she was shocked at Alexander's St..

His back hunched forward as though the weight of the house was pressing down upon his shoulders. He was covered in dust, making him look as pale as the dead. But he seemed not to care. He claimed to be in high spirits, entirely pleased with his progress in making the house a home that had been a few snags. He admitted that he had taken care of them now. They walked to the inner courtyard together. Despite Alexander's assurances that he had renovated, things were even worse than before.

Refugees lay scattered on the ground. The olive branches had browned and wilted. Small rodent corpses even floated in the fountains, fetid water, their bloated body skimming the surface. Alexander thrust his cupped hands into the fountain to wash his face, claiming the water had special healing properties. Saleen gasped in horror, reaching out to stop him. But she was interrupted by the faint sounds of rattling metal. A strange figure had entered the courtyard, chained in iron bonds.

He was ancient and emaciated, pale skin stretched over fragile angular bones. His mouth opened wide to reveal yellow teeth. As he moaned so loudly, the ground seemed to shake beneath her feet. Celine screened, Alexander bellowed and cursed, he snatched up a bloated rodent carcass, it first in his hand, but still he threw it at the figure. Back again, it is mind for a creature.

Her brother screamed mine, Celine watched in stunned silence as Alexander launched himself at the figure, hands outstretched to close around his neck. But just as his fingers should have reached the skeletal man's throat, he disappeared.

After reading the account, I returned to Sullivan's house to ask her if she believed what she saw, her gaze was steely on me as she spoke. Something is uneasy in that house. I am not sure of its nature. I am not brave enough to ask if you believe you are the one to inquire. Sir, I suggest you make many offerings before venturing through that damned grove. You may be surprised to hear that I almost believed her, the image she painted was so arresting, so very unnerving and unnatural that I struggled to shake it for several days.

But in the end, my reason won out.

The house was cheap and I was not about to wait another year to find a better property. I purchased the home and began preparations to occupy it. Not for a moment did I believe I should suffer from the same hallucinations as Celine's brother. I'm a rational man after all, and I was sure what he had seen was confined to the recesses of his addled mind. How very wrong I was. Up next, plenty stay in his new home takes a turn for the worse.

Hey, podcasters, Alisdair here. If you haven't had a chance to check out the entertaining new podcast, Blind Dating, now's the time to binge what you've missed before. Catching all new episodes every Wednesday in this Spotify original from podcast, we're expanding the places you can meet your match with a twist you'll never see coming. Join host Terry Michel as she introduces one hopeful single to two strangers in a voice only call. Through a series of illuminating games and questions, the trio will get to know one another without the distraction of appearances.

But once the cameras are turned on, is personality still enough for these strangers to fall for each other? Or will they say farewell? Connect with new episodes of blind dating every Wednesday you can find and follow blind dating, free on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts. Now back to the story most admired surah, we are both rational men, far more rational than poor Celine and her brother Alexander, consumed by the foul inventions of their suggestible minds.

For how else do you explain the appearance and swift disappearance of a deathly pale man rattling iron bonds? I purchased the house outright, but I knew that I wanted to keep my family out of the place, at least until I had carried out my own survey of the grounds removing any evidence of the previous owners habitants. I did not want to risk them hearing rumors of poor Alexander's illness. Fear is a disease far more contagious than any plague on the off chance that they had heard of Alexander's affliction.

I decided to take preemptive action to prove what you and I had both agreed that so-called spirits earned their power not from departed souls, but from simple superstition. I had some furniture brought in as well as some paper I plan to write throughout the night positive that no Spectre's would bother me.

My servants prepared arresting couch for me, then retired to bed deep within the interior of the dwelling. Meanwhile, I sat in the kitchen, my gaze fixed on the spot in the courtyard. Saleen had described there was a rather pathetic attempt at a mural on the ceiling that had started to peel away. Brown film coated the tiles so heavily that I could not see the ceramic underneath. But if poor housekeeping was a sign of the supernatural, half the homes in Athens held spirits and monsters.

Wouldn't you agree? I saw no ghosts, no goblins and no Minotaur's.

As I took my place upon the couch and began my work, I had just finished a page of work.

When I heard the scrape of Iron Against Iron, the sound started near the rooms entrance to the courtyard and crept further into the room.

I had not told my servants about the rumors surrounding the house, but I could not be sure that they hadn't heard the story elsewhere and decided to re-enact it. They were an inventive Saud's. My servants and I could easily picture them borrowing heavy pots and pans that had not yet been unpacked to play a trick on me. I continued on with my notes.

A rustling of fabric now followed the sounds of the metal, I tried to keep my sentences on task, but I noticed I was now marking down each time I heard the sound.

I calmed myself quietly chuckling as I pictured Marcus and Philipa shaking a tapestry to conjure the sound. I kept my head down. I did not want to betray the true nature of my focus until I could nab the mischievous villains outright, I could see a shadow out of the corner of my eye now drawing slowly closer to my desk. I held up one finger pretending that there was something to finish on the page. I wanted to compose myself completely to deny the pranksters of any satisfaction.

But when I looked up, I found myself in a situation that I could not reason with.

The room was magnificently attired, fresh pastoral frescoes were newly painted on every wall with a scattering of gold dust along the edges of each.

And in front of me sat a polished table full of golden place with fresh fruit and large cups of wine. The tile gleamed brilliantly in the light of several torches placed around the room. I felt as though I was in the cords of Barcus. I glanced around for any sign of Sahlins imprisoned man, but there was none to be found. And yet I was also not alone. Several people were crowded around the table. In the next room they lounged on couches, chattering to one another excitedly.

They seemed to not see me at all as I entered, even as I called out to them.

I wondered for a moment if some friends of a friend had somehow invaded my new home for an impromptu party while I worked for a prank. That would be. But then a series of ugly, wet slaps told me that their bodies were not as they seemed.

As I looked closer to their torsos, faded away below the chest like a mirage. I gasped. But yet the strange guests continued to laugh and eat, and as they did, each bite passed through their mouths and spectral torsos and fell to the floor wine to move down their gullet, only to splash across the tile. Their form seemed to shimmer and shift as though each breath they took made them disappear. I told myself that I was only witnessing something that had passed here, a kind of waking dream, the walls might have held some memory within them.

And I have always possessed a dangerously active imagination. And no doubt my lack of sleep was only heightening matters only. Just then, a strange moaning overtook the laughter. A disheveled young man had entered the party. The carousing ceased and all the guests stood open mouthed, as if displeased at this particular visitor, an older man stood potentially the host. If I went by his noble bearing, the resemblance between him and the troubled man was unmistakable. If they were not father and son, they were certainly cousins.

The young man's eyes went wide. He screamed at them, but no sound left his mouth to servants, grabbed him roughly and pulled him away. I was disturbed by this display, the young man was in clear distress, yet he seemed to be only an inconvenience to his kin. I did not know where I stood in relation to reality at this moment, but I felt the strangest, strongest urge to bear witness, if only because I was sure the host would not want me to be so against my better judgment.

I followed the young man and his captors further into the house.

A Long Island chain slithered down the hole, it shook ever so slightly, twitching like a dying eel at the market, its length dotted in bright red blood. I followed its movements and entered a room so small it seemed to fade into the house itself.

The young man was there, the entirety of his body now wrapped in chains. But somehow hundreds of small eyes now peered out from his forehead. The skin around them was cracked and oozing a crimson stickiness, and his mouth was now missing a strange, pale smoothness covid where his lips should have been. I reached out to touch the iron bonds to help or examine. I'm not sure what I intended, but as I did, the blood dotting the chains turned to jewels.

It was impossible.

So uncanny and horrible that I was sure my imagination had been set against me.

I must have been dreaming at my desk, my cheek lying against the tablet I had been working on. I urged myself to wake up searching for the strength of will to escape. Then the man turned his head. Those hundreds of eyes stared back at me.

The fear that flushed my body did not belong to the realm of dreams, it was primal and constant, the sort of thing that would have roused me if I could be roused.

I ran from the room calling for help, but when I reached the revellers in the other room, I discovered that all of them were missing their eyes. I backed against the wall, shaking with sobs and cursing my hubris.

How like a philosopher so set on proving himself right that he places his head in the lion's mouth and believes against all signs to the contrary, that it will not bite him. I closed my eyes. If I could simply find reason again, I would be safe. This must be in my own mind.

I felt a presence. Draw close. With no other choice, I opened my eyes, the man with many eyes and no mouth was standing so close that I could feel the heat radiating off his emaciated body. I begged for my life. I cried for help from the gods. The chains snaked around me, drawing us together closer and closer until his glittering wounds were mere inches from my face.

Something about him then made me lose all sense of reason.

We stared at each other for how long? I do not know. But then the sun came up. In the morning, I awoke to small red marks all over my body. The wounds have yet to heal. When I close my eyes, I see him still, I feel the twisting chains around my limbs even now, always rising further and further. I do not know what will happen when they reach my head. I refused to give in to paranoia.

I ordered my servants to search the little room I had found, and there, in a hastily constructed hole in the wall, was a mostly broken human skeleton bound in chains. I do not know how this man came to be or died. I suspect he has some secrets of the previous owner. But like Celine, I will never know. I am certain, though, that something spectral reached out on his behalf. You are welcome to disagree with me on this, Dear Usera.

In fact, I would prefer it as you were the wisest man I know in my heart. Some hope still lives that the torture of that bound man is only a dream.

Yet you and I both know some men have such horrors in their hearts and often can turn on those they should protect and care for. But I will only hear an argument against his existence. If you will occupy the house until morning, as I did for. I would like to know what you see in the middle of the night. Lenny, the youngest letters are a fascinating slice of life in Imperial Rome between 61 and 113 city, he was an avid correspondent with many different important people in the Roman Empire.

But one of the most notable was Lucius, the cineaste surah, a senator who was a close personal friend of the Roman Emperor Trajan in his letter.

Then he asks a simple question Do phantoms exist or are supernatural powers only empty delusions shaped from our fears?

It's a broad philosophical query that we encounter time and again from Rod Serling's Twilight Zone to Nickelodeon's Are You Afraid of the Dark? By opening his tale with a matter of philosophy, then he attempts to maintain his reputation as a learned and rational man while presenting uncanny evidence. But the letter's ending is somewhat open ended.

He invites Surah to prove that spirits don't exist, but suggests that even Surah might, upon staying in the house, see the same visions. He did a restless spirits and cursed property and now such common elements of contemporary ghost stories that it's hard to think of them as new. But to a man of reason like blini, they would have been very frightening indeed. This was the era of the persecution of Christians and other mystics when stoicism and military precision were what kept the Roman Empire strong.

Backbones of the Empire couldn't believe in ghosts. But ghosts don't care if you believe in them at all. Thanks again for tuning into haunted places, ghost stories. We will be back on Thursday with a new episode. You can find more episodes of Ghost Stories and all other Spotify originals from podcast for free on Spotify. See you on the other side. Haunted Places Ghost Stories is a Spotify original from podcast. It is executive produced by Max Cuddler Sound Design by Kenny Hobbs with production assistance by Ron Shapiro, Carly Madden and Travis Clark.

This episode of Haunted Places Ghost Stories was written by Lil Doretta and Jennifer Rachet with Writing Assistants by Alex Garland, fact checking by Shane Lopez and research by Adriana Gomez and Mikki Taylor. I'm Alistair Murden. Listeners, there's no better time than right now to make a meaningful connection with the Spotify original from podcast Blind Dating every Wednesday. Find out if there's more to love than just looks follow blind dating, free on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts.