December 24, 2022 • 32 mins
A listener speaks; a tragic family history; a restless spirit gets her revenge. Featuring the voices of Malcolm McDowell and Gina Rickicki. Written by E.M. Westover.
See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:01):
Twelve Ghosts is a production of I Heart three D
audio and Grim and Mild from Aaron Bankie Headphones. Recommended
listener discretion advised. I have heard the plaintive wailing through
(00:24):
the winter nights for as long as I've had memories.
As the days grow shorter and the nights creep in
with their bitter edge, my parents grow uneasy. Their eyes
(00:47):
become shadowed, and faces grow lean and hard. They eat
less than They only speak to one another when they
think I am not listening. I know, without being told
that it is starting again. Father carves fresh runs into
the doorway and around each of the window cells. As
(01:08):
the winter dies and spring comes, those runes are sanded
away as if they had never existed at all. Just
this morning, my father was replacing the wood frame at
the door, and he did not answer me when I
asked why. As soon as I set about my chores,
out came his boot knife, and I knew the ruins
would be there again. Whatever they're intent, those ruins, those
(01:32):
wards were not meant to be seen by the visitors.
We have few and far between. When the weather is kinder.
Every year, my mother bakes little cakes of oat honey
goat's blood and acorn flour, and places a cup of
wine outside on the windows ledge as soon as the
first winter moon rises. This has always seemed like a
(01:54):
strange excess, for wine and honey in our house were
so very scarce and reserved only for the longest night
and name days. The meaning behind these traditions kept at
me enough that I asked about it once years ago
and received only a brisk backhand from my father for
the effort. Had spent the rest of the day nursing
a bloodied lip and ringing ear, and had not asked
(02:16):
again lest I received a similar answer. This night started
as if by rope we had ourselves tucked inside well
before sunset, my father brusque and restless, my mother setting
about the stew simmering in the hearth as if it
were the only thing that mattered. My parents, however, did
(02:37):
not eat supper and did not seem to care at
all that I only picked at mine. I knew that
at any other time I would be chided for wasting food,
but tonight it seemed to matter not. My mother ushered
me up into the loft for bed, gave me a
quick kiss on the cheek, her lips dry and nearly
feverish against my skin. Her good night was a soft
(02:58):
note murmured against my in They did not even feign
that they would be going to sleep. I heard their
quiet shuffling beneath the sleeping loft, caught the rich scent
to the father's pipe, and knew that they were in
their well worn chairs, staring at the door as they
always did. That first night, the whaling started, as I
(03:20):
knew it would, an awful sound, like a baby that
would never tire, that had known a misery that was
so deep and wide it would fill the sea and
drown everything it touched. On and on it went, peaks
and valleys of an inhuman cry that buried itself down
into my marrow, leaving me shimmering, feeling ill at ease,
(03:42):
and afraid to close my eyes, though somehow eventually I did.
My dreams were filled with a twisted blue white face
and escaping toothless mouth, and a sound like trees crashing
me together. Through it all the whaling on and on,
I thought, in my restlessness that I heard my mother
(04:03):
sobbing quietly, but I could not be sure. There were
strange heavy footsteps outside, as if something larger than a
bare lumbered through the forest, paced alongside the house, but
did not deign to come any closer. I huddled beneath
my furs and my mother's well woven quilts, and waited
(04:24):
for silence that never came. When I opened my eyes again,
the fire in the hearth had burned itself to embers,
and I could hear the quiet snoring of my father.
I crept from the loft on bare feet, imagining myself
to be the smallest of mice, nimble and invisible to
the rest of the house. I ignored the chill that
(04:47):
had risen with the fires dying, tried my best to
keep my breathing even and my feet away from boards
I knew would creak under my weight. Father slept in
his chair, an arm around my mother, who had slid
it against him, nearly in his lap. It was not
a common sight, the two of them so close. I
felt a surge of worry for them, and more than
(05:10):
a little pity, and set about pulling on my boots,
my overship, my coat. I wanted them to awake, to
at least a handful of my chores finished, and perhaps
even the table set for a small breakfast, anything to
give relief, to get them to notice that I was
an able child and willing to do my part. I
(05:31):
took the little oil lantern from the tabletop and pulled
open the door, inching it slowly open as quiet as
I could, and slipped out into the snow. It was
still quite dark, though dawn would be breaking soon enough.
I paid little mind to my steps, and almost immediately
I heard a crack from beneath my boot. I staggered back,
(05:52):
reaching out for the dwarf ring with one hand and
holding the lantern out to get a better view. Mother
had left the wine in the window still last night,
as she always did. This was the first time I
had ever seen the cup upon the ground. Wine colored
the snow a deep crimson, and splashed across the door
as well as if some one had thrown the cup
against the door in a rage. In the low flickering
(06:12):
light from my lantern, I could see that letters have
been carved into the door, letters not born of my
father's hand. I cannot hold back the unbecoming whimper that
bubbles out of me as I traced them with my
shaking fingers. Something terrible and angry had left its mark here.
My trance is shattered when father staggers out of the door,
(06:33):
jerking it inward away from me. I stand there, wide
eyed and numb mouth, refusing to form any intelligent sentence. Child,
What on earth are you doing out this early? We've
told my name, I finally gasped, pointing at the door
and nearly dropping my lantern. It has carved my name
(06:54):
upon the door. Though I had no idea what it was,
over and over into the letters had screwed over themselves.
I had never in my life seen so much obvious
rage displayed in written words. It was as if the
thing had created something the very opposite of the warding
ruins my family had carved. I knew, without knowing why,
(07:19):
that whatever had done this was not a person. I
knew also that it was certainly what had been howling
in the night, and what our offerings and folk spells
had been trying to keep away. They had failed at
long last, and that meant something else entirely. My father
grabbed my arm and pulled me into the house. He
(07:40):
slammed the door behind us both. My mother was still
blinking away sleep as my father lit into me, voice
like acid. This foolish child, This foolish, damn child was
nearly stolen away. How stupid are you risking everything for
some silly jaunt about in the dark. I was not,
I yelled back, shocking myself. I was not stolen, and
(08:04):
I was not going about on some dalliance. You were
both so upset. I thought I must make myself useful
early as I could, to perhaps bring some levity into
this awful dark house. Every winter is the same. This
cloud fills your hearts, and you were miles away, and
I do my best to ignore the strangeness and the
(08:24):
awful nights. But no more I cannot. Your wards are
not working anymore. And whatever it is you've been trying
to scare away, it's leaving markings of its own. There
are tears running hot down my cheeks, and any other
time I would be shamed by them. Now I was
(08:45):
too afraid and too angry. It too much to care.
I winced as he stepped forward, expecting to be struck,
but instead he growled, you will not go out in
the dark. Your mother cannot endure another loss. Another, I asked,
bring my eyes to my father's face. Both he and
(09:07):
my mother looked startled, and before he can tell me
to quiet, I ask again another another loss. This is
the end of it. You will mind be silent, and
when the sun rises, you will set about your work.
When it sets, you will keep yourself indoors, and that
will be the way of it until the days are
(09:27):
longer and the snow melts. We have done all we
can to make a refuge, and I will not have
your carelessness erasing the work. I stared at his angry,
twisted face and could see unacknowledged grief there. It was
not what I expected. I tried once more, but my
(09:51):
father gave an angry snarl and turned away. I avoided
him the rest of the day, the difficult task in
a house so small. As soon as the sun broke
through the trees, I busied myself out of doors, caring
for the animals and the small stable, searching our modest
cellar for the roots and dried mushrooms my mother requested,
(10:14):
gathering firewood, and even doing my mother's washing. She was
upset as well, but not so loud and violent as father.
She spent the day aimless, staring into nothing, and mending
a shirt that did not need mending. It was late
(10:35):
in the afternoon, and I had just come from the cellar,
my arms full of the roots and mushrooms my mother
had requested when I heard my father's voice loud and violent,
too much to keep the damn thing away. If it
weren't from me for these things I do, you would
be long dead. It will never give up all that
cursed wailing. This morning we wake to that stupid child out,
(10:58):
my home befouled, and the offer being scattered, And yet
you wanted named out loud. Shall we tempt it to enter?
Will you not be happy until you have lost your life? Truly,
you have done well enough. Husband. It was you who
carried out the deed. It was you who insisted, told
me my little one was too frail to see the spring,
(11:21):
told me that my time and grief and love were
wasted a sickly child that would soon die anyway, As
if those hours of labor were nothing to me. Do
remember that I did not want to cast my child
out into the snow. Yes, husband, it is your hands
(11:41):
that carved those runs, But it was your hands that
did the burying as well. You stand here talking about
my life in jeopardy, as if these wards do not
protect you as well. And by the gods, how are
you not more concerned that it's named our child? How
everything I had thought possible, I had not dreamed of this,
(12:03):
or I never you would never have what? Instead, Let
the damned babe die slow and muling at your teeth
all the pieces for months, and sit about unable to
work for twice as long, or you would never have
had any touch you again, lest you burn another useless
curd and take our food and keep us beggars. There
(12:27):
was a cruelty in his tone that filled me with vicious,
foolish bravery. I ran from my corner and threw open
the door, arms still loaded with my satchel of dried
fungus and root vegetables. How dare you be so cruel
to her? I shouted, throwing myself between my father, who
(12:48):
was looming like an angry bear over mother, and she
had backed into a corner nearest our hearth, a wooden
spoon clutched in her white knuckled grip. I swung my
satchel at him, unable to comprehend in that moment just
how stupid the action would have been in any normal circumstance.
It caught him in the arm as he reached for
(13:09):
my wrist, and he yelled, snatching the bag from my
grip and throwing it angrily to the wall overhead. Your stupid,
worthless child, I should have locked the door against you
and let the damn creature take you. Perhaps then it
would be satisfied and we would know some peace out
my mother howled, pulling herself to her feet. You will
(13:31):
not take another child from me. What sort of man
have you become? What a cowardly thing to say to
your only surviving child, A simpering dog and an oat bird.
Oh how proud my ancestors must be of my get
he responded, his face ugly and reddened in anger. With
(13:53):
those words and the gasp from my mother in response,
he turned upon his heel and charged out of the house,
the very walls shaking with the force of the door
slamming behind him. I watched him through the snow. I
saw him turn the corner, and knew from the sound
of the cellar door he was searching for his rifle,
(14:16):
and would most likely go out into the wood to hunt,
as he had many times when his temper had gone
too high. Very well, I thought, still full of righteous anger,
Bring home a rabbit or two, and be useful. That
was a silly thing standing between us. You know your
(14:36):
father has a bear's temper, my mother finally said, Collecting
the turnips that had rolled from my satchel across the floor,
he said about cutting them and a few onions we
had hanging by the hearth, and tossed them with snow melt,
mushrooms and a handful of dried herbs into the large
iron pot hanging above the harth fire. It was a
(14:58):
silly thing, him screaming at you about things you cannot control,
I replied darkly. A child, I finally asked, looking sideways
and feeling braver without my father there to reprimand me
all the reasons for this awful traditional I hadn't thought
a baby would be would be? Why, oh, little one,
(15:24):
if only your elder sister had stayed just that in
her death. She did not, And whilst it was not
me that left her there in the forest, I could
have tried hard to prevent it. Not a day passes
that I do not wish I had been stronger. That
perhaps this terror is my own making, and I am
simply reaping the seeds of what I sowed, in my weakness.
(15:50):
What the same thing have happened to me had I
been born sickly? I asked softly, Would he have left
me out in the cold as well? I could not
bear to let that happen again. Do you truly think
you could have stopped him I before today? Perhaps? No.
(16:13):
I do not want us to live this way. I
am so tired of the wailing of saving for months
for the luxuries, not for you nor I, but to
offer up to the undying the footsteps every winter it comes,
and it will do so forever until it is satisfied.
(16:33):
Why does it? What does she want? I asked quietly.
The thing she has become. She wants rest, a proper
burial and a proper grave. Only I do not know
where she was left. And your father claims that upon
his attempt in spring defined the body to give it
(16:54):
that rest, it was gone, carried off by animals. There
are no bones to bear rry. It is a restless
thing now. That wood bird that would have been your sister.
I had thought what it wanted was my life, and
I had nearly come to peace with that. But it
has carved your name on the door, and I cannot
(17:14):
allow it to take you, my only surviving child. I
will not stand by again. She reached out for me,
and I stepped forward and into a near crushing embrace.
We both sobbed. She stroked my hair, the idea of
my mother gone, as distant as she often was, it
(17:37):
was unbearable. I did not want to be left alone
with my father, the man who had called me worthless.
I was so upset I very nearly missed the faint
cry from outside. It came again and again, the scream
(17:58):
followed by the crashing of trees falling in the forest.
Father once more, and a terrible crashing, too loud to
be anything natural, that walked the forest, as though something
heavier than stone had rolled through the stand of trees
that bordered our homestead. An ominous sound. Don't my mother
(18:24):
rasped when I slipped from her and made for the door.
The gods above do not open that door. It is
nearly dark. Father needs help. He is of war and cruel,
but I am not, and I cannot just ignore him.
Angry as I was, he was still my father, and
(18:45):
I was better than he. I did not leave my
family alone in the snow. Nearly has come and gone, child,
and you cannot help him now the gods below and
above have left him. Another scream, and something heavy was
thrown against the door. I cried out, hands to my mouth,
(19:09):
do not open that door, my mother screamed, reaching from
my shoulders, pulling me back from the shuddering wood. We
stood pressed against the far wall, shivering for hours, too
afraid to move. Something large and dark lurked outside, and
(19:30):
sometimes its shape could be seen through the window. It
did not try to enter after that first rush at
the door, though it did wail and scratch. The noise
became like a storm, rising and falling through the night,
shaking the windows. I grew too afraid to look. When
(19:50):
the sun lit the window, I struggled to my feet
and took a few halting steps to the door. Mother
made a sound as if to stop me, but she didn't,
and so I kept on, pulling open the door and
peering out into the early dawn. Father's head lay on
its right cheek, soaked him blood there in front of
(20:11):
the door, the stump where his neck had been with
a jagged and wet but frozen A pool of frosted
blood spread across the little walkway, I had myself dug
out that morning before, after the discovery of the wine
and the cup. We're still. As I took a shaking
(20:34):
step around the terrible sight, I saw his body, or
rather the torn stump of his neck, as if something
had planted him like a tree into the earth yards
from the house, and then plucked his head like a
fruit and tossed it carelessly aside. I slumped to my knees,
(20:56):
ignoring the immediate bite of freezing snow as it soaked
through my pants and chilled my skin and ute bird. Indeed,
and it had done precisely what those stories over fires
had said, forced my father into the earth with its
awful weight, as it had not gotten what it wanted
from him, and never could. I knew that his death
(21:19):
would not be enough. It was not my father's name
that had been written, after all, and murder was no
end of this curse. There was nobody to bury, no
sacred ground it wanted. Instead in exchange, Father had simply
made the foolish choice to get between the thing and
its quarry. I had never felt so small and so unprepared.
(21:47):
I stood there, paralyzed with a dread I had not known.
I was capable of viewing, staring at the desecrated remnants
of my father. My mother's grip around my arm was
like iron and pulled me from the snowy path, dragging
me back towards shelter. Your foolish child, she murmured. I
(22:08):
told you, I told you. Nothing left by the outward
is anything you need lay eyes on. It wants me,
I rasped, and I felt as though the cold could
never be driven from my bones. And no, little one,
silly bird, my mother chastised, The thing does not want you.
(22:32):
It's me. It seeks you are simply it was my name,
my name on the door. It seeks to harm us both,
my little one, But it's me who agreed to let
her freeze, is it not. You must promise me to
stay inside this night, no matter what you hear, no
(22:53):
matter what you may see, you must stay inside. I
cannot lose you. What are you going to do? I
asked her. She did not answer, but instead busied herself
over the fire with breakfast. For the rest of the day,
my mother stayed silent, and she would not let me
(23:13):
tend to the animals that she did herself. I ceered
through the window curious and watched as she walked a
wide circle around the torn stump of my father's neck.
I could not, for the life of me find his
head through my narrow view, and I was not bold
enough to ask her about it. When she finally returned
(23:35):
to me, we sat in the early evening, drinking Valerian
root tea and picking out a stew I normally loved tonight, however,
it was wood, pulp and soil on my tongue. I ate, steady,
silent as the sun slipped away. Betrayal I felt I
(23:56):
could not forgive, as shadows grew long and a pit
opened wide and heavy within me. She's here, I whispered, breathless,
though I had not heard the cries no child, not yet.
My mother paced by the door, but she will be.
(24:18):
I need you to promise me, no matter what happens
this night, no matter what you see, you do as
I tell you to do. She shifted her gaze from
the door to me, and beneath the weight of that stare,
I could not help but gift a slow nod. Mother.
I have always thought that I obeyed you well enough,
(24:38):
no matter what Father thought. I started, and she shook
her head you must obey me exactly this night, little one,
or you will not live to see another for me.
You must promise that you will see dawn. I nodded
again and sat back in my chair. A piercing while
(25:02):
broke the quiet. The thing sounded hungry, ancient, and hollow.
Worst of all, as the heavy footsteps brought it ever closer,
it sounded alluring. I wanted to go outside in a
way that I had not before. It began howling my
(25:26):
name syllables, twisted, dragged through the soil and snow. I
found myself standing, walking towards the door, with a little
anguish cry falling from my lips. No, my mother was there,
grabbing my shoulders and forcing me into a chair. Do
not listen. But I could not help it. I could
(25:48):
not resist. The very foundation of our little cottage was
shaking with a wailing, and I could not tell my
mother's cries from those outside it. Before the door, arms outstretched,
taking one step and then another out into the snow,
(26:10):
the horrible thing stood there in the dark of the night,
the trees blotted out for its monstrous size. I could
not even glimpse its head. I could not see the
mouth that burst those cries. I took a step forward,
ignoring my mother's scream, and then Dame brilliant, red and black,
(26:34):
and I felt to my knees, splintered wood from my
favorite chair raining down around me. My mother had struck
me down. Before I could protest. She was there, wrapped
in her shawl, loaming in her own way, sturdy and
warm and firm, You damned foul thing. My mother stood
(26:59):
betweing us, a candle held high in her hand, glaring
up in the amorphous, angry face and its cold black eyes.
I wish then that I had not looked, for the
weight of that gaze took residence somewhere in me forever.
You've hunted us for years. We've given everything we could.
You've taken your father, but you will not take your sibling.
(27:21):
Have at me, beast, have at me, and no rest
at last. I am the mother who cast you out.
I am the one who bade you freeze in the
winter me. She turned at me, and then his little
one run and do not look back. I watched in horror.
(27:45):
This hand came from the shadows, wrapping its thick, unearthly
pale spirit, blesh around my mother, lifting her up into
the dark. She did not scream or struggle, and I
was torn between terror and wonder at her strength, summoned
from its hiding place at last, I found my legs then,
(28:08):
and I staggered to my feet, her words still ringing
in my ears, and taking nothing. I ran. I imagined
myself a wolf cup to them, flinging myself through the
trees I've grown up in my entire life. I imagined
I could run for ages, that I was nothing but wind,
and I willed it so fiercely that I could not
say I had not shifted form. I was far enough
(28:35):
away than when the thing drove Mother into the earth,
and I only felt the slightest tremor beneath my feet
and heard merely a wisp of a cry. Gone. They
were both gone, and from the sounds that followed, my
home was gone too. I did not stop. I could
(28:58):
not afford the seconds that would to allow grief to rise,
and so I pushed it down. I ran. I ran,
as though I could outrun a curse, outrun memory, and
for a time, for many years, perhaps I believe I
did it. Just went to her again. The longest night
I have spent years haunting cities, taking odd jobs, and
(29:21):
never stopping from long. I have never settled, and very
if you ever know my name, and the name I
give them is not the name of the ute bird
carved upon the door, an ill omen to give anyone
a cursed name. I am older now, and I do
not quite have it in me to run as I
(29:42):
once did. I hear her cries upon the wind, and
I wondered just what anyone near must think, or if
her horrible howls, or for my ears alone, whiling is
coming closer, and certainly it is not my donation. I
opened my door, taking a deep breath, and step outside
(30:06):
to wait. And then you were here in this forest,
(30:33):
running from her, and you saw the light and ran
towards it. And here you are so tired, so tired.
It is time now, Annabelle, Finally your tormentor will not
(30:58):
follow you into leave anymore. Thank you. Twelve Ghosts starring
(31:25):
Malcolm McDowell as the Innkeeper and Gina Rikiki as Annabelle.
Episode of Leven the up Bird written by E. M.
Westover with additional writing by Nicholas Takowski, editing by Chris
Childs and Stephen Perez, directed by Nicholas Takowski. Original score
and sound design by Chris Childs. Executive producers Aaron Manky,
(31:48):
Matt Frederick, Alexander Williams and Nicholas Takowski. Supervising producer Josh Say.
Producers Chris Child's and Stephen Perez. Casting by Sunday Bowling
cs A and Meg Mormon c s A. Production coordinator
Wayna Calderon. Recorded at Lantern Audio in Atlanta, Georgia, engineered
(32:08):
by Chris Gardner Arrows Sound and Recording in Ojai, California,
engineered by Ken Arrows. Twelve Ghosts was created by Nicholas Takowski.
That is a production of iHeart three D Audio and
Grim and Mild from Aaron Mankey. Learn more about the
show at Grim and Mild dot com and find more
podcasts from my Heart Radio by visiting the I Heart
(32:28):
Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to your
favorite shows.
Twelve Ghosts is a production of I Heart three D
audio and Grim and Mild from Aaron Bankie Headphones. Recommended
listener discretion advised. I have heard the plaintive wailing through
(00:24):
the winter nights for as long as I've had memories.
As the days grow shorter and the nights creep in
with their bitter edge, my parents grow uneasy. Their eyes
(00:47):
become shadowed, and faces grow lean and hard. They eat
less than They only speak to one another when they
think I am not listening. I know, without being told
that it is starting again. Father carves fresh runs into
the doorway and around each of the window cells. As
(01:08):
the winter dies and spring comes, those runes are sanded
away as if they had never existed at all. Just
this morning, my father was replacing the wood frame at
the door, and he did not answer me when I
asked why. As soon as I set about my chores,
out came his boot knife, and I knew the ruins
would be there again. Whatever they're intent, those ruins, those
(01:32):
wards were not meant to be seen by the visitors.
We have few and far between. When the weather is kinder.
Every year, my mother bakes little cakes of oat honey
goat's blood and acorn flour, and places a cup of
wine outside on the windows ledge as soon as the
first winter moon rises. This has always seemed like a
(01:54):
strange excess, for wine and honey in our house were
so very scarce and reserved only for the longest night
and name days. The meaning behind these traditions kept at
me enough that I asked about it once years ago
and received only a brisk backhand from my father for
the effort. Had spent the rest of the day nursing
a bloodied lip and ringing ear, and had not asked
(02:16):
again lest I received a similar answer. This night started
as if by rope we had ourselves tucked inside well
before sunset, my father brusque and restless, my mother setting
about the stew simmering in the hearth as if it
were the only thing that mattered. My parents, however, did
(02:37):
not eat supper and did not seem to care at
all that I only picked at mine. I knew that
at any other time I would be chided for wasting food,
but tonight it seemed to matter not. My mother ushered
me up into the loft for bed, gave me a
quick kiss on the cheek, her lips dry and nearly
feverish against my skin. Her good night was a soft
(02:58):
note murmured against my in They did not even feign
that they would be going to sleep. I heard their
quiet shuffling beneath the sleeping loft, caught the rich scent
to the father's pipe, and knew that they were in
their well worn chairs, staring at the door as they
always did. That first night, the whaling started, as I
(03:20):
knew it would, an awful sound, like a baby that
would never tire, that had known a misery that was
so deep and wide it would fill the sea and
drown everything it touched. On and on it went, peaks
and valleys of an inhuman cry that buried itself down
into my marrow, leaving me shimmering, feeling ill at ease,
(03:42):
and afraid to close my eyes, though somehow eventually I did.
My dreams were filled with a twisted blue white face
and escaping toothless mouth, and a sound like trees crashing
me together. Through it all the whaling on and on,
I thought, in my restlessness that I heard my mother
(04:03):
sobbing quietly, but I could not be sure. There were
strange heavy footsteps outside, as if something larger than a
bare lumbered through the forest, paced alongside the house, but
did not deign to come any closer. I huddled beneath
my furs and my mother's well woven quilts, and waited
(04:24):
for silence that never came. When I opened my eyes again,
the fire in the hearth had burned itself to embers,
and I could hear the quiet snoring of my father.
I crept from the loft on bare feet, imagining myself
to be the smallest of mice, nimble and invisible to
the rest of the house. I ignored the chill that
(04:47):
had risen with the fires dying, tried my best to
keep my breathing even and my feet away from boards
I knew would creak under my weight. Father slept in
his chair, an arm around my mother, who had slid
it against him, nearly in his lap. It was not
a common sight, the two of them so close. I
felt a surge of worry for them, and more than
(05:10):
a little pity, and set about pulling on my boots,
my overship, my coat. I wanted them to awake, to
at least a handful of my chores finished, and perhaps
even the table set for a small breakfast, anything to
give relief, to get them to notice that I was
an able child and willing to do my part. I
(05:31):
took the little oil lantern from the tabletop and pulled
open the door, inching it slowly open as quiet as
I could, and slipped out into the snow. It was
still quite dark, though dawn would be breaking soon enough.
I paid little mind to my steps, and almost immediately
I heard a crack from beneath my boot. I staggered back,
(05:52):
reaching out for the dwarf ring with one hand and
holding the lantern out to get a better view. Mother
had left the wine in the window still last night,
as she always did. This was the first time I
had ever seen the cup upon the ground. Wine colored
the snow a deep crimson, and splashed across the door
as well as if some one had thrown the cup
against the door in a rage. In the low flickering
(06:12):
light from my lantern, I could see that letters have
been carved into the door, letters not born of my
father's hand. I cannot hold back the unbecoming whimper that
bubbles out of me as I traced them with my
shaking fingers. Something terrible and angry had left its mark here.
My trance is shattered when father staggers out of the door,
(06:33):
jerking it inward away from me. I stand there, wide
eyed and numb mouth, refusing to form any intelligent sentence. Child,
What on earth are you doing out this early? We've
told my name, I finally gasped, pointing at the door
and nearly dropping my lantern. It has carved my name
(06:54):
upon the door. Though I had no idea what it was,
over and over into the letters had screwed over themselves.
I had never in my life seen so much obvious
rage displayed in written words. It was as if the
thing had created something the very opposite of the warding
ruins my family had carved. I knew, without knowing why,
(07:19):
that whatever had done this was not a person. I
knew also that it was certainly what had been howling
in the night, and what our offerings and folk spells
had been trying to keep away. They had failed at
long last, and that meant something else entirely. My father
grabbed my arm and pulled me into the house. He
(07:40):
slammed the door behind us both. My mother was still
blinking away sleep as my father lit into me, voice
like acid. This foolish child, This foolish, damn child was
nearly stolen away. How stupid are you risking everything for
some silly jaunt about in the dark. I was not,
I yelled back, shocking myself. I was not stolen, and
(08:04):
I was not going about on some dalliance. You were
both so upset. I thought I must make myself useful
early as I could, to perhaps bring some levity into
this awful dark house. Every winter is the same. This
cloud fills your hearts, and you were miles away, and
I do my best to ignore the strangeness and the
(08:24):
awful nights. But no more I cannot. Your wards are
not working anymore. And whatever it is you've been trying
to scare away, it's leaving markings of its own. There
are tears running hot down my cheeks, and any other
time I would be shamed by them. Now I was
(08:45):
too afraid and too angry. It too much to care.
I winced as he stepped forward, expecting to be struck,
but instead he growled, you will not go out in
the dark. Your mother cannot endure another loss. Another, I asked,
bring my eyes to my father's face. Both he and
(09:07):
my mother looked startled, and before he can tell me
to quiet, I ask again another another loss. This is
the end of it. You will mind be silent, and
when the sun rises, you will set about your work.
When it sets, you will keep yourself indoors, and that
will be the way of it until the days are
(09:27):
longer and the snow melts. We have done all we
can to make a refuge, and I will not have
your carelessness erasing the work. I stared at his angry,
twisted face and could see unacknowledged grief there. It was
not what I expected. I tried once more, but my
(09:51):
father gave an angry snarl and turned away. I avoided
him the rest of the day, the difficult task in
a house so small. As soon as the sun broke
through the trees, I busied myself out of doors, caring
for the animals and the small stable, searching our modest
cellar for the roots and dried mushrooms my mother requested,
(10:14):
gathering firewood, and even doing my mother's washing. She was
upset as well, but not so loud and violent as father.
She spent the day aimless, staring into nothing, and mending
a shirt that did not need mending. It was late
(10:35):
in the afternoon, and I had just come from the cellar,
my arms full of the roots and mushrooms my mother
had requested when I heard my father's voice loud and violent,
too much to keep the damn thing away. If it
weren't from me for these things I do, you would
be long dead. It will never give up all that
cursed wailing. This morning we wake to that stupid child out,
(10:58):
my home befouled, and the offer being scattered, And yet
you wanted named out loud. Shall we tempt it to enter?
Will you not be happy until you have lost your life? Truly,
you have done well enough. Husband. It was you who
carried out the deed. It was you who insisted, told
me my little one was too frail to see the spring,
(11:21):
told me that my time and grief and love were
wasted a sickly child that would soon die anyway, As
if those hours of labor were nothing to me. Do
remember that I did not want to cast my child
out into the snow. Yes, husband, it is your hands
(11:41):
that carved those runs, But it was your hands that
did the burying as well. You stand here talking about
my life in jeopardy, as if these wards do not
protect you as well. And by the gods, how are
you not more concerned that it's named our child? How
everything I had thought possible, I had not dreamed of this,
(12:03):
or I never you would never have what? Instead, Let
the damned babe die slow and muling at your teeth
all the pieces for months, and sit about unable to
work for twice as long, or you would never have
had any touch you again, lest you burn another useless
curd and take our food and keep us beggars. There
(12:27):
was a cruelty in his tone that filled me with vicious,
foolish bravery. I ran from my corner and threw open
the door, arms still loaded with my satchel of dried
fungus and root vegetables. How dare you be so cruel
to her? I shouted, throwing myself between my father, who
(12:48):
was looming like an angry bear over mother, and she
had backed into a corner nearest our hearth, a wooden
spoon clutched in her white knuckled grip. I swung my
satchel at him, unable to comprehend in that moment just
how stupid the action would have been in any normal circumstance.
It caught him in the arm as he reached for
(13:09):
my wrist, and he yelled, snatching the bag from my
grip and throwing it angrily to the wall overhead. Your stupid,
worthless child, I should have locked the door against you
and let the damn creature take you. Perhaps then it
would be satisfied and we would know some peace out
my mother howled, pulling herself to her feet. You will
(13:31):
not take another child from me. What sort of man
have you become? What a cowardly thing to say to
your only surviving child, A simpering dog and an oat bird.
Oh how proud my ancestors must be of my get
he responded, his face ugly and reddened in anger. With
(13:53):
those words and the gasp from my mother in response,
he turned upon his heel and charged out of the house,
the very walls shaking with the force of the door
slamming behind him. I watched him through the snow. I
saw him turn the corner, and knew from the sound
of the cellar door he was searching for his rifle,
(14:16):
and would most likely go out into the wood to hunt,
as he had many times when his temper had gone
too high. Very well, I thought, still full of righteous anger,
Bring home a rabbit or two, and be useful. That
was a silly thing standing between us. You know your
(14:36):
father has a bear's temper, my mother finally said, Collecting
the turnips that had rolled from my satchel across the floor,
he said about cutting them and a few onions we
had hanging by the hearth, and tossed them with snow melt,
mushrooms and a handful of dried herbs into the large
iron pot hanging above the harth fire. It was a
(14:58):
silly thing, him screaming at you about things you cannot control,
I replied darkly. A child, I finally asked, looking sideways
and feeling braver without my father there to reprimand me
all the reasons for this awful traditional I hadn't thought
a baby would be would be? Why, oh, little one,
(15:24):
if only your elder sister had stayed just that in
her death. She did not, And whilst it was not
me that left her there in the forest, I could
have tried hard to prevent it. Not a day passes
that I do not wish I had been stronger. That
perhaps this terror is my own making, and I am
simply reaping the seeds of what I sowed, in my weakness.
(15:50):
What the same thing have happened to me had I
been born sickly? I asked softly, Would he have left
me out in the cold as well? I could not
bear to let that happen again. Do you truly think
you could have stopped him I before today? Perhaps? No.
(16:13):
I do not want us to live this way. I
am so tired of the wailing of saving for months
for the luxuries, not for you nor I, but to
offer up to the undying the footsteps every winter it comes,
and it will do so forever until it is satisfied.
(16:33):
Why does it? What does she want? I asked quietly.
The thing she has become. She wants rest, a proper
burial and a proper grave. Only I do not know
where she was left. And your father claims that upon
his attempt in spring defined the body to give it
(16:54):
that rest, it was gone, carried off by animals. There
are no bones to bear rry. It is a restless
thing now. That wood bird that would have been your sister.
I had thought what it wanted was my life, and
I had nearly come to peace with that. But it
has carved your name on the door, and I cannot
(17:14):
allow it to take you, my only surviving child. I
will not stand by again. She reached out for me,
and I stepped forward and into a near crushing embrace.
We both sobbed. She stroked my hair, the idea of
my mother gone, as distant as she often was, it
(17:37):
was unbearable. I did not want to be left alone
with my father, the man who had called me worthless.
I was so upset I very nearly missed the faint
cry from outside. It came again and again, the scream
(17:58):
followed by the crashing of trees falling in the forest.
Father once more, and a terrible crashing, too loud to
be anything natural, that walked the forest, as though something
heavier than stone had rolled through the stand of trees
that bordered our homestead. An ominous sound. Don't my mother
(18:24):
rasped when I slipped from her and made for the door.
The gods above do not open that door. It is
nearly dark. Father needs help. He is of war and cruel,
but I am not, and I cannot just ignore him.
Angry as I was, he was still my father, and
(18:45):
I was better than he. I did not leave my
family alone in the snow. Nearly has come and gone, child,
and you cannot help him now the gods below and
above have left him. Another scream, and something heavy was
thrown against the door. I cried out, hands to my mouth,
(19:09):
do not open that door, my mother screamed, reaching from
my shoulders, pulling me back from the shuddering wood. We
stood pressed against the far wall, shivering for hours, too
afraid to move. Something large and dark lurked outside, and
(19:30):
sometimes its shape could be seen through the window. It
did not try to enter after that first rush at
the door, though it did wail and scratch. The noise
became like a storm, rising and falling through the night,
shaking the windows. I grew too afraid to look. When
(19:50):
the sun lit the window, I struggled to my feet
and took a few halting steps to the door. Mother
made a sound as if to stop me, but she didn't,
and so I kept on, pulling open the door and
peering out into the early dawn. Father's head lay on
its right cheek, soaked him blood there in front of
(20:11):
the door, the stump where his neck had been with
a jagged and wet but frozen A pool of frosted
blood spread across the little walkway, I had myself dug
out that morning before, after the discovery of the wine
and the cup. We're still. As I took a shaking
(20:34):
step around the terrible sight, I saw his body, or
rather the torn stump of his neck, as if something
had planted him like a tree into the earth yards
from the house, and then plucked his head like a
fruit and tossed it carelessly aside. I slumped to my knees,
(20:56):
ignoring the immediate bite of freezing snow as it soaked
through my pants and chilled my skin and ute bird. Indeed,
and it had done precisely what those stories over fires
had said, forced my father into the earth with its
awful weight, as it had not gotten what it wanted
from him, and never could. I knew that his death
(21:19):
would not be enough. It was not my father's name
that had been written, after all, and murder was no
end of this curse. There was nobody to bury, no
sacred ground it wanted. Instead in exchange, Father had simply
made the foolish choice to get between the thing and
its quarry. I had never felt so small and so unprepared.
(21:47):
I stood there, paralyzed with a dread I had not known.
I was capable of viewing, staring at the desecrated remnants
of my father. My mother's grip around my arm was
like iron and pulled me from the snowy path, dragging
me back towards shelter. Your foolish child, she murmured. I
(22:08):
told you, I told you. Nothing left by the outward
is anything you need lay eyes on. It wants me,
I rasped, and I felt as though the cold could
never be driven from my bones. And no, little one,
silly bird, my mother chastised, The thing does not want you.
(22:32):
It's me. It seeks you are simply it was my name,
my name on the door. It seeks to harm us both,
my little one, But it's me who agreed to let
her freeze, is it not. You must promise me to
stay inside this night, no matter what you hear, no
(22:53):
matter what you may see, you must stay inside. I
cannot lose you. What are you going to do? I
asked her. She did not answer, but instead busied herself
over the fire with breakfast. For the rest of the day,
my mother stayed silent, and she would not let me
(23:13):
tend to the animals that she did herself. I ceered
through the window curious and watched as she walked a
wide circle around the torn stump of my father's neck.
I could not, for the life of me find his
head through my narrow view, and I was not bold
enough to ask her about it. When she finally returned
(23:35):
to me, we sat in the early evening, drinking Valerian
root tea and picking out a stew I normally loved tonight, however,
it was wood, pulp and soil on my tongue. I ate, steady,
silent as the sun slipped away. Betrayal I felt I
(23:56):
could not forgive, as shadows grew long and a pit
opened wide and heavy within me. She's here, I whispered, breathless,
though I had not heard the cries no child, not yet.
My mother paced by the door, but she will be.
(24:18):
I need you to promise me, no matter what happens
this night, no matter what you see, you do as
I tell you to do. She shifted her gaze from
the door to me, and beneath the weight of that stare,
I could not help but gift a slow nod. Mother.
I have always thought that I obeyed you well enough,
(24:38):
no matter what Father thought. I started, and she shook
her head you must obey me exactly this night, little one,
or you will not live to see another for me.
You must promise that you will see dawn. I nodded
again and sat back in my chair. A piercing while
(25:02):
broke the quiet. The thing sounded hungry, ancient, and hollow.
Worst of all, as the heavy footsteps brought it ever closer,
it sounded alluring. I wanted to go outside in a
way that I had not before. It began howling my
(25:26):
name syllables, twisted, dragged through the soil and snow. I
found myself standing, walking towards the door, with a little
anguish cry falling from my lips. No, my mother was there,
grabbing my shoulders and forcing me into a chair. Do
not listen. But I could not help it. I could
(25:48):
not resist. The very foundation of our little cottage was
shaking with a wailing, and I could not tell my
mother's cries from those outside it. Before the door, arms outstretched,
taking one step and then another out into the snow,
(26:10):
the horrible thing stood there in the dark of the night,
the trees blotted out for its monstrous size. I could
not even glimpse its head. I could not see the
mouth that burst those cries. I took a step forward,
ignoring my mother's scream, and then Dame brilliant, red and black,
(26:34):
and I felt to my knees, splintered wood from my
favorite chair raining down around me. My mother had struck
me down. Before I could protest. She was there, wrapped
in her shawl, loaming in her own way, sturdy and
warm and firm, You damned foul thing. My mother stood
(26:59):
betweing us, a candle held high in her hand, glaring
up in the amorphous, angry face and its cold black eyes.
I wish then that I had not looked, for the
weight of that gaze took residence somewhere in me forever.
You've hunted us for years. We've given everything we could.
You've taken your father, but you will not take your sibling.
(27:21):
Have at me, beast, have at me, and no rest
at last. I am the mother who cast you out.
I am the one who bade you freeze in the
winter me. She turned at me, and then his little
one run and do not look back. I watched in horror.
(27:45):
This hand came from the shadows, wrapping its thick, unearthly
pale spirit, blesh around my mother, lifting her up into
the dark. She did not scream or struggle, and I
was torn between terror and wonder at her strength, summoned
from its hiding place at last, I found my legs then,
(28:08):
and I staggered to my feet, her words still ringing
in my ears, and taking nothing. I ran. I imagined
myself a wolf cup to them, flinging myself through the
trees I've grown up in my entire life. I imagined
I could run for ages, that I was nothing but wind,
and I willed it so fiercely that I could not
say I had not shifted form. I was far enough
(28:35):
away than when the thing drove Mother into the earth,
and I only felt the slightest tremor beneath my feet
and heard merely a wisp of a cry. Gone. They
were both gone, and from the sounds that followed, my
home was gone too. I did not stop. I could
(28:58):
not afford the seconds that would to allow grief to rise,
and so I pushed it down. I ran. I ran,
as though I could outrun a curse, outrun memory, and
for a time, for many years, perhaps I believe I
did it. Just went to her again. The longest night
I have spent years haunting cities, taking odd jobs, and
(29:21):
never stopping from long. I have never settled, and very
if you ever know my name, and the name I
give them is not the name of the ute bird
carved upon the door, an ill omen to give anyone
a cursed name. I am older now, and I do
not quite have it in me to run as I
(29:42):
once did. I hear her cries upon the wind, and
I wondered just what anyone near must think, or if
her horrible howls, or for my ears alone, whiling is
coming closer, and certainly it is not my donation. I
opened my door, taking a deep breath, and step outside
(30:06):
to wait. And then you were here in this forest,
(30:33):
running from her, and you saw the light and ran
towards it. And here you are so tired, so tired.
It is time now, Annabelle, Finally your tormentor will not
(30:58):
follow you into leave anymore. Thank you. Twelve Ghosts starring
(31:25):
Malcolm McDowell as the Innkeeper and Gina Rikiki as Annabelle.
Episode of Leven the up Bird written by E. M.
Westover with additional writing by Nicholas Takowski, editing by Chris
Childs and Stephen Perez, directed by Nicholas Takowski. Original score
and sound design by Chris Childs. Executive producers Aaron Manky,
(31:48):
Matt Frederick, Alexander Williams and Nicholas Takowski. Supervising producer Josh Say.
Producers Chris Child's and Stephen Perez. Casting by Sunday Bowling
cs A and Meg Mormon c s A. Production coordinator
Wayna Calderon. Recorded at Lantern Audio in Atlanta, Georgia, engineered
(32:08):
by Chris Gardner Arrows Sound and Recording in Ojai, California,
engineered by Ken Arrows. Twelve Ghosts was created by Nicholas Takowski.
That is a production of iHeart three D Audio and
Grim and Mild from Aaron Mankey. Learn more about the
show at Grim and Mild dot com and find more
podcasts from my Heart Radio by visiting the I Heart
(32:28):
Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to your
favorite shows.
Popular Podcasts
Crime Junkie
Does hearing about a true crime case always leave you scouring the internet for the truth behind the story? Dive into your next mystery with Crime Junkie. Every Monday, join your host Ashley Flowers as she unravels all the details of infamous and underreported true crime cases with her best friend Brit Prawat. From cold cases to missing persons and heroes in our community who seek justice, Crime Junkie is your destination for theories and stories you won’t hear anywhere else. Whether you're a seasoned true crime enthusiast or new to the genre, you'll find yourself on the edge of your seat awaiting a new episode every Monday. If you can never get enough true crime... Congratulations, you’ve found your people. Follow to join a community of Crime Junkies! Crime Junkie is presented by audiochuck Media Company.
24/7 News: The Latest
The latest news in 4 minutes updated every hour, every day.
Stuff You Should Know
If you've ever wanted to know about champagne, satanism, the Stonewall Uprising, chaos theory, LSD, El Nino, true crime and Rosa Parks, then look no further. Josh and Chuck have you covered.