Spiral Emanations
Uncover the hidden forces shaping our world, where current events collide with ancient mysteries. Each week, we connect today’s headlines to secret histories, lost civilizations, occult knowledge, cryptids, and Internet folklore.
Meet Skye Gracely, a warm, curious soul from Los Angeles who’s all about crystals, intuition, and the mysteries of the universe; and Reece Barrows, a sharp, well-read Londoner with a deep love for hermetic lore and the occult. Their chemistry, quick wit, and genuine fascination with the unknown make every episode a wild, entertaining ride. If you’re into the X-Files, late-night radio, or internet rabbit holes, you’ll feel right at home.
Spiral Emanations
NYC Subway Floods: Old Iron Curse? Subway Worker Tells All!
You're tuned into Spiral Emanations, where breaking news meets ancient mysteries and sometimes just a bit of weirdness. I'm Skye Grace Lee, holding it down in, believe it or not, rainy Los Angeles. Yes, actual rain.
SPEAKER_02:And I'm Ray Sparrows, reporting from London, where umbrellas are fashion, not just forecast. We take myth and mystery almost as seriously as our tea. Almost.
SPEAKER_00:The man owns more capes than coffee mugs. It's true. Just wait till you see his Halloween posts.
SPEAKER_02:Ah, but do the coffee mugs have rooms? Sky. I think not.
SPEAKER_00:So if this is your first spiral with us, we basically take what's happening in the world and then peel back the curtain just to see what might be lurking underneath. News, legends, weird history, and all the things you'd never admit googling at 2am.
SPEAKER_02:And if you're wondering why our voices sound like podcast butter, that's all Brian Lieberman, our one-man wizard in the sound booth. He cleans up the buzz, untangles any digital hiccups, makes us sound far more professional than we really are.
SPEAKER_00:Thank you, Brian. Okay, today's news is absolutely wild. But first, quick shout out. Happy belated Bastille Day. Did anyone out there manage Real French Pastries? Because I settled for muffins from the supermarket bakery and, well, let's just say, vive la revolution.
SPEAKER_02:What flavor? Wait.
SPEAKER_00:Blueberry! But, side note, got caught in this mini monsoon walking home and I swear, people in L.A. lose their minds over this. Like Armageddon because your sneakers got wet.
SPEAKER_02:Well,
SPEAKER_00:speaking of cities getting swammed, did you see what happened in New York? Massive flash flood underground. Just... Boom! 28th Street subway station turns into a river, trains stranded, platforms underwater. It's all over TikTok right now.
SPEAKER_02:Commuters sloshing through water up to their knees, trying to get out. Cities blaming infrastructure and another. Freak thunderstorm. But you know us. We're going deeper.
SPEAKER_00:Deeper. Into the tunnels, literally. And today, we're bringing hardcore expertise. Our guest has survived more subway chaos than either of us could even dream. Fifth-generation New York subway worker, legend on Instagram, Instagram as atsubwaybard and unofficial chronicler of underground ghost stories, Mac O'Shea. Welcome to Spiral Eliminations.
SPEAKER_01:Happy to be here. If by legend you mean guy who makes the crew groan with ghost stories, I'll take it.
SPEAKER_00:Honestly, we love that. And after this week, you have like a whole new chapter for your underground tales, right?
SPEAKER_01:Oh, I'd say so. Never a dull shift lately. Not with the water rising and everything.
SPEAKER_02:We're thrilled to have you. All right. Subway floods. A bit of mystery? Maybe some old curses? Strap in.
SPEAKER_00:Let's open the floodgates, see what's really going on beneath Manhattan. Okay, so for anyone who's somehow missed it, this past Monday, New York went from hot summer in the city to full-on water world in like five minutes. Giant thunderstorm rolls in, hits Manhattan out of nowhere, and suddenly, boom, the uptown number one subway at 28th Street turns into an underground river.
SPEAKER_02:Yeah, trains stalled, platforms fractured, flooding with knee-deep water, pictures looked more like Venice than Midtown. The city blames ancient drainage and, you know, infrastructure, dating back to Teddy Roosevelt's mustache. Engineers say the storm just overwhelmed the whole system.
SPEAKER_00:But it's not the first time subways here have had a run in with the elements, right? I mean, Mac, you've probably seen a lot, but what was it actually like down there? I've never even seen a real subway flood.
SPEAKER_01:Picture a dark hallway humming with the usual city noise. Then, in a breath, the air goes cold. There's this sound, deep, rumbling, and before you know it, water's rushing in the far end. We got maybe 10, 15 minutes warning. After that, you're waist deep before your boots get wet.
SPEAKER_00:Waist deep? That's terrifying. Did everyone get out all right?
SPEAKER_01:Emergency crews move fast. God bless them. Folks running, shoes off, bags floating by. Someone tried to save their takeout. First casualty was a pizza box. There's always a pizza.
SPEAKER_00:But seriously, you weren't expecting it at all?
SPEAKER_01:Not like this. Not that quick. Usually there's a trickle, a leak. Been patching those since they let me wear the uniform. But this was the sort of thing you hear about in stories, not see on a Tuesday.
SPEAKER_02:News mentioned crews were making repairs around 28th, pulling out some older fixtures, some kind of, or what did you call it, the
SPEAKER_01:Goblin Post? Ah, the infamous Goblin Post. Big, twisted hunk of iron, old as the tracks. We always figured it was more superstition than support beam. Some called it good luck, others just didn't want to touch it.
SPEAKER_00:Was it marked? Or like, special in some way? Why'd the city want it out?
SPEAKER_01:Official story was... modernization clearing hazards opening up the old space so water could move but that post had history my dad and his dad before him said never to mess with the iron in the corner last week young guys with the torch came city said toss it i watched them cut it free and i'll tell you i gotta chill like someone watching from behind even if the tunnel was empty
SPEAKER_02:That's oddly specific, even for a city with a ghost in every brownstone.
SPEAKER_01:This felt older than a ghost. But, you know, rules from old timers don't make it into the work order forms these days.
SPEAKER_00:That's so wild. So just junk or a leftover and nobody really knew why it was there, but now it's gone?
SPEAKER_01:Depends who you ask, miss. Some things aren't just junk to people like me.
SPEAKER_00:So, Mac, okay, your family's been in these tunnels, what, since subways were even a thing. Like you said, your great-granddad laid tracks by candlelight. That's honestly wild. Did he ever talk about what it was really like back then?
SPEAKER_01:He did. Said the walls sweated more than the men did. He'd whistle down the long dark, and if the echo bent wrong, he'd stop working. Said it meant the tunnels were unsettled. But the biggest thing he handed down was the warning. Never disrespect the water. Never laugh at the old places. Always tip a little bread, just in case someone's watching.
SPEAKER_02:That's remarkable. So these old stories about things living under the city, your family actually believed them, not just as superstition.
SPEAKER_01:Up here, people see a leak, they send a plumber. Down there, old-timers knew the difference between a leak and, well, something shifting. We had a story. After a tunnel collapsed in the 1890s, there was a meeting. Politicians, foremen, couple of priests, no one quite sober. And then, in walks this lady straight out of the riverbanks, skin like birch bark, voice like a lullaby. Folks called her the Willow Wife.
SPEAKER_00:Wait, the Willow Wife is, like, not just super creepy, right? Was she supposed to be a ghost or, um, something else?
SPEAKER_01:Not a ghost, no. Nana said she only came up when the Unseelie wanted something fixed. Those are the Fae that never forgive. Her terms were simple. Drive seven iron rods into the fresh tunnels, each marked by a working family's crest. Not just for show, iron pins trouble, keeps the old current still. In return, the floods would stop, and the city could sleep easy, as long as no one messed with the posts. It's a pattern,
SPEAKER_02:all across old Europe. Iron, to ward off what lives beneath. Symbols for peace between ground and spirit. But in Irish and Scottish lore, the Seelie are the ones who play fair. The unseelie, it's their anger everyone fears. And the willow, classically, it's a tree of mourning and moving water and well. Mourning that holds a grudge.
SPEAKER_00:Trying to wrap my head around this. So these weren't like the cute fairy tales. If you broke the pact, it's not just bad luck, but disaster.
SPEAKER_01:My great uncle used to say, the water here has teeth and a temper. It remembers every promise. When another iron post vanished, it was always after a bad week. Flooded tracks, machines shorting out, men coming up early, pale and shaking. The goblin post at 28 And
SPEAKER_02:when you saw it hauled out,
SPEAKER_01:Mac, did it feel wrong? Let's just say there's shadows in those halls that didn't used to follow me. And I heard a song just past where the post stood. Old as anything in my Nana's book.
SPEAKER_00:You heard singing, like actual?
SPEAKER_01:I did, like someone calling you home, but the house isn't yours. I've slept badly since.
SPEAKER_02:Let's go a level lower, Mac. You said the willow wife appeared when the old tunnel workers got desperate, right? Was she, in your family's stories, really unseelie or something even older?
SPEAKER_01:Family always figured she was unseelie. Bad news even by fairy standards. But sometimes folks said she was the city made human, the spirit that remembers when the ground was all marsh before the first pipe was laid. She'd show up before trouble and you never looked her in the eyes. The old heads would say the tunnel lights went strange, air got thick, and her voice was music that didn't want to let you go. So
SPEAKER_00:like, sorry, let me just check if I get this. She's this angry who shows up unless you keep these iron posts in place. And if you take them out, you're like breaking a promise to her or to whoever she speaks for.
SPEAKER_01:That's about right, lass. The posts. Think of them like peace treaties. Iron goes in at places the old workers said the rivers ran under. Lay lines, we call them. Map those with the divining rod. You'd see the whole city crossed and crisscrossed. Hammer the post deep, say a line of the family song over it, and hope she's satisfied.
SPEAKER_02:That resonates. All over Britain and Ireland, you find charms at crossroads or wells, bits of iron, rowan branches, cairns, boundary lines for peace and for warning.
SPEAKER_00:Okay, so these ley lines, they're like subway routes, sort of, but for energy or like hidden rivers. And the posts are what? Stop signs for ghosts?
SPEAKER_01:Best description I've heard in years. Aye, mind the gap or else. But yes, the postmark. Here, you stop. Here, the deal holds. For a good century, every real old-timer checked on them first thing. Every shift.
SPEAKER_02:And as progress wore away the old maps, folks lost track. Until this week, there was only the Goblin Post left. That's a lot of pressure on a single
SPEAKER_01:chunk of Iron Mech. Too much. I told them, leave it for the next rainstorm. Didn't listen.
SPEAKER_00:Can you, um, can you just, sorry, what actually happened the night the water came?
SPEAKER_01:All day, sky was wrong, too heavy. When the flood started, I was on the far end of the platform. Alarm goes, men yelling, it's chaos. Lights flicker, and then all the radios start fizzing, like someone whispering through the static. I ran to grab a girl who froze up on the stairs, and that's when I saw it. Where the post used to stand, water was swirling, not like a leak, more like it was being called. And there, just for a second, was a woman's shadow. Thin, arms long, hair like willow branches, standing half in the spray. She was singing, quiet but right into my head. And the words, they matched a lullaby from my nana's old songbook. One she said, only ever sing underground.
SPEAKER_00:Oh my god, did... Did anybody else see her, or was it just like you?
SPEAKER_01:Not sure. Some crews said they heard music, but, you know, emergencies make folks see all sorts of things. But when all the water drained and the city sent us back in, on the bricks where the post stood, there was a spiral drawn in the runoff. We scrubbed at it, wouldn't come off. Still there, last I checked.
SPEAKER_02:Spirals, very old symbol of portals, thresholds, the flow from one world to the next.
SPEAKER_00:What do you do when you see something like that?
SPEAKER_01:You do what our family always did. You leave bread in the dark, pour a little milk for the other side, and you sing, even if your voice is shaking.
SPEAKER_02:I say next time someone should bring a violin. But until then, let's talk about what these signs really mean. Not just for you, Mac, but for everyone in a city built on old ground. There's something so universal about what you're saying, Mac. London's Tube has those stories older drivers talk about. The Black Dog of Bethnal Green. Legend is, if you see it on the platform, you call out, leave a penny by the third column, and walk the long way round. Harris, it's the catacombs. Some guides say you must tip wine at the deepest alcove or risk getting lost between walls. And in Moscow, miners painted little silver crosses behind the clocks at Metro 2's lowest station. Everywhere there's a boundary, someone tries to bargain, just so the dark stays civil.
SPEAKER_01:Aye, it's always the folks who work below who remember. I'll tell you straight. First job, I laughed at my uncle when he slipped whiskey into a crack near Canal Street. Said it kept old bones friendly. That week, my toolkit vanished, like swallowed, gone. Next day, The lights went weird and I heard whistling from a sealed off shaft. Never made that joke again. Learned quick. If you don't respect the bargain, the city finds a way to take its due.
SPEAKER_00:Okay, true story. I used to think all this was just like charming weirdness. But a couple of years ago, I ignored this little off limits sign at the North Hollywood station. Whole night I felt off, like something was watching every time I closed my eyes, just wrong. Next morning, my car key was stuck inside my front door, in the lock, bent like a pretzel. I literally save-smudged my sneakers. So, yeah, lesson learned. Anyway, I feel you, Mac.
SPEAKER_02:Proper ghost etiquette, and you wouldn't need auto insurance, Skye.
SPEAKER_00:And you, Reese, would probably chat up the black dog and invite it out for espresso.
SPEAKER_01:If it minds the gap, it's welcome for biscuits. If that dog answers, you best let me know. I'll write a ballad.
SPEAKER_02:But it strikes me, Mac, the goblin post you watched them pull... That wasn't just scrap or superstition, was it? It was holding the last lock, the last promise, right at the heart of old Manhattan.
SPEAKER_01:Aye, sir. Now that it's gone, who knows what the city's dreaming up under our feet.
SPEAKER_00:I'm basically never going to look at a subway vent the same way again. So, Mac, when you watch the evening news, and all they show are videos of commuters wading through water, do you ever want to just grab the mic and say... Hey, by the way, this is bigger than just a busted pipe.
SPEAKER_01:All the time, Sky. You see those camera crews shivering on soaked platforms. I want to holler. Ask why the old iron's gone? It's never just the weather down here. There's a reason my boots still crunch iron flakes every morning this week.
SPEAKER_02:You sound almost like you feel responsible. Do you? For not stopping that last post coming out.
SPEAKER_01:Part of me, maybe. I warn the young ones, but when city orders roll downhill, you get used to plugging your ears and following orders. Still, nobody sleeps easy after a week like this. Some of my crew say their dreams have gotten weird. Heck, this morning, I swear I heard singing in the empty shaft. Only song I remembered was the same old lullaby. I just hummed along.
SPEAKER_00:That's so... I mean, it almost feels like everyone pays for breaking a bargain, even if they didn't mean to.
SPEAKER_01:Aye. Cities like a family, you inherit the debts, want it or not.
SPEAKER_02:So, is there anything anybody actually
SPEAKER_01:can do now, or is it too late for another deal? Some old families, those that still got songbooks and iron nails from granddad's time, are already leaving bread, pouring milk, singing. But it's gotta be real, a new post forged and placed with some heart behind it. not just paperwork and bolts. The legend says, if you map the old ley lines right, hammer in a marker with the proper words, and leave an honest offering, you might just get forgiven.
SPEAKER_00:Could it be like, I don't know, someone finds part of the Goblin Post and sings over that? Or is it haunted now?
SPEAKER_01:In New York, everything finds its way back. That post could be a bench in Queens, a garden trellis in Brooklyn, or, who knows, A prop for some art student's gallery. If anybody finds a rusty hunk of iron and your cat suddenly refuses to go near it, tag me or leave out some milk and biscuit just in case.
SPEAKER_02:He'll probably be there with his songbook and tape measure before
SPEAKER_01:lunch. Guilty. And a muffin for the spirits in case Skye sets the precedent.
SPEAKER_00:Oh, please. Blueberry only. But seriously, if any listener sees something weird or old school at 28th Street, snap a pic. Maybe it's not just a relic. It might be the key to keeping the peace.
SPEAKER_02:Sometimes, all the city needs is the right person in the right place with the right bit of respect. London's underground folks say, mind the gap. Here, maybe it's mind the ghosts.
SPEAKER_00:Or, you know, bring a muffin. Either way, look twice the next time you step off a curb. especially if there's a spiral in the puddle. So to put it in, like, subway terms, what happens if New York just doesn't fix the bargain? Are we talking permanent floods or, uh, next-level weirdness?
SPEAKER_01:Beta both. The flood's just the start. Since last Monday, it's been little things. A fare machine near 28th Street started spitting out cards covered in green moss, spirals right on the plastic. One crew swears a colony of subway rats formed the perfect circle in the sand near the third rail, staring at nothing for 10 minutes before they all scattered at once.
SPEAKER_02:That's textbook liminality. When animals do ritual without knowing why. London drivers talk about flocks of ravens lining the escalators, blocking commuters. In Istanbul, cats vanish and pop up on other lines hours apart, almost like time slipping.
SPEAKER_01:And don't forget the missing time. A tunnel tech named Angel spent two hours flickering between flashes. He said, Came out at Canal Street with a receipt for coffee from Brooklyn. He swears he never bought. His watch was an hour behind and his phone screen kept sketching out little spirals.
SPEAKER_00:Okay, for real? I'm like never riding alone again unless it's daylight and the rats look normal.
SPEAKER_02:And if you do, bring at least two muffins for the other side. One for the spirits and one for your favorite podcast co-host.
SPEAKER_00:Noted. Blueberry and double chocolate, ghost approved.
SPEAKER_01:Just leave a bite wherever the tiles look older than the rest. Or, if you see three spirals together, turn around. That's one of granddad's rules.
SPEAKER_00:Oh, wow, listeners. If you spot something off or sparkly underground, spirals, moss, strange animal traffic jams, snap a picture, tag us on social, or DM your weirdest city myth. We'll collect the best ones for a haunted episode. Maybe with muffins.
SPEAKER_02:I...
SPEAKER_00:Honestly, love thinking cities are like living things. Maybe paying respect just means paying attention. You know what, guys? Seriously, this episode might actually have rewired my brain a little. All the old rituals. I used to think it was just about magic, but it's really about taking care of people. City folk, subway crews, even friends across the planet. If we treat each other right, that's its own kind of spell.
SPEAKER_02:Every city's a living thing. Layer on layer, you can seal up tunnels, pave over swamps, but all those old pacts are still breathing somewhere down there. I say, respect the ghosts, and maybe, just maybe, they'll respect you back.
SPEAKER_01:My nana always said, trust the old stories, and don't be the first or last into a dark tunnel. But looking at you two... Pretty sure the Fae would just give up and let the subway run if they could bottle this chemistry.
SPEAKER_00:Oh my god, Mac. Now they're all picturing us stuck on an after-hours ghost train with muffins and a playlist of your ballads.
SPEAKER_02:Well, I make a mean midnight tea, but
SPEAKER_01:Skye's in charge of spirit snacks. Contractually. Here's my blessing for you and anyone listening tonight. Old New York style. May your steps be dry, your shadows short, and your muffin never stolen by a subway spirit. But if it is, just means you're part of the story now.
SPEAKER_00:I honestly love that. And... Okay, listeners, you're officially invited. If you spot a spiral, hear a subway song, or have a city legend you've never told, DM us or tag us at Spiral Emanations. Next week, we're diving into Central Park's buried secrets. And who knows, your story could be part of it.
SPEAKER_02:And remember, wherever you walk, above or below, carry a little respect and maybe a biscuit, just in
SPEAKER_01:case. Or sing out loud. As long as it's not New York, New York. Trust me. Nobody wants to hear that at 3 a.m.
SPEAKER_00:You heard the man. All right. From all of us, thank you for riding this spiral. We'll catch you under the city lights and maybe somewhere even stranger next time. That's a wrap on this week's Spiral, everyone. Huge gratitude to Cormac Mac O'Shea, our official Subway Bard, for sharing not just the facts under Manhattan, but the feelings too. If you want more haunted transit tales or some seriously legendary poetry, follow Mac at at Subway Bard on Instagram. You might even see a familiar spiral or a midnight muffin.
SPEAKER_01:Last word from me. Mind your step. And if you see the shadows dancing on the third rail, hum a tune and walk steady. Thanks for letting an old subway guy ramble, friends.
SPEAKER_00:We would listen to you on any late train, Mac. Promise? And if you're tuning in for the first time, welcome to Spiral Emanations, where breaking news always has a shadow, and every urban legend is just waiting for an update. If you spot a spiral, catch a glimpse of a singing shadow, or have a city myth that gives you the chills, DMS, tag at Spiral Emanations, or leave a voice note right on SpiralPod.net. We live for your stories. Seriously, you might just end up on air.
SPEAKER_02:And don't forget, next week, we're going spelunking in Central Park. We're chasing reports of hidden doors, stone circles, and something very odd happening with the park's famous sheep. Did the willow wife have cousins up there? We intend to find out, possibly in waterproof boots.
SPEAKER_00:And quick cheers for Brian, our silent knight of the soundboard. He makes sure all our voices sound like magic, spirals and all. One last thing. If Spiral Emanations made you look at storm drainers or muffins a little differently, we'd love it if you'd subscribe, drop us a review, or share the spiral with a friend. Every bit helps keep our bargains strong.
SPEAKER_01:I'll be listening. And I'll bring the biscuits.
SPEAKER_00:All right, family. Until next time, stay wild, stay weird, and always keep an eye out for the old bargains under your feet.
SPEAKER_02:And, Sky, don't forget to leave your muffin by the subway entrance just to stay on the Faye's good side.
SPEAKER_00:No promises on the muffins. but I'll always bring the stories. Thanks for spiraling with us everyone.