August 23, 2023 • 22 mins
What would you do if you discovered a new path in a forest you know well? Would you ignore the warning signs or embark on a new adventure?
Jacqueline Gabbitas lives on a canal boat in the UK. She has published three short collections of poetry, Mid Lands (Hearing Eye), Earthworks and Small Grass (Stonewood Press) and her work has been featured in various magazines, including Poetry Review, anthologies such as the Forward Prize Anthology, and broadcast on BBC radio. She has won two Arts Council England awards, and is a Hawthornden Fellow. As a child, Jacqueline cut her teeth on ghost stories and fairytales (greedily reading the Armada Book of Ghost Stories, Poe, King, Koontz, Herbert and whoever she could get her hands on). During the first lockdown she returned to reading and writing ghost stories (especially focusing on stories written by women). She found it a way to try to understand the isolation and loss of contact many of us were feeling. Her stories can be found in New Ghost Stories IV (The Fiction Desk) and Unfeared: a podcast of ghost stories written by women, which she hosts. The ruins in ‘Forest House’ exist. So does the nail.
You can read "Forest House" at https://www.kaidankaistories.com.
Website: kaidankaistories.com
Follow us on:
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Jacqueline Gabbitas lives on a canal boat in the UK. She has published three short collections of poetry, Mid Lands (Hearing Eye), Earthworks and Small Grass (Stonewood Press) and her work has been featured in various magazines, including Poetry Review, anthologies such as the Forward Prize Anthology, and broadcast on BBC radio. She has won two Arts Council England awards, and is a Hawthornden Fellow. As a child, Jacqueline cut her teeth on ghost stories and fairytales (greedily reading the Armada Book of Ghost Stories, Poe, King, Koontz, Herbert and whoever she could get her hands on). During the first lockdown she returned to reading and writing ghost stories (especially focusing on stories written by women). She found it a way to try to understand the isolation and loss of contact many of us were feeling. Her stories can be found in New Ghost Stories IV (The Fiction Desk) and Unfeared: a podcast of ghost stories written by women, which she hosts. The ruins in ‘Forest House’ exist. So does the nail.
You can read "Forest House" at https://www.kaidankaistories.com.
Website: kaidankaistories.com
Follow us on:
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
(00:14):
Hello, and welcome to the kaidonKai, where we read a story about
the supernatural every week. I'm yourhost, Linda Gould, and I am
so so, so so so happyto present today's story. The winner of
the kaidon kais Haunted Horror Contest ForestHouse by Jacqueline Gabitis. Isn't walking through
(00:36):
the forest wonderful? Even a forestthat you know well, perhaps walk every
day, maybe even with your littledog, can offer something new, maybe
even a surprise or two, Likea path that you never noticed before,
a path that leads you to anew adventure, an adventure that may change
your life. Award winning author JacquelineGabits lives on a Canal Book in the
(01:00):
UK. She has published three shortcollections of poetry and her work has been
featured in various magazines. As achild, Jacqueline cut her teeth on ghost
stories and fairy tales during the FirstLockdown, she returned to reading and writing
ghost stories, especially focusing on storieswritten by women. It was a way
to understand the isolation and loss ofcontact that many of us were feeling.
(01:23):
She is the host of Unfeared,a podcast of ghost stories written by women
and the ruins and forest house exist, and so does the nail. And
now here is forest House by JacquelineGubtis and Joy. You know the forest
well. You walk it every day. Oh how you walk long, loping
(01:49):
strides when the summer sun is high, brisk steps kicking up leaves that litter
the floor brown and gold, andthose tiny careful footfalls crunching through snow in
the cary's stillness of winter. Youwalk it with your skin eyes knows the
minute, anvil and hammer in yourears, working hard to bring this farest
voice to a place so deep insideit's as if it has a language just
(02:14):
for you. This day, thesun is warm, spring has been in
sway for almost a month now,And yet you will wish you had not
left the house this morning. Youwill wish you hadn't trusted the direction the
little spaniel that you'd rescued from thedog's home four years ago had chosen to
take. You will even wish thatyou had never started on the game she
(02:38):
loves so much, the game inwhich, after she has fetched her ball
a dozen times or so, youask her which way should we go,
and every time, being a creatureof ritual and habit, and limping a
little in her aging bones. Shewill take the path to the left of
the great fir tree, the shortestpath back to the car and her dog
(02:59):
treats. Except to day she seesthat the gate across the main path is
open, and it is never open. She is a curious dog. You
find it charming how normally she dislikesthe gloom of the forest and will wait
for you to catch her up,for you to step ahead and show her
there's nothing to fear. The darkof the trees is empty of any danger,
(03:22):
but the chance of a snag ofa root, or thorns from brambles,
stings of nettles. Every time shedoes this, you smile, chat
away to her as if she werea child, cross her on the path,
and then anticipate the soft nudging onthe backs of your legs to say
that she is here and she isno longer afraid. You have never known
(03:43):
a dog like her, But nowthis path is open, broad and welcoming
to a curious dog with smells shehasn't savored before, markers from other dogs,
other beasts. She wants to knowwhat these markers mean. Her nose
twitches in time with the wagging ofher tail. This path is intriguing to
(04:04):
you. Also. You know theforest well, but you have never crossed
the borders of this gate before,not in half a decade. You ask
the dog her name is Sally,if she's taking you on an adventure,
not knowing as you do so thatthere is truth in it. Some adventures
(04:25):
should be left in books and onthe tongues of storytellers. The morning continues
with its warmth. The path isas wide as a tractor and you wonder
if, indeed tractors from the nearbyfarms had made use of it some long
while ago. There are runnelds,the breadth of tire tracks, overgrown with
grass, daisies and dandelions, butstill easy enough to see. You walk
(04:48):
in one, in fact, andyour feet look small. Sally amples a
good five meters ahead. You takeoff your jacket and tie it round your
waist. Soon you will know thisis a mistake. There seems no end
to the path. In the distance, you can see the village where your
house is, your little house withits uneven roof and stone walls. As
(05:12):
you walk, you think about thecarrots you've just planted, and the broadbeans
too, you'll need to net themagainst the mice that nest in the compost
heap, or else your harvest willbe small again this year. Except the
mice will not matter after today,and you will not taste those carrots off
the path or deer tracks and badgerytrails. This one barely a trace,
(05:34):
that one full of nettles, andthat other going in the wrong direction.
Sally stops at the edge of thepath and stares into the green depths of
the forest. She drops her ball. Her nose twitches ears too. She
barks once and sits waiting. Sheshares her glances between you and the trees.
Her tail is still as you approach, it starts slowly to wag,
(06:00):
carving out a fan in the dustof the path. You call her a
good dog, because she is agood dog. You stroke her head as
you say, which way now?She has stopped by a track, overgrown
but walkable. This way, youask, knowing there is no other.
It's too far to walk back,and Sally is tired, and your feet
(06:21):
ache. You wish you'd worn bettershoes. Sally picks up her ball,
drops it once more, rolls itin the dirt, and then picks it
up again. She likes this grubbyplay, even though it bemuses you.
But she likes it better when youtake the ball, slimy and wet,
from her maw and throw it farenough to fetch, but not too far
(06:43):
for it to be a chore.You reach out, but she snatches herself
away and heads into the forest.On the deer track. You stop.
You think you can hear something familiar. Deep. It sounds like the wind
in the trees, like bird's song, the scampering of squirrels, trundling of
(07:04):
ants and termites, moles digging seeds, falling blossoms breaking, like spiders burying
themselves in leaf mold, like caterpillarsdangling from birch branches. Like awe of
this and no one, single thingof it, Like a language just for
(07:25):
you, an entreaty. Oh,you will wish you had listened to it
instead. You follow your little dogalong the overgrown track, the brackens already
high, nettles fat with leaves,the tiny vicious hairs on their stems threatening.
As you walk on, arms raisedjust a little. You worry about
(07:46):
Sally's eyes, but she's already ameter ahead. Ferns and bramples thicken on
the edges of the track, thestealth of wild plants and spring as vigorous
and awesome. When the trail findsto almost thing, you pause. Sally
pauses too. The little dog isshivering. You see, hey, girl,
(08:07):
you say, and she wags hertail. But before you can touch
her, she's off. You smileat this, at how once she's outdoors
she'll never lets you pat her.But indoors she never leaves your side,
watches TV in your lap, sleepson your feet. At night. You
see her furs proud around her shoulders, and wonder at how excited she must
be by this new found territory.But you do not notice she's not once
(08:31):
sniffed the ground, or the grassor the trees. She is panting,
and so you think she must behot. You look up in order to
get your bearings. The car isthat way, you say. You will
wish you'd been more certain. Thetrees do not part in any wondrous fashion.
(08:52):
The house isn't revealed mysteriously. It'sjust there, rough red brick arched
lintels. A single rick engraved withthe name Sherwood Colliery hunkers alone on a
window ledge, window frames metal andwarped. You never knew there was a
house in this forest, but itmade sense. It was a forest as
(09:13):
old as the land, where huntershunted, lumberjacks lumbered, and people well.
You're not sure how people earn theirlivings from this place, only that
they must have wood gatherers, foragers, poachers. It made sense that there
would be a lodge for the squire, and later the steward. This is
exciting, a ruined old house inthe middle of your forest. Sally has
(09:37):
gone on ahead. You can't seeher anymore. The way to the house
is clear, the deer track mergingwith an old path that leads to a
doorway. There's still good oak inthe frame, but the door itself is
gone. The thresholds stone cracked andcrumbling. You crouch, all the better
to examine what kind of stone itis. A millipede scampers out. It's
(10:00):
red carapace shining in the gloom,two inches long and thick as a slip
of string, Its legs spiky andquick. You fall back, startled,
and catch yourself before your hand isscraped by a nail bent, blunt but
jagged and red as black blood.You stand up, but at the base
(10:20):
of your neck is a feeling youhaven't felt since you were twelve, tingling,
disorienting, almost painful. It spreadsaround your face, stings your eyes,
bleeds down your back, cold likerain and winter. It's the feeling
you used to have at the footof the stairs come bedtime, when the
lights on the landing didn't work andall that was ahead of you was darkness.
(10:46):
Sally, you call out, suddenly, nervous. You hear snuffling in
the background and her panting, steadyand familiar. You'll go and look for
her, but first you need toshake off the feeling that she isn't actually
here, that she died a yearago to the day. Sally, you
(11:07):
call again. The dog barks oncein response. The feeling vanishes, quick
as light. Ah, you letout a breath. I'm sure of how
long you were holding it. Youstep over the threshold of the ruined house
into a hallway. There's a mirrorto your left. When you look in
it, you can see yourself clearas nightmares, along with the rest of
(11:31):
the room behind you. Pictures onthe walls of men and women, a
dwardian and severe, a wooden staircasesconces, burning with little flames. You
turn around and it's all there,even a fireplace, its stack of wood
waiting to be burned, its wroughtiron hearth, black and patient. The
(11:54):
door covering the entryway is heavy,an oak pinned with iron clouts, and
through it you can see Sally crouchingon the other side, her head on
her paws, mithering and growling.The cramped little feeling comes back, gripping
the back of your neck. Yourfingers start to tinkle. Can I help
you? A woman is standing atyour side, her voice immediate and mallifluous.
(12:20):
It's as if you know her,You've always known her. Her voice
has the same tenor as your own, the same deep tone. There's even
that little lilt in the way sheends the question, that little pause midline.
You know she cannot be there.She isn't there, and yet you
can hear her as clear as thevoice in your head. You look at
(12:43):
her. She's smiling, her eyessharp and shining. In her hands is
a dish towel. She's wearing asimple cream suit. But you could have
sworn when she first spoke, yousaw out of the corner of your eye
that She was wearing a dress,old fashioned and blue with crinoline and hoop.
She has pale lips, glossed butalmost white. Her make up is
(13:07):
muted, and as with the door, you can see through her to the
trees of the forest, to Sally, cowering and angry. What you ask?
But the answer to this question isn'tsomething you need? Not what or
who or why or where? Buthow? How do you get out?
(13:30):
The woman is still smiling. It'sa flat smile, as if her lips
had been pulled at the edges.You cannot see her teeth. You don't
know why, but you want tosee her teeth. You want to see
them normal and white, shining withthe spit of a living person. Even
when she spoke, you couldn't seeher teeth. She speaks again. Is
(13:52):
there something you need? Need?You ask? And now the woman is
dressed all in black, a longdress almost to the floor, a veil
almost to the bottom of her chin. She's wearing gloves and in her hands
is a pair of secators. Whatare you doing in this house? She
(14:13):
asks? Why won't you speak tome? Her voice is strained, But
I am speaking, you say,Sallie's wines are painful in your ears.
She starts to howl. The womannotices her, steps to the door and
opens it. The door is stilloak, still pinned with iron clouds,
but the paint around its jam isnow the color of robin eggs, and
(14:35):
there's a fan of woven grass andpink flowers where the mirror should be.
Sallie doesn't move, no more howling, no more whining. The woman crouches,
and now she's wearing jeans and ajumper. She reaches out a hand
longer and fatter than you expect itto be. Hallo, she says to
(14:56):
the animal. Sallie's tail is stiff. Hey, you shout and step forward,
breaking some sort of spell. Nowthe woman is behind you. Ah,
there you are, she says.You can feel something real on your
neck. Cold. You turn.You want to turn quickly. You want
(15:18):
to show this woman that you arenot afraid. But your body is like
the rusted rudder on an ancient barge, moving in slow, wrenching jerks.
Your breath stays high in your chestas you face her. You've come back,
she says. She is so closeyou can't see her, only feel
(15:39):
her. Her breath is like thesmell of the churchyard in the village after
it rains. She is whiter thanits marble headstones. Where her eyes are
there is shadow, darkened by proximity. Her voice sweet envelops you back.
You say back, she answers,and you've brought your little dog again.
(16:03):
I see home. This isn't home, you say. Your voice is cracking
and uncertain, but you managed tokeep the two of you talking. You're
not sure that you want this conversation, but you are sure that if you
stop, that will be the endof it. Sally starts mithering again.
Don't be silly, says the woman, in a melodic whisper. This close
(16:29):
cold pours over the skin of yourface. I've never been here before.
You say, you were only hereyesterday. She snaps, yesterday, yes,
yes. She draws the word outas if she were tasting it.
I've never have you noticed, shesays, how the word yesterday starts on
(16:55):
a yes. I hadn't thought ofit, you say, isn't that delightful?
There's movement in the shadows of theface in front of you. She's
smiling again, you can tell byher voice. Sally's cries from over the
doorway, start up once more,angry, afraid, you step back.
(17:17):
If you can see the woman clearly, you think you will be able to
make sense of this. But witheach step you take, she is there,
the distance between you immutable. Youfeel like she's laughing at you.
What did we do? You say, firmly? Do? She asks,
and there is puzzlement in her voice. If I was here yesterday? What
did we do? Ah? Yes, yes, she says, I told
(17:41):
you about the ghosts. I toldyou, and you listened the ghosts,
the ghosts. Yes, you arebeing silly today, she says. The
air is suddenly freezing. You feelit in your throat, on the backs
of your wrists, on your cheeks. Could you could you tell me again?
(18:02):
You ask. You don't know howto escape this. All you know
is that you need to keep hertalking. This house is haunted, she
whispers. I see them at nightin the daytime, ghosts women, always
women, she says, now,her voice is hard. At the edges.
(18:22):
Do they frighten you? You ask? They used to, the woman
answers, and now sometimes she says, why are they here? This house
is haunted, she repeats, bythe houses it was built upon. I
don't understand, you say. Thewoman's face is impossible to read. I
(18:47):
see their deaths, she says.You see strangulation, child birth, poison,
old age, consumption, burning,burning, burning, flood. I
see them. The walls change,floors, trappings, but they they stay
the same. You've been moving slowly, but you pause. As she continues,
(19:14):
the heart of a woman my ownage caves in. She says.
She takes a day to die,and more than a week before they find
her. You don't know what tosay, so you say nothing. She
carries on, I'm never sure whenI will see them. When I'm baking,
reading, listening to music, whenI'm sewing, drawing, eating,
(19:36):
supper, cleaning draws them to me. So I've stopped cleaning quite so much.
Well what do you do? Youask? You're moving again, little
by little, now until your backis to the door. You can hear
the rigid strap stropping of Sally's tailbeyond the threshold. Such a hopeful sound
(19:56):
do, the woman asks, There'snothing I can do. I just have
to watch them. They don't speak, see, they make no sounds,
in fact, But now you're here, we can watch them together. Maybe
we could give them voices, andthere was glee in the woman's voice.
Maybe we could act out their deathswith them screaming and howling as they scream,
(20:18):
as they howl. Doesn't that soundfun? It sounds terrifying. You
say no, says the woman firmly, Not if we're together. You know
the threshold of the doors behind you. It's frame oaken, solid, even
though the reality of the door haslong since rotted. You know your dog
(20:41):
is beyond it, chattering and barking. Only a few moments ago, surely
only a few You saw a millipedecrawl from a crack in the flagstone.
It's carapace, shiny and red.You nearly cut your hand. You know
your forest is over that threshold,deep and green, and you stepped back
towards it, your jacket wrapped tightlyaround your waist, making a band of
(21:07):
sweat, even in the jellied air, snags on a blunt, rusty nail,
red as black blood, and inthe fractured light of the ruins,
it looked something like the long,fat finger of a woman's hand. This
(21:29):
story grabbed my attention from the firstsentence. It had atmosphere, mystery,
a cute little dog, and acharacter that I really related to, but
mostly it was just so beautifully written, and the pace kept me walking with
her, exploring with her, curiousto see what in the world was happening.
And I loved that the ending,too, was mysterious. When I
(21:49):
learned that the house and nail trulyexist, it was kind of exciting because
it showed so clearly how just somethingas simple as a nail could inspire a
story. So thank you Jacqueline fortaking us on a walk that was intriguing
and scary. This month we havetwo special episodes. So next week is
(22:10):
a blue moon, and it's fittingto feature a story about a romance that
only occurs once in a blue moon. The following day is a story that
marks the end of summer. Bothare outstanding stories that you will not want
to miss, So please subscribe tothe Kaien on Kai on your favorite podcast
platform. In fact, please tellyour friends and family about it. Short
(22:32):
story fiction podcasts are not as commonas true crime or true paranormal podcasts,
but they are such great entertainment andmore people should hear the stories that we
feature, So thank you so muchfor listening today, and I'll see you
next week.
Hello, and welcome to the kaidonKai, where we read a story about
the supernatural every week. I'm yourhost, Linda Gould, and I am
so so, so so so happyto present today's story. The winner of
the kaidon kais Haunted Horror Contest ForestHouse by Jacqueline Gabitis. Isn't walking through
(00:36):
the forest wonderful? Even a forestthat you know well, perhaps walk every
day, maybe even with your littledog, can offer something new, maybe
even a surprise or two, Likea path that you never noticed before,
a path that leads you to anew adventure, an adventure that may change
your life. Award winning author JacquelineGabits lives on a Canal Book in the
(01:00):
UK. She has published three shortcollections of poetry and her work has been
featured in various magazines. As achild, Jacqueline cut her teeth on ghost
stories and fairy tales during the FirstLockdown, she returned to reading and writing
ghost stories, especially focusing on storieswritten by women. It was a way
to understand the isolation and loss ofcontact that many of us were feeling.
(01:23):
She is the host of Unfeared,a podcast of ghost stories written by women
and the ruins and forest house exist, and so does the nail. And
now here is forest House by JacquelineGubtis and Joy. You know the forest
well. You walk it every day. Oh how you walk long, loping
(01:49):
strides when the summer sun is high, brisk steps kicking up leaves that litter
the floor brown and gold, andthose tiny careful footfalls crunching through snow in
the cary's stillness of winter. Youwalk it with your skin eyes knows the
minute, anvil and hammer in yourears, working hard to bring this farest
voice to a place so deep insideit's as if it has a language just
(02:14):
for you. This day, thesun is warm, spring has been in
sway for almost a month now,And yet you will wish you had not
left the house this morning. Youwill wish you hadn't trusted the direction the
little spaniel that you'd rescued from thedog's home four years ago had chosen to
take. You will even wish thatyou had never started on the game she
(02:38):
loves so much, the game inwhich, after she has fetched her ball
a dozen times or so, youask her which way should we go,
and every time, being a creatureof ritual and habit, and limping a
little in her aging bones. Shewill take the path to the left of
the great fir tree, the shortestpath back to the car and her dog
(02:59):
treats. Except to day she seesthat the gate across the main path is
open, and it is never open. She is a curious dog. You
find it charming how normally she dislikesthe gloom of the forest and will wait
for you to catch her up,for you to step ahead and show her
there's nothing to fear. The darkof the trees is empty of any danger,
(03:22):
but the chance of a snag ofa root, or thorns from brambles,
stings of nettles. Every time shedoes this, you smile, chat
away to her as if she werea child, cross her on the path,
and then anticipate the soft nudging onthe backs of your legs to say
that she is here and she isno longer afraid. You have never known
(03:43):
a dog like her, But nowthis path is open, broad and welcoming
to a curious dog with smells shehasn't savored before, markers from other dogs,
other beasts. She wants to knowwhat these markers mean. Her nose
twitches in time with the wagging ofher tail. This path is intriguing to
(04:04):
you. Also. You know theforest well, but you have never crossed
the borders of this gate before,not in half a decade. You ask
the dog her name is Sally,if she's taking you on an adventure,
not knowing as you do so thatthere is truth in it. Some adventures
(04:25):
should be left in books and onthe tongues of storytellers. The morning continues
with its warmth. The path isas wide as a tractor and you wonder
if, indeed tractors from the nearbyfarms had made use of it some long
while ago. There are runnelds,the breadth of tire tracks, overgrown with
grass, daisies and dandelions, butstill easy enough to see. You walk
(04:48):
in one, in fact, andyour feet look small. Sally amples a
good five meters ahead. You takeoff your jacket and tie it round your
waist. Soon you will know thisis a mistake. There seems no end
to the path. In the distance, you can see the village where your
house is, your little house withits uneven roof and stone walls. As
(05:12):
you walk, you think about thecarrots you've just planted, and the broadbeans
too, you'll need to net themagainst the mice that nest in the compost
heap, or else your harvest willbe small again this year. Except the
mice will not matter after today,and you will not taste those carrots off
the path or deer tracks and badgerytrails. This one barely a trace,
(05:34):
that one full of nettles, andthat other going in the wrong direction.
Sally stops at the edge of thepath and stares into the green depths of
the forest. She drops her ball. Her nose twitches ears too. She
barks once and sits waiting. Sheshares her glances between you and the trees.
Her tail is still as you approach, it starts slowly to wag,
(06:00):
carving out a fan in the dustof the path. You call her a
good dog, because she is agood dog. You stroke her head as
you say, which way now?She has stopped by a track, overgrown
but walkable. This way, youask, knowing there is no other.
It's too far to walk back,and Sally is tired, and your feet
(06:21):
ache. You wish you'd worn bettershoes. Sally picks up her ball,
drops it once more, rolls itin the dirt, and then picks it
up again. She likes this grubbyplay, even though it bemuses you.
But she likes it better when youtake the ball, slimy and wet,
from her maw and throw it farenough to fetch, but not too far
(06:43):
for it to be a chore.You reach out, but she snatches herself
away and heads into the forest.On the deer track. You stop.
You think you can hear something familiar. Deep. It sounds like the wind
in the trees, like bird's song, the scampering of squirrels, trundling of
(07:04):
ants and termites, moles digging seeds, falling blossoms breaking, like spiders burying
themselves in leaf mold, like caterpillarsdangling from birch branches. Like awe of
this and no one, single thingof it, Like a language just for
(07:25):
you, an entreaty. Oh,you will wish you had listened to it
instead. You follow your little dogalong the overgrown track, the brackens already
high, nettles fat with leaves,the tiny vicious hairs on their stems threatening.
As you walk on, arms raisedjust a little. You worry about
(07:46):
Sally's eyes, but she's already ameter ahead. Ferns and bramples thicken on
the edges of the track, thestealth of wild plants and spring as vigorous
and awesome. When the trail findsto almost thing, you pause. Sally
pauses too. The little dog isshivering. You see, hey, girl,
(08:07):
you say, and she wags hertail. But before you can touch
her, she's off. You smileat this, at how once she's outdoors
she'll never lets you pat her.But indoors she never leaves your side,
watches TV in your lap, sleepson your feet. At night. You
see her furs proud around her shoulders, and wonder at how excited she must
be by this new found territory.But you do not notice she's not once
(08:31):
sniffed the ground, or the grassor the trees. She is panting,
and so you think she must behot. You look up in order to
get your bearings. The car isthat way, you say. You will
wish you'd been more certain. Thetrees do not part in any wondrous fashion.
(08:52):
The house isn't revealed mysteriously. It'sjust there, rough red brick arched
lintels. A single rick engraved withthe name Sherwood Colliery hunkers alone on a
window ledge, window frames metal andwarped. You never knew there was a
house in this forest, but itmade sense. It was a forest as
(09:13):
old as the land, where huntershunted, lumberjacks lumbered, and people well.
You're not sure how people earn theirlivings from this place, only that
they must have wood gatherers, foragers, poachers. It made sense that there
would be a lodge for the squire, and later the steward. This is
exciting, a ruined old house inthe middle of your forest. Sally has
(09:37):
gone on ahead. You can't seeher anymore. The way to the house
is clear, the deer track mergingwith an old path that leads to a
doorway. There's still good oak inthe frame, but the door itself is
gone. The thresholds stone cracked andcrumbling. You crouch, all the better
to examine what kind of stone itis. A millipede scampers out. It's
(10:00):
red carapace shining in the gloom,two inches long and thick as a slip
of string, Its legs spiky andquick. You fall back, startled,
and catch yourself before your hand isscraped by a nail bent, blunt but
jagged and red as black blood.You stand up, but at the base
(10:20):
of your neck is a feeling youhaven't felt since you were twelve, tingling,
disorienting, almost painful. It spreadsaround your face, stings your eyes,
bleeds down your back, cold likerain and winter. It's the feeling
you used to have at the footof the stairs come bedtime, when the
lights on the landing didn't work andall that was ahead of you was darkness.
(10:46):
Sally, you call out, suddenly, nervous. You hear snuffling in
the background and her panting, steadyand familiar. You'll go and look for
her, but first you need toshake off the feeling that she isn't actually
here, that she died a yearago to the day. Sally, you
(11:07):
call again. The dog barks oncein response. The feeling vanishes, quick
as light. Ah, you letout a breath. I'm sure of how
long you were holding it. Youstep over the threshold of the ruined house
into a hallway. There's a mirrorto your left. When you look in
it, you can see yourself clearas nightmares, along with the rest of
(11:31):
the room behind you. Pictures onthe walls of men and women, a
dwardian and severe, a wooden staircasesconces, burning with little flames. You
turn around and it's all there,even a fireplace, its stack of wood
waiting to be burned, its wroughtiron hearth, black and patient. The
(11:54):
door covering the entryway is heavy,an oak pinned with iron clouts, and
through it you can see Sally crouchingon the other side, her head on
her paws, mithering and growling.The cramped little feeling comes back, gripping
the back of your neck. Yourfingers start to tinkle. Can I help
you? A woman is standing atyour side, her voice immediate and mallifluous.
(12:20):
It's as if you know her,You've always known her. Her voice
has the same tenor as your own, the same deep tone. There's even
that little lilt in the way sheends the question, that little pause midline.
You know she cannot be there.She isn't there, and yet you
can hear her as clear as thevoice in your head. You look at
(12:43):
her. She's smiling, her eyessharp and shining. In her hands is
a dish towel. She's wearing asimple cream suit. But you could have
sworn when she first spoke, yousaw out of the corner of your eye
that She was wearing a dress,old fashioned and blue with crinoline and hoop.
She has pale lips, glossed butalmost white. Her make up is
(13:07):
muted, and as with the door, you can see through her to the
trees of the forest, to Sally, cowering and angry. What you ask?
But the answer to this question isn'tsomething you need? Not what or
who or why or where? Buthow? How do you get out?
(13:30):
The woman is still smiling. It'sa flat smile, as if her lips
had been pulled at the edges.You cannot see her teeth. You don't
know why, but you want tosee her teeth. You want to see
them normal and white, shining withthe spit of a living person. Even
when she spoke, you couldn't seeher teeth. She speaks again. Is
(13:52):
there something you need? Need?You ask? And now the woman is
dressed all in black, a longdress almost to the floor, a veil
almost to the bottom of her chin. She's wearing gloves and in her hands
is a pair of secators. Whatare you doing in this house? She
(14:13):
asks? Why won't you speak tome? Her voice is strained, But
I am speaking, you say,Sallie's wines are painful in your ears.
She starts to howl. The womannotices her, steps to the door and
opens it. The door is stilloak, still pinned with iron clouds,
but the paint around its jam isnow the color of robin eggs, and
(14:35):
there's a fan of woven grass andpink flowers where the mirror should be.
Sallie doesn't move, no more howling, no more whining. The woman crouches,
and now she's wearing jeans and ajumper. She reaches out a hand
longer and fatter than you expect itto be. Hallo, she says to
(14:56):
the animal. Sallie's tail is stiff. Hey, you shout and step forward,
breaking some sort of spell. Nowthe woman is behind you. Ah,
there you are, she says.You can feel something real on your
neck. Cold. You turn.You want to turn quickly. You want
(15:18):
to show this woman that you arenot afraid. But your body is like
the rusted rudder on an ancient barge, moving in slow, wrenching jerks.
Your breath stays high in your chestas you face her. You've come back,
she says. She is so closeyou can't see her, only feel
(15:39):
her. Her breath is like thesmell of the churchyard in the village after
it rains. She is whiter thanits marble headstones. Where her eyes are
there is shadow, darkened by proximity. Her voice sweet envelops you back.
You say back, she answers,and you've brought your little dog again.
(16:03):
I see home. This isn't home, you say. Your voice is cracking
and uncertain, but you managed tokeep the two of you talking. You're
not sure that you want this conversation, but you are sure that if you
stop, that will be the endof it. Sally starts mithering again.
Don't be silly, says the woman, in a melodic whisper. This close
(16:29):
cold pours over the skin of yourface. I've never been here before.
You say, you were only hereyesterday. She snaps, yesterday, yes,
yes. She draws the word outas if she were tasting it.
I've never have you noticed, shesays, how the word yesterday starts on
(16:55):
a yes. I hadn't thought ofit, you say, isn't that delightful?
There's movement in the shadows of theface in front of you. She's
smiling again, you can tell byher voice. Sally's cries from over the
doorway, start up once more,angry, afraid, you step back.
(17:17):
If you can see the woman clearly, you think you will be able to
make sense of this. But witheach step you take, she is there,
the distance between you immutable. Youfeel like she's laughing at you.
What did we do? You say, firmly? Do? She asks,
and there is puzzlement in her voice. If I was here yesterday? What
did we do? Ah? Yes, yes, she says, I told
(17:41):
you about the ghosts. I toldyou, and you listened the ghosts,
the ghosts. Yes, you arebeing silly today, she says. The
air is suddenly freezing. You feelit in your throat, on the backs
of your wrists, on your cheeks. Could you could you tell me again?
(18:02):
You ask. You don't know howto escape this. All you know
is that you need to keep hertalking. This house is haunted, she
whispers. I see them at nightin the daytime, ghosts women, always
women, she says, now,her voice is hard. At the edges.
(18:22):
Do they frighten you? You ask? They used to, the woman
answers, and now sometimes she says, why are they here? This house
is haunted, she repeats, bythe houses it was built upon. I
don't understand, you say. Thewoman's face is impossible to read. I
(18:47):
see their deaths, she says.You see strangulation, child birth, poison,
old age, consumption, burning,burning, burning, flood. I
see them. The walls change,floors, trappings, but they they stay
the same. You've been moving slowly, but you pause. As she continues,
(19:14):
the heart of a woman my ownage caves in. She says.
She takes a day to die,and more than a week before they find
her. You don't know what tosay, so you say nothing. She
carries on, I'm never sure whenI will see them. When I'm baking,
reading, listening to music, whenI'm sewing, drawing, eating,
(19:36):
supper, cleaning draws them to me. So I've stopped cleaning quite so much.
Well what do you do? Youask? You're moving again, little
by little, now until your backis to the door. You can hear
the rigid strap stropping of Sally's tailbeyond the threshold. Such a hopeful sound
(19:56):
do, the woman asks, There'snothing I can do. I just have
to watch them. They don't speak, see, they make no sounds,
in fact, But now you're here, we can watch them together. Maybe
we could give them voices, andthere was glee in the woman's voice.
Maybe we could act out their deathswith them screaming and howling as they scream,
(20:18):
as they howl. Doesn't that soundfun? It sounds terrifying. You
say no, says the woman firmly, Not if we're together. You know
the threshold of the doors behind you. It's frame oaken, solid, even
though the reality of the door haslong since rotted. You know your dog
(20:41):
is beyond it, chattering and barking. Only a few moments ago, surely
only a few You saw a millipedecrawl from a crack in the flagstone.
It's carapace, shiny and red.You nearly cut your hand. You know
your forest is over that threshold,deep and green, and you stepped back
towards it, your jacket wrapped tightlyaround your waist, making a band of
(21:07):
sweat, even in the jellied air, snags on a blunt, rusty nail,
red as black blood, and inthe fractured light of the ruins,
it looked something like the long,fat finger of a woman's hand. This
(21:29):
story grabbed my attention from the firstsentence. It had atmosphere, mystery,
a cute little dog, and acharacter that I really related to, but
mostly it was just so beautifully written, and the pace kept me walking with
her, exploring with her, curiousto see what in the world was happening.
And I loved that the ending,too, was mysterious. When I
(21:49):
learned that the house and nail trulyexist, it was kind of exciting because
it showed so clearly how just somethingas simple as a nail could inspire a
story. So thank you Jacqueline fortaking us on a walk that was intriguing
and scary. This month we havetwo special episodes. So next week is
(22:10):
a blue moon, and it's fittingto feature a story about a romance that
only occurs once in a blue moon. The following day is a story that
marks the end of summer. Bothare outstanding stories that you will not want
to miss, So please subscribe tothe Kaien on Kai on your favorite podcast
platform. In fact, please tellyour friends and family about it. Short
(22:32):
story fiction podcasts are not as commonas true crime or true paranormal podcasts,
but they are such great entertainment andmore people should hear the stories that we
feature, So thank you so muchfor listening today, and I'll see you
next week.
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