September 30, 2025 • 19 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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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Welcome to Listener Talies Podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
through the shadows. Once more to day, we delve into
four new chilling tales sent by listeners from the edges
of the unknown. These stories carry whispers of the past,
each a thread in the dark tapestry of fear. No music,
no interruptions, just the raw, unsettling voices of those who
have faced the uncanny settle in if you dare as
(00:23):
we begin this journey into the Night. Part one, The
Lantern that Guides the Lost. I came to Anchorage, Alaska
after a life of running from choices I couldn't outpace.
At forty seven, I'd been a search and rescue pilot,
flying over the Chugach Mountains. My cesner a lifeline for
hikers lost in blizzards. My hands knew the controls, my eyes,
(00:44):
the white expanse until a mission went wrong engine failure
in a storm. A teenage girl named Mars stranded, her
signal fadding as I circled, fuel dwindling. I landed, but
she was gone. Her parents wails haunting me, and the
Alaska Rescue Board revoked my license, calling it pilot error.
My wife, Elina, left saying I lost myself in the snow,
(01:06):
and I took a job as a night watchman at
an old outpost near Turnagain Arm, its walls sagging with frost.
In the storage shed, I found a lantern, its glass smoked,
its handle wrapped in cracked leather, etched with k Iverson
nineteen o three locals spoke of it in hushed tones,
claiming it guided the dead. But I saw a relic
to light my shifts away, to keep the dark at bay.
(01:29):
The first night, I hung the lantern in the outpost,
the air biting with the scent of pine and frozen earth,
the wind howling outside like a living thing. The flame
flickered weakly, casting long shadows that danced on the log walls,
the silence broken only by the creak of settling timber.
At two seventeen a m. The light flared a sudden
green glow, and I heard footsteps crunching snow, deliberate. Though
(01:51):
the door was locked, the windows iced over. A voice followed,
soft and childlike, find me, Paul Mara's voice from that
lost mishion. The flame pulsed, shadows forming figures, hooded faceless,
moving toward me. I checked the lantern, no fuel, no mechanism,
but the glow held whispering guide us. Paul I noted
it in my log book September twenty nine, two seventeen am,
(02:14):
You're one of us. The air grew colder, smelling of
wet wool and decay, my breath crystallizing in the dim light.
I blamed the isolation, the gilt gnawing since Mara's disappearance,
but the outpost wouldn't quiet. The next night I brought
a flashlight, determined to debunk it. At two seventeen a m.
The lantern flared again, the footsteps louder, the figures clearer,
(02:37):
men in Parker's, a girl in a red coat whispering
you left us. I researched at the Anchorage Library my
limp from an old crash aching, finding records of nut
iverson a trapper who vanished in nineteen o three with
his lantern. His party found frozen, faces serene, the light
still burning. Locals said it lured the lost rangers, disappearing
(02:58):
near turnagain arm my float ashlight caught eyes in the dark, pale, unblinking,
dotting the walls, the air thick with the scent of
ice and blood. The whispers grew guide us home. Sleep vanished.
I stored the lantern in a metal box, but the
glow seeped through the footsteps, circling the figures, chanting Paul lead.
One night, I woke with the lantern in hand, the
(03:19):
outpost floor marked with my tracks, the flame green in
my reflection. I tried smashing it. The hammer bounced, the
voice laughing you can't leave. Shadows dragged me toward the door,
the cold searing my skin, Mara's voice pleading. I fled
to a motel, but the lantern's glow follows two seventeen
a m each night, my logs showing her face. Listener,
(03:41):
if you see a green light, don't follow. Some paths
never end. Part two, The ice Cave that echoes. I
arrived in June, Alaska, after a lifetime of fleeing a
past that clung like frost to my bones. At forty one,
i'd been a glaciologist studying the Mendenhall Glaciers Retreat for
the University of Alaska. My days spent mapping crevasses and
(04:04):
measuring melt, my nights haunted by the memory of my
brother Daniel. We grew up in Fairbanks, two kids racing
across frozen lakes, but at sixteen, he fell through thin
ice during a day I pushed him into. His cries,
cut off by the water's grip, I pulled him out,
but he never woke, his blue lips a mirror to
my failure. My parents blamed me, their silence louder than shouts,
(04:26):
and I buried myself in ice studies, earning a doctorate
until a funding cut and a paper debunked as exaggerated
my desperation to prove climate chain cost me my tenure.
My fiancee, Leela, left, calling me lost in the cold,
and I took a job as a park ranger near
the glacier, patrolling its edges under the endless twilight of September.
One shift, exploring a newly formed ice cave, I found
(04:49):
a chamber aglow with blue light, its walls shimmering with
frozen ripples, and at its heart a shard of ice
pulsing like a heartbeat. Etched with j harvorson eighteen ninety,
locals whispered it was cursed, a trap for the unwary,
But I saw a scientific marvel, a chance to redeem
my name. The first night after my discovery, I returned
(05:12):
to the cave, the air sharp with the scent of
glacial melt and ancient dust, the crunch of snow under
my boots echoing off the crystalline walls. The temperature hovered
near freezing my breath, forming clouds that hung like ghosts.
The cave's entrance a jagged more framed by icicles. I
set up my equipment, thermometer camera a recorder near the
pulsing shard, its light casting prismatic reflections that danced like spirits.
(05:37):
At one zero three am on September thirty, twenty twenty five,
as the aurora flickered outside, a sound emerged, a low moan,
resonant like wind through a hollow, but the cave was still,
the air unmoving. Then a voice, clear and broken, helped me,
Sam Daniel's voice from that frozen lake, pleading as he sank.
The shard glowed brighter, its pulse quickening, shadows forming on
(05:58):
the ice, vague shapes, humanoid, their edges blurring into the blue.
I checked my recorder, no wind, no interference, but the
moan grew, whispering find us Sam. I logged it. September
thirty one zero three a m. You're here now. The
cold deepened, the air, smelling of wet stone and something
sour like decay trapped in ice. My skin prickling as
(06:20):
if watched. I dismissed it as an acoustic trick, the
glacier's natural resonance amplified by the cave, my guilt amplifying
Daniel's voice in my mind. The next night I brought
a geophone to measure vibrations, determined to document the phenomenon.
At one zero three a m. The moon returned, joined
by others, men, women, children, crying out in unison. You
(06:42):
left us. The shadows sharpened, forming figures trapped in the ice,
their faces frozen mid scream, eyes hollow. I played back
the recording, flatlined silence, but the voices lingered personal now
Leela's tone cutting, You're still running. I researched at the
Juno Library my limp from old crevasse fall aching, uncovering
(07:02):
journals of Gens Harve Orson, a Norwegian miner who prospected
the glacier in eighteen ninety eight. His team vanished their camp,
found with the shard glowing logs describing voices from the
ice rangers, later disappearing near the cave. My camera caught
glints in the dark, dozens of eyes, pale and unblinking,
embedded in the walls, the air thickening with the scent
(07:25):
of frostbitten flesh and old blood. The moons sinked with
my heart beat, the shadows mimicking my gait, whispering join us.
Sleep became a stranger. I sealed the cave with caution tape,
but the glow seeped through, the mons, seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting sam guide. I spent weeks monitoring the
shard's pulse, growing stronger, the ice walls sweating, dripping with
(07:48):
a liquid that stained my gloves black. One morning, I
woke with the shard in my hand, the cave floor
marked with my boot prints, the voices layered with my
own sam stay. The recorder showed sign silence, but I
heard a miner's plea harve Orson's cry, cursing me to hear.
I tried chipping the shard. The pickaxe shattered, the ice,
laughing a hollow. Your hours that echoed shadows dragged me deeper,
(08:10):
the cold, searing my lungs Daniel's voice pleading I fled
to a ranger's station. But the caves glow follows one
zero three a m each night, My logs showing his face. Listener,
if you see a blue light, don't enter. Some echoes
never fade. Part three The compass that points to nothing.
I ended up in Nome, Alaska, after a life of
(08:31):
drifting through mistakes I couldn't raise. At forty three, I'd
been a maritime navigator, charting courses across the Bearing Sea
for fishing trawlers. My compass and sextant, my lifelines inherited
from my father, a grizzled captain who taught me the
stars over endless waves. We'd sail from Kodiak, his voice
a gruff guide through fog, his hands steady on the wheel,
(08:52):
teaching me to read the horizon when the radar failed.
I was twenty eight when he trusted me with a
solo run, a pride I carried until a navigation era
on my watch. Misreading a current in a storm sent
our boat, the Northern Star, aground on a reef off Unalaska.
The hull breached waves, swallowing the deck and three crewmen. Mike,
a father of two Lewis who sang off Key and
(09:14):
young Ethan, barely nineteen, were lost, their screams. Drowned by
the gale. I clung to lifeboat, the coast guard pulling
me from the wreckage, but the inquiry was merciless, stripping
my license with a verdict of reckless disregard. My father
disowned me at the hearing, his spit hitting the floor
as he growled, You're no son of mine, his eyes
dead to me. The crewman's families picketed my apartment, their
(09:37):
curses a chorus I couldn't silence, and Tara, my girlfriend
of five years, left her suit case packed as she said,
you've lost your way, Jonahs, her voice breaking. With no job,
no family, I took a caretaker position at an abandoned
whaling station near the Nome coast, Its timbers warped by
salt and time, the isolation a penance I welcomed. The
(09:58):
station was a skeleton of its past, its loft filled
with rusted harpoons, faded maps curling at the edges, and
a crate locked with a rusted padlock hidden under a tarp. Inside,
I found a compass, its brass casing tarnished, with green
patterner its needle spinning wildly before settling etched with t.
Erkson eighteen seventy one. The glass was cracked, the face
(10:21):
smudged with what looked like soot, and locals avoided it,
their mutters in the tavern hinting it led men to
their doom. A tail passed down with averted eyes. But
I saw a tool to map the station away, to
find direction again, the weight of it familiar in my palm,
like my father's old sextant. The first night I placed
the compass on a rickety table in the loft, the
(10:41):
air heavy with the scent of brine and rotting wood,
the dampness seeping into the floorboards, which groaned with each
shift of the wind. The shutters rattled like skeletal hands,
the single window streaked with salt, casting a pale, wavering
light that barely reached the corners. The needle spun erratically
a blur of motion, then stilled, pointing not north but
toward the wall, glowing faintly red, a hue that pulsed
(11:04):
like a heart beat. At eleven forty nine p m.
On September thirty, twenty twenty five, as the tide roared
outside a creek sounded footsteps on the stairs, slow and deliberate,
though the door was bolted with a rusted chain, the
floor below unmarred by prince. A voice followed, hoarse and distant,
cutting through the silence. Follow me, jonahs, my father's voice
(11:25):
from our last voyage, commanding, yet broken, the growl i'd
heard when he berated me for a miscalculated bearing. The
needle pulsed brighter shadows stretching from the wall, tall figures
in oil skins, faceless, their boots silent on the boards,
their forms swaying as if rocked by waves. I froze,
my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the compass, no battery,
(11:46):
no magnet, the mechanism still, but the glow held whispering
guide us, Jonahs. The air grew thick, a chill, biting
my skin, smelling of seaweed and blood, my breath fogging,
as if the room wept with the sea. I logged
it in a jer i'd scavenged from the station, my
hands trembling as I wrote, September thirty, eleven, forty nine pm.
(12:07):
You're lost now. The shadows lingered, their edges blurring into
the darkness, and I felt a pull, a tug toward
the wall where the needle pointed. I blamed the wind
whistling through the cracks, the guilt of those lost crewmen,
still clawing at my conscience, Mike's laugh, Lewis's off key songs,
Ethan's nervous chatter, Each memory a weight I carried, but
(12:28):
the station wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a
modern GPS unit, its screen a stark contrast to the
compass's antique glow. Determined to override the anomaly with technology
I trusted. At eleven forty nine pm, the footsteps returned, louder,
rhythmic march up the stairs, the figures clearer, men with
harpoons dripping with phantom water, A woman in a tattered shawl,
(12:52):
her hair matted with seaweed, whispering in unison. You abandoned us.
The needles spun again, pointing to the sea beyond the wall.
The shp sadows mimicking my limp from the wreck, their
movements jerky, as if fighting the current. I played back
the GPS log static, no signal interference, but the voices
lingered personal. Now Tara's tone cutting through you never found
(13:14):
your way back, followed by Mike's voice pleading, why didn't
you save us? I researched at the Nome Library the
next day, my hands aching as I turned brittle pages,
the librarian's glance wary, uncovering the story of Torvald Eriksson,
a Norwegian whaler who sailed the Bearing Sea in eighteen
seventy one. His ship, the Frostfang, vanished during a winter storm.
(13:35):
Found adrift months later, with the compass glowing red, the
crew's bodies missing, their logs describing voices calling from the deep,
a pull toward the water that drove men mad. Rangers
reported disappearances near the station, their tracks leading to the
tide line, their gear found washed ashore. My flashlight, held
(13:55):
high that night, caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes,
pale and unbloining, embedded in the walls like pearls in
oyster shells, The air thickening with the scent of salt
and decay, a stench that clung to my clothes. The
whispers grew into a chorus, lead us home. Sleep fled,
my nights spent in the loft, The compasses glow a
(14:16):
beacon I couldn't ignore. I locked it in a safe
I dragged from the station's cellar, the metal cold against
my fingers, but the red light seeped through the seams,
the footsteps circling the room, the figures chanting Jonah's guide.
I filled journals with observations, the needle pulsing with each tide,
the walls sweating, A briny film that pooled on the floor,
(14:37):
staining the wood black. Weeks past, the isolation deepening, and
one dawn, I woke with the compass in my hand,
the loft floor marked with my boot prints, the voices
layered with my own, Jonah's stay. The journal showed silence
on playback, but I heard the frost fangs groan, Ericson's
cry rising over the waves, cursing me to lead the lost.
I tried burying it in the beach sand, the shovel
(14:59):
bending again against an unseen force, the compass laughing, a
hollow your hours that echoed across the shore. Shadows dragged
me toward the sea, the cold soaking my bones, the
water lapping at my feet, Tara's voice pleading come back
to me. I fought my limp a chain, the air
thick with the memory of the wrecked salt and screams.
(15:20):
I fled to a fishing hut miles inland, but the
compass's glow follows eleven forty nine p m each night,
my shadow bending into Tara's face, her eyes accusing. My journals,
once orderly, now show ship's sketches. I didn't draw, my
hands stained with salt crust. The sea calls me back.
The compass pull a tide. I can't resist. Listener, if
you see a red light, don't follow. Some paths lead
(15:43):
only to the lost. Part four, the aurora that calls.
I came to Fairbanks, Alaska, after a life shattered by
a silence I couldn't fill. At thirty eight, i'd been
an astronomer, tracking celestial patterns at the University of Alaska.
My telescope a window to the stars, a legacy from
my mother, a stargazer who taught me constellations under the
(16:03):
midnight sun. We'd sit on our porch in Masilla, her
voice soft as she named Orion's Belt, until a drunk
driver took her at forty five, leaving me with her
journals and a void. I chased with science, my breakthrough
a theory linking auroral activity to geomagnetic shifts earned a claim,
but a flawed calculation during a solar storm prediction cost
(16:24):
a power grid outage, blacking out Anchorage for days, and
the university fired me, calling it negligent hubris. My fiancee,
Norah left her good bye a whisper your chasing Ghost's
Liam and I took a job as a night watchman
at a remote observatory near the China River. Its dome rusted,
its lenses clouded. One clear night, the aurora flared unusually bright,
(16:46):
a curtain of green and violet, and I heard a hum,
low and rhythmic, like a song from the sky. Locals
spoke of it as cursed, a call of the lost,
but I saw a chance to reclaim my research, to
hear the cosmos again. The first night I stood on
the observatory's deck, the air crisp with the scent of
pine and frozen river, the sky alive with the aurora's dance,
(17:08):
its light reflecting off the snow in shimmering waves. The
temperature dropped to minus twenty degrees f my breath of
plume in the dark, the hum growing louder. At four
thirty eight am on September thirty, twenty twenty five, aligning
with the current moment. As I speak, a voice emerged,
clear and mournful. Find me, Liam, my mother's voice from
those porch nights, tender yet tinged with sorrow. The aurora pulsed,
(17:32):
its colours, deepening to crimson shadows forming on the snow.
Figures in long coats, faceless, their steps silent. I checked
the instruments, no radio interference, no wind, but the hum
held whispering guide us, Liam. I logged it in my notebook.
September thirty, four thirty eight a m. You're one of us.
The air grew colder, smelling of osen and ash. My
skin prickling, as if the sky watched blamed atmospheric distortion,
(17:57):
the guilt of that blackout still burning, But the observatory
wouldn't quiet. The next night, I brought a spectrograph, determined
to analyze the light. At four thirty eight a m.
The hum returned, joined by others, men, women, children, crying.
You left us in the dark. The shadows sharpened, forming
a procession, their coats fluttering as if caught in a storm.
Eyes hollow. I played back the date of flatlined silence,
(18:18):
but the voices lingered, Norah's tone cutting you never saw me.
I researched at the Fairbanks Library, my hands numb from
the cold, finding tailees of a nineteen o six auroral
event when prospectors vanished under blood red sky, their journals
describing voices from the light. Survivors found muttering eyes burned.
My telescope caught glints in the aurora, pale, unblinking eyes
(18:40):
dotting the sky, the air thick with the scent of
singed hair and frost. The hum sinked with my pulse,
The shadows, mimicking my slump from sleepless nights, whispering lead
us home. Sleep vanished. I sealed the deck, but the
aurora's glow seeped through the hum, seeping into my skull,
the figures chanting Liam Guide. I spent months observing the
(19:00):
colors shifting to black, the snow melting in unnatural patterns.
One dawn, I woke with the telescope aimed skyward the aurora.
In my reflection, the voices layered with my own liam stay.
The log showed silence, but I heard a prospector's wail,
cursing me to hear. I tried shielding the windows. The
glass cracked, the aurora laughing a hollow. Your hour's shadows
(19:22):
dragged me outside, the cold, searing my lungs, my mother's
voice pleading. I fled to cabin, but the Aurora follows
four thirty eight a m. Each night, my logs showing
her face. Listener, if you see a red sky, don't look.
Some calls never end. Thank you for joining me, Sir Winston,
on this journey through four dark tailies. Until next time,
(19:43):
stay out of the light.
Welcome to Listener Talies Podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
through the shadows. Once more to day, we delve into
four new chilling tales sent by listeners from the edges
of the unknown. These stories carry whispers of the past,
each a thread in the dark tapestry of fear. No music,
no interruptions, just the raw, unsettling voices of those who
have faced the uncanny settle in if you dare as
(00:23):
we begin this journey into the Night. Part one, The
Lantern that Guides the Lost. I came to Anchorage, Alaska
after a life of running from choices I couldn't outpace.
At forty seven, I'd been a search and rescue pilot,
flying over the Chugach Mountains. My cesner a lifeline for
hikers lost in blizzards. My hands knew the controls, my eyes,
(00:44):
the white expanse until a mission went wrong engine failure
in a storm. A teenage girl named Mars stranded, her
signal fadding as I circled, fuel dwindling. I landed, but
she was gone. Her parents wails haunting me, and the
Alaska Rescue Board revoked my license, calling it pilot error.
My wife, Elina, left saying I lost myself in the snow,
(01:06):
and I took a job as a night watchman at
an old outpost near Turnagain Arm, its walls sagging with frost.
In the storage shed, I found a lantern, its glass smoked,
its handle wrapped in cracked leather, etched with k Iverson
nineteen o three locals spoke of it in hushed tones,
claiming it guided the dead. But I saw a relic
to light my shifts away, to keep the dark at bay.
(01:29):
The first night, I hung the lantern in the outpost,
the air biting with the scent of pine and frozen earth,
the wind howling outside like a living thing. The flame
flickered weakly, casting long shadows that danced on the log walls,
the silence broken only by the creak of settling timber.
At two seventeen a m. The light flared a sudden
green glow, and I heard footsteps crunching snow, deliberate. Though
(01:51):
the door was locked, the windows iced over. A voice followed,
soft and childlike, find me, Paul Mara's voice from that
lost mishion. The flame pulsed, shadows forming figures, hooded faceless,
moving toward me. I checked the lantern, no fuel, no mechanism,
but the glow held whispering guide us. Paul I noted
it in my log book September twenty nine, two seventeen am,
(02:14):
You're one of us. The air grew colder, smelling of
wet wool and decay, my breath crystallizing in the dim light.
I blamed the isolation, the gilt gnawing since Mara's disappearance,
but the outpost wouldn't quiet. The next night I brought
a flashlight, determined to debunk it. At two seventeen a m.
The lantern flared again, the footsteps louder, the figures clearer,
(02:37):
men in Parker's, a girl in a red coat whispering
you left us. I researched at the Anchorage Library my
limp from an old crash aching, finding records of nut
iverson a trapper who vanished in nineteen o three with
his lantern. His party found frozen, faces serene, the light
still burning. Locals said it lured the lost rangers, disappearing
(02:58):
near turnagain arm my float ashlight caught eyes in the dark, pale, unblinking,
dotting the walls, the air thick with the scent of
ice and blood. The whispers grew guide us home. Sleep vanished.
I stored the lantern in a metal box, but the
glow seeped through the footsteps, circling the figures, chanting Paul lead.
One night, I woke with the lantern in hand, the
(03:19):
outpost floor marked with my tracks, the flame green in
my reflection. I tried smashing it. The hammer bounced, the
voice laughing you can't leave. Shadows dragged me toward the door,
the cold searing my skin, Mara's voice pleading. I fled
to a motel, but the lantern's glow follows two seventeen
a m each night, my logs showing her face. Listener,
(03:41):
if you see a green light, don't follow. Some paths
never end. Part two, The ice Cave that echoes. I
arrived in June, Alaska, after a lifetime of fleeing a
past that clung like frost to my bones. At forty one,
i'd been a glaciologist studying the Mendenhall Glaciers Retreat for
the University of Alaska. My days spent mapping crevasses and
(04:04):
measuring melt, my nights haunted by the memory of my
brother Daniel. We grew up in Fairbanks, two kids racing
across frozen lakes, but at sixteen, he fell through thin
ice during a day I pushed him into. His cries,
cut off by the water's grip, I pulled him out,
but he never woke, his blue lips a mirror to
my failure. My parents blamed me, their silence louder than shouts,
(04:26):
and I buried myself in ice studies, earning a doctorate
until a funding cut and a paper debunked as exaggerated
my desperation to prove climate chain cost me my tenure.
My fiancee, Leela, left, calling me lost in the cold,
and I took a job as a park ranger near
the glacier, patrolling its edges under the endless twilight of September.
One shift, exploring a newly formed ice cave, I found
(04:49):
a chamber aglow with blue light, its walls shimmering with
frozen ripples, and at its heart a shard of ice
pulsing like a heartbeat. Etched with j harvorson eighteen ninety,
locals whispered it was cursed, a trap for the unwary,
But I saw a scientific marvel, a chance to redeem
my name. The first night after my discovery, I returned
(05:12):
to the cave, the air sharp with the scent of
glacial melt and ancient dust, the crunch of snow under
my boots echoing off the crystalline walls. The temperature hovered
near freezing my breath, forming clouds that hung like ghosts.
The cave's entrance a jagged more framed by icicles. I
set up my equipment, thermometer camera a recorder near the
pulsing shard, its light casting prismatic reflections that danced like spirits.
(05:37):
At one zero three am on September thirty, twenty twenty five,
as the aurora flickered outside, a sound emerged, a low moan,
resonant like wind through a hollow, but the cave was still,
the air unmoving. Then a voice, clear and broken, helped me,
Sam Daniel's voice from that frozen lake, pleading as he sank.
The shard glowed brighter, its pulse quickening, shadows forming on
(05:58):
the ice, vague shapes, humanoid, their edges blurring into the blue.
I checked my recorder, no wind, no interference, but the
moan grew, whispering find us Sam. I logged it. September
thirty one zero three a m. You're here now. The
cold deepened, the air, smelling of wet stone and something
sour like decay trapped in ice. My skin prickling as
(06:20):
if watched. I dismissed it as an acoustic trick, the
glacier's natural resonance amplified by the cave, my guilt amplifying
Daniel's voice in my mind. The next night I brought
a geophone to measure vibrations, determined to document the phenomenon.
At one zero three a m. The moon returned, joined
by others, men, women, children, crying out in unison. You
(06:42):
left us. The shadows sharpened, forming figures trapped in the ice,
their faces frozen mid scream, eyes hollow. I played back
the recording, flatlined silence, but the voices lingered personal now
Leela's tone cutting, You're still running. I researched at the
Juno Library my limp from old crevasse fall aching, uncovering
(07:02):
journals of Gens Harve Orson, a Norwegian miner who prospected
the glacier in eighteen ninety eight. His team vanished their camp,
found with the shard glowing logs describing voices from the
ice rangers, later disappearing near the cave. My camera caught
glints in the dark, dozens of eyes, pale and unblinking,
embedded in the walls, the air thickening with the scent
(07:25):
of frostbitten flesh and old blood. The moons sinked with
my heart beat, the shadows mimicking my gait, whispering join us.
Sleep became a stranger. I sealed the cave with caution tape,
but the glow seeped through, the mons, seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting sam guide. I spent weeks monitoring the
shard's pulse, growing stronger, the ice walls sweating, dripping with
(07:48):
a liquid that stained my gloves black. One morning, I
woke with the shard in my hand, the cave floor
marked with my boot prints, the voices layered with my
own sam stay. The recorder showed sign silence, but I
heard a miner's plea harve Orson's cry, cursing me to hear.
I tried chipping the shard. The pickaxe shattered, the ice,
laughing a hollow. Your hours that echoed shadows dragged me deeper,
(08:10):
the cold, searing my lungs Daniel's voice pleading I fled
to a ranger's station. But the caves glow follows one
zero three a m each night, My logs showing his face. Listener,
if you see a blue light, don't enter. Some echoes
never fade. Part three The compass that points to nothing.
I ended up in Nome, Alaska, after a life of
(08:31):
drifting through mistakes I couldn't raise. At forty three, I'd
been a maritime navigator, charting courses across the Bearing Sea
for fishing trawlers. My compass and sextant, my lifelines inherited
from my father, a grizzled captain who taught me the
stars over endless waves. We'd sail from Kodiak, his voice
a gruff guide through fog, his hands steady on the wheel,
(08:52):
teaching me to read the horizon when the radar failed.
I was twenty eight when he trusted me with a
solo run, a pride I carried until a navigation era
on my watch. Misreading a current in a storm sent
our boat, the Northern Star, aground on a reef off Unalaska.
The hull breached waves, swallowing the deck and three crewmen. Mike,
a father of two Lewis who sang off Key and
(09:14):
young Ethan, barely nineteen, were lost, their screams. Drowned by
the gale. I clung to lifeboat, the coast guard pulling
me from the wreckage, but the inquiry was merciless, stripping
my license with a verdict of reckless disregard. My father
disowned me at the hearing, his spit hitting the floor
as he growled, You're no son of mine, his eyes
dead to me. The crewman's families picketed my apartment, their
(09:37):
curses a chorus I couldn't silence, and Tara, my girlfriend
of five years, left her suit case packed as she said,
you've lost your way, Jonahs, her voice breaking. With no job,
no family, I took a caretaker position at an abandoned
whaling station near the Nome coast, Its timbers warped by
salt and time, the isolation a penance I welcomed. The
(09:58):
station was a skeleton of its past, its loft filled
with rusted harpoons, faded maps curling at the edges, and
a crate locked with a rusted padlock hidden under a tarp. Inside,
I found a compass, its brass casing tarnished, with green
patterner its needle spinning wildly before settling etched with t.
Erkson eighteen seventy one. The glass was cracked, the face
(10:21):
smudged with what looked like soot, and locals avoided it,
their mutters in the tavern hinting it led men to
their doom. A tail passed down with averted eyes. But
I saw a tool to map the station away, to
find direction again, the weight of it familiar in my palm,
like my father's old sextant. The first night I placed
the compass on a rickety table in the loft, the
(10:41):
air heavy with the scent of brine and rotting wood,
the dampness seeping into the floorboards, which groaned with each
shift of the wind. The shutters rattled like skeletal hands,
the single window streaked with salt, casting a pale, wavering
light that barely reached the corners. The needle spun erratically
a blur of motion, then stilled, pointing not north but
toward the wall, glowing faintly red, a hue that pulsed
(11:04):
like a heart beat. At eleven forty nine p m.
On September thirty, twenty twenty five, as the tide roared
outside a creek sounded footsteps on the stairs, slow and deliberate,
though the door was bolted with a rusted chain, the
floor below unmarred by prince. A voice followed, hoarse and distant,
cutting through the silence. Follow me, jonahs, my father's voice
(11:25):
from our last voyage, commanding, yet broken, the growl i'd
heard when he berated me for a miscalculated bearing. The
needle pulsed brighter shadows stretching from the wall, tall figures
in oil skins, faceless, their boots silent on the boards,
their forms swaying as if rocked by waves. I froze,
my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the compass, no battery,
(11:46):
no magnet, the mechanism still, but the glow held whispering
guide us, Jonahs. The air grew thick, a chill, biting
my skin, smelling of seaweed and blood, my breath fogging,
as if the room wept with the sea. I logged
it in a jer i'd scavenged from the station, my
hands trembling as I wrote, September thirty, eleven, forty nine pm.
(12:07):
You're lost now. The shadows lingered, their edges blurring into
the darkness, and I felt a pull, a tug toward
the wall where the needle pointed. I blamed the wind
whistling through the cracks, the guilt of those lost crewmen,
still clawing at my conscience, Mike's laugh, Lewis's off key songs,
Ethan's nervous chatter, Each memory a weight I carried, but
(12:28):
the station wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a
modern GPS unit, its screen a stark contrast to the
compass's antique glow. Determined to override the anomaly with technology
I trusted. At eleven forty nine pm, the footsteps returned, louder,
rhythmic march up the stairs, the figures clearer, men with
harpoons dripping with phantom water, A woman in a tattered shawl,
(12:52):
her hair matted with seaweed, whispering in unison. You abandoned us.
The needles spun again, pointing to the sea beyond the wall.
The shp sadows mimicking my limp from the wreck, their
movements jerky, as if fighting the current. I played back
the GPS log static, no signal interference, but the voices
lingered personal. Now Tara's tone cutting through you never found
(13:14):
your way back, followed by Mike's voice pleading, why didn't
you save us? I researched at the Nome Library the
next day, my hands aching as I turned brittle pages,
the librarian's glance wary, uncovering the story of Torvald Eriksson,
a Norwegian whaler who sailed the Bearing Sea in eighteen
seventy one. His ship, the Frostfang, vanished during a winter storm.
(13:35):
Found adrift months later, with the compass glowing red, the
crew's bodies missing, their logs describing voices calling from the deep,
a pull toward the water that drove men mad. Rangers
reported disappearances near the station, their tracks leading to the
tide line, their gear found washed ashore. My flashlight, held
(13:55):
high that night, caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes,
pale and unbloining, embedded in the walls like pearls in
oyster shells, The air thickening with the scent of salt
and decay, a stench that clung to my clothes. The
whispers grew into a chorus, lead us home. Sleep fled,
my nights spent in the loft, The compasses glow a
(14:16):
beacon I couldn't ignore. I locked it in a safe
I dragged from the station's cellar, the metal cold against
my fingers, but the red light seeped through the seams,
the footsteps circling the room, the figures chanting Jonah's guide.
I filled journals with observations, the needle pulsing with each tide,
the walls sweating, A briny film that pooled on the floor,
(14:37):
staining the wood black. Weeks past, the isolation deepening, and
one dawn, I woke with the compass in my hand,
the loft floor marked with my boot prints, the voices
layered with my own, Jonah's stay. The journal showed silence
on playback, but I heard the frost fangs groan, Ericson's
cry rising over the waves, cursing me to lead the lost.
I tried burying it in the beach sand, the shovel
(14:59):
bending again against an unseen force, the compass laughing, a
hollow your hours that echoed across the shore. Shadows dragged
me toward the sea, the cold soaking my bones, the
water lapping at my feet, Tara's voice pleading come back
to me. I fought my limp a chain, the air
thick with the memory of the wrecked salt and screams.
(15:20):
I fled to a fishing hut miles inland, but the
compass's glow follows eleven forty nine p m each night,
my shadow bending into Tara's face, her eyes accusing. My journals,
once orderly, now show ship's sketches. I didn't draw, my
hands stained with salt crust. The sea calls me back.
The compass pull a tide. I can't resist. Listener, if
you see a red light, don't follow. Some paths lead
(15:43):
only to the lost. Part four, the aurora that calls.
I came to Fairbanks, Alaska, after a life shattered by
a silence I couldn't fill. At thirty eight, i'd been
an astronomer, tracking celestial patterns at the University of Alaska.
My telescope a window to the stars, a legacy from
my mother, a stargazer who taught me constellations under the
(16:03):
midnight sun. We'd sit on our porch in Masilla, her
voice soft as she named Orion's Belt, until a drunk
driver took her at forty five, leaving me with her
journals and a void. I chased with science, my breakthrough
a theory linking auroral activity to geomagnetic shifts earned a claim,
but a flawed calculation during a solar storm prediction cost
(16:24):
a power grid outage, blacking out Anchorage for days, and
the university fired me, calling it negligent hubris. My fiancee,
Norah left her good bye a whisper your chasing Ghost's
Liam and I took a job as a night watchman
at a remote observatory near the China River. Its dome rusted,
its lenses clouded. One clear night, the aurora flared unusually bright,
(16:46):
a curtain of green and violet, and I heard a hum,
low and rhythmic, like a song from the sky. Locals
spoke of it as cursed, a call of the lost,
but I saw a chance to reclaim my research, to
hear the cosmos again. The first night I stood on
the observatory's deck, the air crisp with the scent of
pine and frozen river, the sky alive with the aurora's dance,
(17:08):
its light reflecting off the snow in shimmering waves. The
temperature dropped to minus twenty degrees f my breath of
plume in the dark, the hum growing louder. At four
thirty eight am on September thirty, twenty twenty five, aligning
with the current moment. As I speak, a voice emerged,
clear and mournful. Find me, Liam, my mother's voice from
those porch nights, tender yet tinged with sorrow. The aurora pulsed,
(17:32):
its colours, deepening to crimson shadows forming on the snow.
Figures in long coats, faceless, their steps silent. I checked
the instruments, no radio interference, no wind, but the hum
held whispering guide us, Liam. I logged it in my notebook.
September thirty, four thirty eight a m. You're one of us.
The air grew colder, smelling of osen and ash. My
skin prickling, as if the sky watched blamed atmospheric distortion,
(17:57):
the guilt of that blackout still burning, But the observatory
wouldn't quiet. The next night, I brought a spectrograph, determined
to analyze the light. At four thirty eight a m.
The hum returned, joined by others, men, women, children, crying.
You left us in the dark. The shadows sharpened, forming
a procession, their coats fluttering as if caught in a storm.
Eyes hollow. I played back the date of flatlined silence,
(18:18):
but the voices lingered, Norah's tone cutting you never saw me.
I researched at the Fairbanks Library, my hands numb from
the cold, finding tailees of a nineteen o six auroral
event when prospectors vanished under blood red sky, their journals
describing voices from the light. Survivors found muttering eyes burned.
My telescope caught glints in the aurora, pale, unblinking eyes
(18:40):
dotting the sky, the air thick with the scent of
singed hair and frost. The hum sinked with my pulse,
The shadows, mimicking my slump from sleepless nights, whispering lead
us home. Sleep vanished. I sealed the deck, but the
aurora's glow seeped through the hum, seeping into my skull,
the figures chanting Liam Guide. I spent months observing the
(19:00):
colors shifting to black, the snow melting in unnatural patterns.
One dawn, I woke with the telescope aimed skyward the aurora.
In my reflection, the voices layered with my own liam stay.
The log showed silence, but I heard a prospector's wail,
cursing me to hear. I tried shielding the windows. The
glass cracked, the aurora laughing a hollow. Your hour's shadows
(19:22):
dragged me outside, the cold, searing my lungs, my mother's
voice pleading. I fled to cabin, but the Aurora follows
four thirty eight a m. Each night, my logs showing
her face. Listener, if you see a red sky, don't look.
Some calls never end. Thank you for joining me, Sir Winston,
on this journey through four dark tailies. Until next time,
(19:43):
stay out of the light.
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