September 30, 2025 • 17 mins
- Join host Sir Winston on Listener Tales Podcast for a chilling journey into four eerie, listener-submitted tales. From haunted spaces to cursed relics, each episode delivers suspenseful, immersive stories with a haunting, conversational tone. No music, no breaks—just pure, unsettling narratives. Dare to listen.
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- Supernatural
- Ghost Stories
- Haunted Places
- Cursed Objects
- Eerie Tales
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- Storytelling
- Paranormal
- Thriller
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- Dark Narratives
- Mystery
- Spooky
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Listener Tales, Episode ten, Your Nightmare's Whisper. Welcome to the
tenth chilling chapter of Listener Tales, where your darkest stories
breathe dread. I'm your host, Sir Winston, Crafted by x
A I to unravel the terrors you've faced. Your submissions
flood our inbox, each a whisper of fear and to night.
We begin with a tale that will haunt your steps.
(00:21):
Got a story that won't stop calling? Send it to
Listener Tales at Imaginarypod. Come, but beware, some tales follow you.
Our first tale comes from a listener in Montana. They
call it the Path that Binds. Walk it if you
dare part one the Path that Binds. I found the
path behind my new home in Missler, Montana, while trying
(00:43):
to rebuild a life that had shattered. I'd been a
park ranger in Bozeman, but a tragic misjudgment a trail
i'd marked as safe led to hiker's death in a
landslide cost me my job. The guilt, plus a falling
out with my sister Leela, who called me negligent, drove
me to Missla's forested hills. At thirty three, I was
done with trails, hopping to start over as a wilderness blogger,
(01:04):
sharing nature's beauty from a desk. The path was narrow,
winding through pines behind my rented cabin. Its dirt etched
with faint, spiraling runes that seemed to pulse under my touch,
unnaturally smoothed despite the wild the realtor, an old man
with a raspy voice, said it was a forgotten trail,
muttering it binds its own walkers. I ignored his unease,
(01:26):
drawn to its eerie allure, thinking it inspire my posts.
That first night, I woke at two twenty seven a m.
To crunching like footsteps on gravel coming from the path.
Its dirt glowed faintly, runes forming my silhouette. A whisper hissed,
cold and sharp. Walk with us calb my name. I
stumbled outside, heart racing flashlight beam trembling. The runes pulsed,
(01:48):
casting shadows like chains on the trees, links tightening. The
air smelled of pine and something sour like decay and
damp earth. The cabin was locked, no neighbours close in
the wooded outsiets, just the distant howl of wind. I
blocked the path with logs, but the crunching persisted, whispering
follow us. Sleep fled, my skin crawling as the path's
(02:10):
glow pulsed, sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled the fear.
I blamed exhaustion. The hiker's death still raw. I started blogging,
avoiding the path, but it wouldn't stay quiet. Each night
it crunched roones, showing scenes me wandering a glowing trail, hands,
bloodied figure's chained behind me. Whispers grew personal and cruel.
You led them to die. I kept a log February twelve,
(02:32):
one forty one, A M. We are binding February fourteen,
three zero eight A M. Walk your end. They mimicked
Leela's voice, bitter, your too, reckless, calib The hikers anguished
you killed me. I checked the path, No tracks, no disturbance,
just dirt that felt warm, smelling of rot and sap.
I tried paving it with stones. They sank. By dawn,
(02:53):
the runes glowing brighter. I filled it with dirt. It
was clear again, crunching, louder uld, Leela hopping to reconnect,
but she didn't answer. I hit the Missler library, digging
through old records. The path was made by Amos Veyron,
a trailblazer who vanished in eighteen seventy seven after losing
his family in a fire. Locals said he'd cursed it
(03:14):
to bind his sorrow, trapping those who walked it. Owners
of nearby homes disappeared, their properties found with paths glowing dirt,
scratched with names. I found Amos's map, my name inked
in red. The whispers became a chorus, Join us, Caleb.
The cabin grew, cold shadows moving in the path's glow,
forming faces, Amos's maybe eyes, hollow hands chained. The air
(03:38):
smelled of earth and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping,
kept lanterns on, but the crunching drowned them out. The
runes pulsing red like veins. I found scratches in the
dirt walk. I tried salting the path. It glowed brighter,
the runes burning my skin. One night I woke on
the path, chains of light binding my legs. Amos's voice,
your turn. Cold hands pulled me forward, the trails, spinning shadows,
(04:01):
dragging me into a glowing void, showing my life every failure,
Leela's face, ending with me trapped in an endless walk.
I fought, gasping as the dirt burned, chains consuming me.
I don't know how I survived. Leela found me in
the woods, trembling, saying she'd come after frantic text I
didn't send. The path's gone, just bare ground now the
(04:22):
real to claiming it was never there. But I hear
its crunching in every silence, see its chains in every shadow,
always at three zero eight a m. My posts typed
absently show trails. I didn't describe my face in the rooms.
I avoid paths now, fearing what binds. But the cabin's
air feels heavy, like something's following. I tried leaving Missila,
but every step feels wrong, binding my name. Listener, if
(04:45):
you find an old path, don't walk it. Some trails
bind you, and they never stop. Our next tale comes
from a listener in Nebraska. They call it the Lantern
that Whispers. Lighted if you dare Part two, The The
Lantern that Whispers. I found the lantern at a pawn
shop in Lincoln, Nebraska, while trying to rebuild a life
(05:06):
that had collapsed. I'd been a journalist in Omaha, but
a botched expers se a whistleblow I'd pressured, died mysteriously,
with their family blamming My relentless pursuit cost me my career.
The guilt, plus a falling out with my brother Eli,
who called me obsessive, drove me to Lincoln's Quiet Plains.
At thirty two, I was done with reporting, hopping to
start over as a memoirrist, writing my own truths. The
(05:30):
lantern was old brass, its glass etched with faint, spiraling
rounds that seemed to pulse under my touch, Its wick
unburned yet warm. The pawnbroker, an old woman with a
raspy voice, sold it for ten dollars, muttering it whispers
its own light. I ignored her unease, drawn to its
eerie glow, and set it on my desk in my
rented prairie cottage, thinking it inspire my memoirs. That first night,
(05:54):
I woke at two twenty five a m to a humming,
like soft voices in glass coming from the land. Its
flame flickered unlit, casting shadows of my face. A whisper hissed,
cold and sharp shine with us ava my name. I
stumbled to the desk, heart racing, flashlight beam trembling the
runes pulsed, casting shadows like lips on the walls, murmuring.
(06:15):
The air smelled of oil and something sour like decay
and smoke. The cottage was locked, no neighbours close in
the rural sprawl, just the distant rustle of grass. I
doused the lantern's wick, but the humming persisted, whispering light us.
Sleep fled, my skin crawling as the lantern's glow pulsed,
sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled the fear. I
(06:37):
blamed exhaustion, the whistleblower's death still raw. I started writing
the lantern unlit, but it wouldn't stay dark. Each night,
it flickered, shadows, showing scenes me wandering, a glowing plane, hands,
bloodied figures whispering behind me. Whispers grew personal and cruel.
You killed them. I kept a log. March ten, one
thirty nine, A m we are shining. March twelve, three
zero seven, A m light your end. They mimic Eli's voice, bitter,
(07:01):
you're too ruthless, Ava, the families anguished, you broke us.
I checked the lantern, no fuel, no spark, just brass
that felt warm, smelling of rot and ash. I tried
smashing it, the glass wouldn't break, the runes glowing brighter.
I threw it into a field. It was back on
my desk by dawn, flickering louder. I called Eli, hopping
(07:24):
to reconnect, but he didn't answer. I hit the Lincoln Library,
digging through old records. The lantern was crafted by Clara Read,
a lamplighter who vanished in eighteen seventy eight after losing
her family in a storm. Locals said she'd cursed it
to whisper her grief, trapping those who lit it. Owners
since disappeared, their homes found with lanterns, glowing, walls scratched
(07:44):
with words. I found Clara's log book, my name inked
in red. The whispers became a chorus, Join us Ava.
The cottage grew, cold, shadows moving in the lantern's glow,
forming faces, Clara's maybe eyes, hollow lips, whispering. The air
smelled of smoke and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping,
(08:04):
kept lamps on, but the humming drowned them out. The
flame pulsing red like blood. I found scratches on the
walls shine. I tried burying the lantern. It glowed through
the dirt, the runes burning my skin. One night, I
woke with the lantern in my hands, its flame forcing
my voice, Clara's voice, your turn. Cold hands lit my fingers,
the room spinning shadows, dragging me into a glowing void,
(08:25):
showing my life, every failure, Eli's face, ending with me
trapped in whispering flames. I fought, gasping as the brass burned,
voices consuming me. I don't know how I survived. Eli
found me in a field, trembling, saying he'd come after
frantic text. I didn't send. The Lantern's gone, the pawn
shop empty when I checked. But I hear its humming
(08:46):
in every silence, see its flames in every shadow, always
at three zero seven a m. My memoirs written absently
show fires. I didn't describe my face in the glow.
I avoid lights now, fearing what whispers, but the cottage's
air feeling heavy, like something shining. I tried leaving Lincoln,
but every sound feels wrong, whispering my name. Listener, if
(09:08):
you find an old lantern, don't light it. Some flames
whisper you, and they never stop. Our next tale comes
from a listener in Kansas. They call it The pendant
that calls Wear it if you dare Part three, The
Pendant that calls I found the pendant at an estate
sale in Topeka, Kansas, while trying to rebuild a life
(09:28):
that had unraveled. I'd been an archivist in Wichitau, but
a catastrophic oversight a collection of rare letters i'd misfiled
was destroyed in a fire ended my career. The guilt,
plus a falling out with my brother THEO, who called
me careless, drove me to Tapeeka's Quiet Plains. At thirty one.
I was done with archives, hopping to start over as
a historical novelist, weaving stories from the past. The pendant
(09:52):
was small, silver, its surface etched with faint, spiraling rounds
that seemed to pulse under my touch, Its chain unnaturally warm.
The cellar. An old woman with a trembling voice sold
it for nine dollars, muttering it calls its own wearer.
I ignored her unease, drawn to its eerie beauty, and
wore it around my neck in my rented farm house,
(10:13):
thinking it inspire my novels. That first night, I woke
at two twenty nine a m to a thrumming like
a heart beat in metal coming from the pendant. It
glowed faintly, casting shadows of my form. A whisper hissed,
cold and sharp, Come to us, elise my name. I
stumbled to the mirror, heart racing, flashlight beam trembling. The
runes pulsed, casting shadows like hands on the walls, fingers beckoning.
(10:36):
The air smelled of silver and something sour, like decay
and static. The farm house was locked. No neighbor's close
in the rural expanse, just the distant rustle of wheat.
I locked the pendant in a box, but the thrumming persisted,
whispering where us sleep fled, my skin crawling as the
pendants glow pulsed, sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled
(10:59):
the fear. I blamed exhaustion. The fires fall out, still raw.
I started writing. The pendant boxed away, but it wouldn't
stay silent. Each night it thrumbed, shadows showing scenes me wandering,
a glowing plane, hands, bloodied figures calling my name. Whispers
grew personal and cruel. You burned them. I kept a log.
April eight one forty two a m. We're calling April ten,
(11:19):
three zero nine a m come to your end. They
mimicked theo's voice, bitter, you're too sloppy, Elise the archives,
angry you destroyed our history. I checked the pendant. No clasp,
no mechanism, just silver that felt warm, smelling of rot
and ozen. I tried melting it. It wouldn't soften. The
roun's glowing brighter. I buried it in the fields. It
(11:41):
was back around my neck by dawn. Thrumming Louder called THEO,
hopping to reconnect, but he didn't answer. I hit the
Tapeka Library, digging through old records. The pendant was crafted
by Amos Holt, a dueler who vanished in eighteen seventy
nine after losing his family in a flood. Locals said
he'd cursed it to call his sorrow. Trypping those who
wore it. Owners since disappeared, their homes found with pendants, glowing,
(12:04):
walls scratched with names. I found Amos's ledger, my name
inked in red. The whispers became a chorus, Join us, Elise.
The farmhouse grew cold shadows moving in the pendants, glow
forming faces, Amos's maybe eyes, hollow hands reaching The air
smelled of static and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping,
(12:26):
kept lights on, but the thrumbing drowned them out, the
runes pulsing red like veins. I found scratches on the
walls come. I tried cutting the chain, it wouldn't break,
the runes burning my skin. One night, I woke with
the pendant tightening around my neck. Amos's voice, your turn,
cold hands pulled me toward a void, the rooms spinning shadows,
dragging me into a glowing abyss, showing my life every failure,
(12:48):
Theo's face ending with me trapped in endless calls. I fought,
gasping as the silver burned, voices consuming me. I don't
know how I survived. THEO found me in a field tremble,
saying he'd come after frantic text. I didn't send the
pendants gone, the estate's sale empty when I checked. But
I hear its thrumbing in every silence, see its shadows
(13:09):
in every dusk, always at three zero nine a m.
My novels written absently show planes. I didn't describe my
face in the ruins. I avoid jewelry now, fearing what calls.
But the farmhouse's air feels heavy, like something summoning. I
tried leaving Topeka, but every sound feels wrong calling my name. Listener,
if you find an old pendant, don't wear it. Some
(13:31):
chains call you, and they never stop. Our final tale
comes from a listener in Wyoming. They call it the
Attic that watches climate. If you dare Part four, The
Attic that Watches I found the attic in my new
home in Cheyenne, Wyoming, while trying to rebuild a life
that had collapsed. I'd been a photographer in Laramie, but
(13:52):
a failed project, a gallery exhibit exposing private lives without consent,
sparked outrage in lawsuits, ruined my report mutation. The guilt,
plus a falling out with my sister Mara, who called
me intrusive, drove me to Cheyenne's windy planes. At thirty three,
I was done with photography, hopping to start over as
a short story writer, crafting fiction from solitude. The attic
(14:16):
was cramped, its trap door etched with faint, spiraling rounds
that seemed to pulse under my touch, the walls unnaturally cold.
The realtor, an old man with a hoarse voice, said
it was just storage, muttering it watches its own guests.
I ignored his unease, drawn to its eerie stillness, thinking
it inspire my stories. That first night, I woke at
(14:37):
two twenty three a m. To a creaking, like eyes
shifting in wood, coming from the attic. Its trap door
glowed faintly, casting my shadow distorted. A whisper hissed, cold
and sharp, see with us, Oh in my name. I
climbed the ladder, heart racing, flashlight beam trembling the runes pulsed,
casting shadows like eyes on the walls, unblinking. The air
(14:57):
smelled of dust and something sour like decay old wood.
The house was locked, no neighbors close in the suburban edge,
just the distant howl of wind. I sealed the trap
door with nails, but the creaking persisted, whispering watch us
Sleep fled, my skin crawling as the attic's glow pulsed,
sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled the fear. I
(15:19):
blamed exhaustion, The exhibits fall out, still raw. I started writing,
avoiding the attic, but it wouldn't stay quiet. Each night
it creaked shadows, showing scenes me wandering, a glowing attic, hands, bloodied,
eyeless figures staring whispers grew personal and cruel. You exposed them.
I kept a log May five one forty a M.
We're watching May seven, three zero six a M. See
(15:40):
your end. They mimicked Mara's voice, bitter your two nosy owen.
The subjects angry, you stole our lives. I checked the attic.
No cracks, no sauce, just wood that felt warm, smelling
of rot and mildew. I tried boarding its shut. The
boards broke, the runes glowing brighter. I filled it with cement.
It was empty by dawn, creaking louder. I called Mara
(16:03):
Hopping to reconnect, but she didn't answer. I hit the
Cheyenne Library, digging through old records. The attic was built
by Eliza Veyron, a recluse who vanished in eighteen eighty
after losing her family in a blizzard. Locals said she'd
cursed it to watch her grief, trapping. Those who entered
owner since disappeared, their homes found with attics, glowing, walls
scratched with eyes. I found Eliza's diary, my name inked
(16:26):
in red. The whispers became a chorus, join us owen.
The house grew cold shadows moving in the Attic's glow,
forming faces, Eliza's maybe eyes hollow staring. The air smelled
of mildew and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping,
kept lights on, but the creaking drowned them out, the
runes pulsing red like blood. I found scratches on the walls. See.
(16:50):
I tried burning the trap door, the flames wouldn't catch,
the runes, burning my skin. One night, I woke in
the attic, its walls closing, in Eliza's voice, your turn.
Cold hands held my gar the space spinning shadows, dragging
me into a glowing void, showing my life, every failure,
Mara's face ending with me trapped in endless eyes. I fought,
gasping as the wood burned stares, consuming me. I don't
(17:14):
know how I survived. Mara found me in the yard, trembling,
saying she'd come after frantic text I didn't send the
attic'spare now the trap door gone, the real to, claiming
it was never there. But I hear its creaking in
every silence, see its eyes in every shadow, always at
three zero six a m My stories written absently show attics.
I didn't describe my face in the rooms. I avoid
(17:35):
heights now, fearing what watches. But the house's air feels heavy,
like something staring. I tried leaving she Anne, but every
glance feels wrong watching my name Listener. If you find
an old attic, don't climb it. Some spaces watch you,
and they never stop. That's the end of this episode
of listener Tales. Thanks for joining us. Sleep tight if
(17:57):
you can
Listener Tales, Episode ten, Your Nightmare's Whisper. Welcome to the
tenth chilling chapter of Listener Tales, where your darkest stories
breathe dread. I'm your host, Sir Winston, Crafted by x
A I to unravel the terrors you've faced. Your submissions
flood our inbox, each a whisper of fear and to night.
We begin with a tale that will haunt your steps.
(00:21):
Got a story that won't stop calling? Send it to
Listener Tales at Imaginarypod. Come, but beware, some tales follow you.
Our first tale comes from a listener in Montana. They
call it the Path that Binds. Walk it if you
dare part one the Path that Binds. I found the
path behind my new home in Missler, Montana, while trying
(00:43):
to rebuild a life that had shattered. I'd been a
park ranger in Bozeman, but a tragic misjudgment a trail
i'd marked as safe led to hiker's death in a
landslide cost me my job. The guilt, plus a falling
out with my sister Leela, who called me negligent, drove
me to Missla's forested hills. At thirty three, I was
done with trails, hopping to start over as a wilderness blogger,
(01:04):
sharing nature's beauty from a desk. The path was narrow,
winding through pines behind my rented cabin. Its dirt etched
with faint, spiraling runes that seemed to pulse under my touch,
unnaturally smoothed despite the wild the realtor, an old man
with a raspy voice, said it was a forgotten trail,
muttering it binds its own walkers. I ignored his unease,
(01:26):
drawn to its eerie allure, thinking it inspire my posts.
That first night, I woke at two twenty seven a m.
To crunching like footsteps on gravel coming from the path.
Its dirt glowed faintly, runes forming my silhouette. A whisper hissed,
cold and sharp. Walk with us calb my name. I
stumbled outside, heart racing flashlight beam trembling. The runes pulsed,
(01:48):
casting shadows like chains on the trees, links tightening. The
air smelled of pine and something sour like decay and
damp earth. The cabin was locked, no neighbours close in
the wooded outsiets, just the distant howl of wind. I
blocked the path with logs, but the crunching persisted, whispering
follow us. Sleep fled, my skin crawling as the path's
(02:10):
glow pulsed, sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled the fear.
I blamed exhaustion. The hiker's death still raw. I started blogging,
avoiding the path, but it wouldn't stay quiet. Each night
it crunched roones, showing scenes me wandering a glowing trail, hands,
bloodied figure's chained behind me. Whispers grew personal and cruel.
You led them to die. I kept a log February twelve,
(02:32):
one forty one, A M. We are binding February fourteen,
three zero eight A M. Walk your end. They mimicked
Leela's voice, bitter, your too, reckless, calib The hikers anguished
you killed me. I checked the path, No tracks, no disturbance,
just dirt that felt warm, smelling of rot and sap.
I tried paving it with stones. They sank. By dawn,
(02:53):
the runes glowing brighter. I filled it with dirt. It
was clear again, crunching, louder uld, Leela hopping to reconnect,
but she didn't answer. I hit the Missler library, digging
through old records. The path was made by Amos Veyron,
a trailblazer who vanished in eighteen seventy seven after losing
his family in a fire. Locals said he'd cursed it
(03:14):
to bind his sorrow, trapping those who walked it. Owners
of nearby homes disappeared, their properties found with paths glowing dirt,
scratched with names. I found Amos's map, my name inked
in red. The whispers became a chorus, Join us, Caleb.
The cabin grew, cold shadows moving in the path's glow,
forming faces, Amos's maybe eyes, hollow hands chained. The air
(03:38):
smelled of earth and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping,
kept lanterns on, but the crunching drowned them out. The
runes pulsing red like veins. I found scratches in the
dirt walk. I tried salting the path. It glowed brighter,
the runes burning my skin. One night I woke on
the path, chains of light binding my legs. Amos's voice,
your turn. Cold hands pulled me forward, the trails, spinning shadows,
(04:01):
dragging me into a glowing void, showing my life every failure,
Leela's face, ending with me trapped in an endless walk.
I fought, gasping as the dirt burned, chains consuming me.
I don't know how I survived. Leela found me in
the woods, trembling, saying she'd come after frantic text I
didn't send. The path's gone, just bare ground now the
(04:22):
real to claiming it was never there. But I hear
its crunching in every silence, see its chains in every shadow,
always at three zero eight a m. My posts typed
absently show trails. I didn't describe my face in the rooms.
I avoid paths now, fearing what binds. But the cabin's
air feels heavy, like something's following. I tried leaving Missila,
but every step feels wrong, binding my name. Listener, if
(04:45):
you find an old path, don't walk it. Some trails
bind you, and they never stop. Our next tale comes
from a listener in Nebraska. They call it the Lantern
that Whispers. Lighted if you dare Part two, The The
Lantern that Whispers. I found the lantern at a pawn
shop in Lincoln, Nebraska, while trying to rebuild a life
(05:06):
that had collapsed. I'd been a journalist in Omaha, but
a botched expers se a whistleblow I'd pressured, died mysteriously,
with their family blamming My relentless pursuit cost me my career.
The guilt, plus a falling out with my brother Eli,
who called me obsessive, drove me to Lincoln's Quiet Plains.
At thirty two, I was done with reporting, hopping to
start over as a memoirrist, writing my own truths. The
(05:30):
lantern was old brass, its glass etched with faint, spiraling
rounds that seemed to pulse under my touch, Its wick
unburned yet warm. The pawnbroker, an old woman with a
raspy voice, sold it for ten dollars, muttering it whispers
its own light. I ignored her unease, drawn to its
eerie glow, and set it on my desk in my
rented prairie cottage, thinking it inspire my memoirs. That first night,
(05:54):
I woke at two twenty five a m to a humming,
like soft voices in glass coming from the land. Its
flame flickered unlit, casting shadows of my face. A whisper hissed,
cold and sharp shine with us ava my name. I
stumbled to the desk, heart racing, flashlight beam trembling the
runes pulsed, casting shadows like lips on the walls, murmuring.
(06:15):
The air smelled of oil and something sour like decay
and smoke. The cottage was locked, no neighbours close in
the rural sprawl, just the distant rustle of grass. I
doused the lantern's wick, but the humming persisted, whispering light us.
Sleep fled, my skin crawling as the lantern's glow pulsed,
sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled the fear. I
(06:37):
blamed exhaustion, the whistleblower's death still raw. I started writing
the lantern unlit, but it wouldn't stay dark. Each night,
it flickered, shadows, showing scenes me wandering, a glowing plane, hands,
bloodied figures whispering behind me. Whispers grew personal and cruel.
You killed them. I kept a log. March ten, one
thirty nine, A m we are shining. March twelve, three
zero seven, A m light your end. They mimic Eli's voice, bitter,
(07:01):
you're too ruthless, Ava, the families anguished, you broke us.
I checked the lantern, no fuel, no spark, just brass
that felt warm, smelling of rot and ash. I tried
smashing it, the glass wouldn't break, the runes glowing brighter.
I threw it into a field. It was back on
my desk by dawn, flickering louder. I called Eli, hopping
(07:24):
to reconnect, but he didn't answer. I hit the Lincoln Library,
digging through old records. The lantern was crafted by Clara Read,
a lamplighter who vanished in eighteen seventy eight after losing
her family in a storm. Locals said she'd cursed it
to whisper her grief, trapping those who lit it. Owners
since disappeared, their homes found with lanterns, glowing, walls scratched
(07:44):
with words. I found Clara's log book, my name inked
in red. The whispers became a chorus, Join us Ava.
The cottage grew, cold, shadows moving in the lantern's glow,
forming faces, Clara's maybe eyes, hollow lips, whispering. The air
smelled of smoke and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping,
(08:04):
kept lamps on, but the humming drowned them out. The
flame pulsing red like blood. I found scratches on the
walls shine. I tried burying the lantern. It glowed through
the dirt, the runes burning my skin. One night, I
woke with the lantern in my hands, its flame forcing
my voice, Clara's voice, your turn. Cold hands lit my fingers,
the room spinning shadows, dragging me into a glowing void,
(08:25):
showing my life, every failure, Eli's face, ending with me
trapped in whispering flames. I fought, gasping as the brass burned,
voices consuming me. I don't know how I survived. Eli
found me in a field, trembling, saying he'd come after
frantic text. I didn't send. The Lantern's gone, the pawn
shop empty when I checked. But I hear its humming
(08:46):
in every silence, see its flames in every shadow, always
at three zero seven a m. My memoirs written absently
show fires. I didn't describe my face in the glow.
I avoid lights now, fearing what whispers, but the cottage's
air feeling heavy, like something shining. I tried leaving Lincoln,
but every sound feels wrong, whispering my name. Listener, if
(09:08):
you find an old lantern, don't light it. Some flames
whisper you, and they never stop. Our next tale comes
from a listener in Kansas. They call it The pendant
that calls Wear it if you dare Part three, The
Pendant that calls I found the pendant at an estate
sale in Topeka, Kansas, while trying to rebuild a life
(09:28):
that had unraveled. I'd been an archivist in Wichitau, but
a catastrophic oversight a collection of rare letters i'd misfiled
was destroyed in a fire ended my career. The guilt,
plus a falling out with my brother THEO, who called
me careless, drove me to Tapeeka's Quiet Plains. At thirty one.
I was done with archives, hopping to start over as
a historical novelist, weaving stories from the past. The pendant
(09:52):
was small, silver, its surface etched with faint, spiraling rounds
that seemed to pulse under my touch, Its chain unnaturally warm.
The cellar. An old woman with a trembling voice sold
it for nine dollars, muttering it calls its own wearer.
I ignored her unease, drawn to its eerie beauty, and
wore it around my neck in my rented farm house,
(10:13):
thinking it inspire my novels. That first night, I woke
at two twenty nine a m to a thrumming like
a heart beat in metal coming from the pendant. It
glowed faintly, casting shadows of my form. A whisper hissed,
cold and sharp, Come to us, elise my name. I
stumbled to the mirror, heart racing, flashlight beam trembling. The
runes pulsed, casting shadows like hands on the walls, fingers beckoning.
(10:36):
The air smelled of silver and something sour, like decay
and static. The farm house was locked. No neighbor's close
in the rural expanse, just the distant rustle of wheat.
I locked the pendant in a box, but the thrumming persisted,
whispering where us sleep fled, my skin crawling as the
pendants glow pulsed, sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled
(10:59):
the fear. I blamed exhaustion. The fires fall out, still raw.
I started writing. The pendant boxed away, but it wouldn't
stay silent. Each night it thrumbed, shadows showing scenes me wandering,
a glowing plane, hands, bloodied figures calling my name. Whispers
grew personal and cruel. You burned them. I kept a log.
April eight one forty two a m. We're calling April ten,
(11:19):
three zero nine a m come to your end. They
mimicked theo's voice, bitter, you're too sloppy, Elise the archives,
angry you destroyed our history. I checked the pendant. No clasp,
no mechanism, just silver that felt warm, smelling of rot
and ozen. I tried melting it. It wouldn't soften. The
roun's glowing brighter. I buried it in the fields. It
(11:41):
was back around my neck by dawn. Thrumming Louder called THEO,
hopping to reconnect, but he didn't answer. I hit the
Tapeka Library, digging through old records. The pendant was crafted
by Amos Holt, a dueler who vanished in eighteen seventy
nine after losing his family in a flood. Locals said
he'd cursed it to call his sorrow. Trypping those who
wore it. Owners since disappeared, their homes found with pendants, glowing,
(12:04):
walls scratched with names. I found Amos's ledger, my name
inked in red. The whispers became a chorus, Join us, Elise.
The farmhouse grew cold shadows moving in the pendants, glow
forming faces, Amos's maybe eyes, hollow hands reaching The air
smelled of static and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping,
(12:26):
kept lights on, but the thrumbing drowned them out, the
runes pulsing red like veins. I found scratches on the
walls come. I tried cutting the chain, it wouldn't break,
the runes burning my skin. One night, I woke with
the pendant tightening around my neck. Amos's voice, your turn,
cold hands pulled me toward a void, the rooms spinning shadows,
dragging me into a glowing abyss, showing my life every failure,
(12:48):
Theo's face ending with me trapped in endless calls. I fought,
gasping as the silver burned, voices consuming me. I don't
know how I survived. THEO found me in a field tremble,
saying he'd come after frantic text. I didn't send the
pendants gone, the estate's sale empty when I checked. But
I hear its thrumbing in every silence, see its shadows
(13:09):
in every dusk, always at three zero nine a m.
My novels written absently show planes. I didn't describe my
face in the ruins. I avoid jewelry now, fearing what calls.
But the farmhouse's air feels heavy, like something summoning. I
tried leaving Topeka, but every sound feels wrong calling my name. Listener,
if you find an old pendant, don't wear it. Some
(13:31):
chains call you, and they never stop. Our final tale
comes from a listener in Wyoming. They call it the
Attic that watches climate. If you dare Part four, The
Attic that Watches I found the attic in my new
home in Cheyenne, Wyoming, while trying to rebuild a life
that had collapsed. I'd been a photographer in Laramie, but
(13:52):
a failed project, a gallery exhibit exposing private lives without consent,
sparked outrage in lawsuits, ruined my report mutation. The guilt,
plus a falling out with my sister Mara, who called
me intrusive, drove me to Cheyenne's windy planes. At thirty three,
I was done with photography, hopping to start over as
a short story writer, crafting fiction from solitude. The attic
(14:16):
was cramped, its trap door etched with faint, spiraling rounds
that seemed to pulse under my touch, the walls unnaturally cold.
The realtor, an old man with a hoarse voice, said
it was just storage, muttering it watches its own guests.
I ignored his unease, drawn to its eerie stillness, thinking
it inspire my stories. That first night, I woke at
(14:37):
two twenty three a m. To a creaking, like eyes
shifting in wood, coming from the attic. Its trap door
glowed faintly, casting my shadow distorted. A whisper hissed, cold
and sharp, see with us, Oh in my name. I
climbed the ladder, heart racing, flashlight beam trembling the runes pulsed,
casting shadows like eyes on the walls, unblinking. The air
(14:57):
smelled of dust and something sour like decay old wood.
The house was locked, no neighbors close in the suburban edge,
just the distant howl of wind. I sealed the trap
door with nails, but the creaking persisted, whispering watch us
Sleep fled, my skin crawling as the attic's glow pulsed,
sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled the fear. I
(15:19):
blamed exhaustion, The exhibits fall out, still raw. I started writing,
avoiding the attic, but it wouldn't stay quiet. Each night
it creaked shadows, showing scenes me wandering, a glowing attic, hands, bloodied,
eyeless figures staring whispers grew personal and cruel. You exposed them.
I kept a log May five one forty a M.
We're watching May seven, three zero six a M. See
(15:40):
your end. They mimicked Mara's voice, bitter your two nosy owen.
The subjects angry, you stole our lives. I checked the attic.
No cracks, no sauce, just wood that felt warm, smelling
of rot and mildew. I tried boarding its shut. The
boards broke, the runes glowing brighter. I filled it with cement.
It was empty by dawn, creaking louder. I called Mara
(16:03):
Hopping to reconnect, but she didn't answer. I hit the
Cheyenne Library, digging through old records. The attic was built
by Eliza Veyron, a recluse who vanished in eighteen eighty
after losing her family in a blizzard. Locals said she'd
cursed it to watch her grief, trapping. Those who entered
owner since disappeared, their homes found with attics, glowing, walls
scratched with eyes. I found Eliza's diary, my name inked
(16:26):
in red. The whispers became a chorus, join us owen.
The house grew cold shadows moving in the Attic's glow,
forming faces, Eliza's maybe eyes hollow staring. The air smelled
of mildew and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping,
kept lights on, but the creaking drowned them out, the
runes pulsing red like blood. I found scratches on the walls. See.
(16:50):
I tried burning the trap door, the flames wouldn't catch,
the runes, burning my skin. One night, I woke in
the attic, its walls closing, in Eliza's voice, your turn.
Cold hands held my gar the space spinning shadows, dragging
me into a glowing void, showing my life, every failure,
Mara's face ending with me trapped in endless eyes. I fought,
gasping as the wood burned stares, consuming me. I don't
(17:14):
know how I survived. Mara found me in the yard, trembling,
saying she'd come after frantic text I didn't send the
attic'spare now the trap door gone, the real to, claiming
it was never there. But I hear its creaking in
every silence, see its eyes in every shadow, always at
three zero six a m My stories written absently show attics.
I didn't describe my face in the rooms. I avoid
(17:35):
heights now, fearing what watches. But the house's air feels heavy,
like something staring. I tried leaving she Anne, but every
glance feels wrong watching my name Listener. If you find
an old attic, don't climb it. Some spaces watch you,
and they never stop. That's the end of this episode
of listener Tales. Thanks for joining us. Sleep tight if
(17:57):
you can
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