September 30, 2025 • 27 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.
© 2025 Listener Tales with Sir Winston | Hosted by Sir Winston | All rights reserved.
Follow us for more chilling tales. Contact: listenertales@xmail.com | Last updated: September 29, 2025.
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© 2025 Listener Tales with Sir Winston | Hosted by Sir Winston | All rights reserved.
Follow us for more chilling tales. Contact: listenertales@xmail.com | Last updated: September 29, 2025.
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
We are back with another chilling tale from listener Tilley's podcast.
This one comes from a listener in Canada. They call
it The Cabin That Watches. Part one, The Cabin That Watches.
I came to the Yukon Wilderness after a life fractured
by secrets I couldn't bury. At forty six, I'd been
a park ranger in banth gidding tourists through pine forests
(00:23):
and rocky trails, my boots worn from years of service,
my heart hardened by a childhood marked by my uncle's disappearances.
He'd vanish for weeks, returning with tailies of gold strikes,
his eyes wild, his hands trembling with fevered excitement, until
one winter in nineteen ninety eight he didn't come back,
(00:44):
leaving me with his cabin deed and a note scrawled
in shaky ink, it sees you, Niil. My parents died
in a car crash when I was twenty. They see
Dan skidding on black ice near Jasper. The silence of
their absence of weight. I carried into every forest patrol,
filling it with work until a ranger misconduct charge, falsifying
(01:04):
bare sighting logs to boost tourism revenue. Cost me my
job the park, branding me a liar in a public
hearing that left my reputation in tatters. My partner, Grace
left after five years together, her voice cold and final
as she packed her bags. You'r hiding something, Neil, her words,
a mirror to my own doubts. With no anchor left,
(01:24):
I retreated to the yukon the cabin, a sagging relic
near Cluin Lake, Its windows dark and cracked, its walls,
whispering with the wind that carried the scent of the wild. Inside,
the air was stale, thick with the musk of old
wood and forgotten things. The floorboards warped, the ceiling sagging
with damp. I found a mirror tucked behind a stack
of mildewed blankets, its frame carved with dozens of eyes, wide, unblinking,
(01:48):
etched deep into the oak, its glass clouded with age,
scratched with e. Carva eighteen eighty nine in a jagged hand.
Locals in the nearest settlement, a cluster of cabins thirty
miles south, avoided it, their mutters in the general store
hinting it watched with the dead. A tail passed down
with a shiver but I saw a chance to face
(02:10):
my past, to see myself clearly, to confront the secrets
I buried with my uncle. The first night, I hung
the mirror above the fireplace, the air thick with the
scent of cedar and damp moss, the cabin creaking as
if alive with every shift of the wind, the lake's
waves a distant murmur that seemed to pulse with the
rhythm of my heart beat. The room was sparse, a
(02:33):
cot with a threadbare quilt, a table scarred with knife marks,
the walls lined with faded photographs, my uncle's stern face
among strangers, their eyes faded to ghosts, the single window
framing the endless trees, their branches clawing at the glass.
At midnight, as the fire died to embers, the glass shimmered,
a faint glow pulsing from within, a sickly yellow that
(02:54):
seeped into the room, and I felt a gaze heavy
on my neck, like a hand pressing down. A voice followed,
low and raspy, cutting through the silence your home kneel,
my uncle's voice from those wild tailies of golden ghosts,
urgent yet hollow, the same tone he'd used when he
last hugged me, Smelling of whisky and pine. The glow brightened,
(03:14):
casting shadows on the walls, eyes countless, blinking in unison,
some wide with terror, others narrowed with judgment, watching me
from every angle. I froze, my pulse racing, checking the mirror,
no light sauce, no reflection of the room, only my
face distorted, my eyes too large, and the gaze held whispering,
see us kneel. The air grew cold, a chill that
(03:35):
bit through my jacket, smelling of wet earth and something
metallic like blood dried on stone, My breath fogging as
if the cabin exhaled its own breath. I stumbled to
my notebook, a relic from my ranger days, my hands
trembling as I wrote Midnight, you can't hide. The shadows lingered,
their eyes tracking me as I moved, and I felt
a pull, a weight in my chest, as if the
(03:57):
mirror drew something from me. I blamed the isolation, the
guilt of my uncle's fate still gnawing at me. Had
he died seeking gold or had something taken him? The misconduct,
charge of fresh wound that echoed my parents loss, But
the cabin wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a flashlight,
its beam a stark contrast to the mirror's glow, determined
(04:17):
to expose the trick, to prove it was just the
wind or my mind playing games after years of solitude.
At midnight, the eyes returned, sharper, their pupils dilating. The voice,
joined by others, a chorus of men, women, children, murmuring
in overlapping waves, you left us. The shadows shifted, forming
figures behind the glass. Their faces blurred, as if seen
(04:39):
through fog, their eyes unblinking, some with tears frozen on
their cheeks, others with mouths open in silent screams. I
played back the recorder. I'd set up static silence, no
wave forms, but the voices lingered. Personal now, Grace's tone
cutting through the hum You never looked at me, followed
by my uncle accusing when search for me. I researched
(05:01):
at the white Horse Library the next day, a grueling
hike through snow that left my legs aching. The librarians
glance weary as I asked about old cabins. I found
records of Elia's Krver, a trapper who settled near Cluing
Lake in eighteen eighty nine, vanishing after a harsh winter,
his cabin found with the mirror glowing, journals describing eyes
(05:22):
that judged the soul, their pages stained with what looked
like blood. Locals reported vanishings over decades, their last sightings
near the lake, their tracks ending at the water's edge,
their faces pale as if drained. My flashlight, held high
that night, caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes,
pale and staring, embedded in the walls like knots in
(05:43):
the wood, the air thickening with the scent of mold
and blood, a stench that clung to my clothes and hair.
The whispers grew into a chant watch with us. Sleep vanished,
my nights spent in the cabin's loft. The mirrors glow
a beacon I couldn't escape. I covered it with a blank.
The wool heavy and damp, but the yellow light seeped
through the fibers, the eyes following me as I paced
(06:05):
the figures, chanting neil see, I filled notebooks with observations,
the glass sweating, dripping with a dark liquid that pooled
on the mantle, staining the wood black, its texture thick
like oil. Weeks past, the isolation deepening, the lake's surface
freezing over, and one dawn, I woke with the mirror
in my hand, the cabin floor marked with my boot
(06:26):
prints circling the room, the voices layered with my own,
Neil stay. The log showed silence on playback, but I
heard a trapper's wail, carver's cry rising over the wind,
cursing me to watch the dead. I tried smashing it
with a hammer from the shed, the metal ringing against
the frame. The head bounced back, the mirror, laughing, a
hollow your hours that echoed off the walls. The sound
(06:47):
reverberating in my skull. Shadows dragged me toward the glass,
the cold seeping into my bones, Grace's voice pleading, look
at me, Neil. I fought my legs, trembling, the air
thick with the memory of my uncle's last embrace, the
scent of whisky and pine now sour with decay. I
fled to a ranger post fifty miles south. But the
(07:09):
mirror's glow follows midnight each night, my shadow bending into
Grace's face, her eyes accusing from the dark. My notebooks,
once meticulous, now show sketches of eyes I didn't draw,
my hands stained with black streaks. The cabin calls me back,
its windows glowing from the lake's edge. Listener, if you
see eyes in the dark, don't look. Some gazes never
(07:30):
turn away. Let Part two, The Mine that Whispers. I
arrived in British Columbia's Cuteeney region after a life eroded
by choices I couldn't undo. At fifty, i'd been a
geologist mapping mineral veins in the Rockies for a mining company.
My hammer and pickax extensions of my hands, shaped by
(07:50):
a childhood spent with my grandfather, a prospector who roamed
the Selkirk Mountains with a fervor that bordered on madness.
He tells stories by the fire in our cabin near Revelstoke,
his voice rough with dust and whiskey of gold hidden
in the earth's belly, his hands sketching maps on scraps
of paper, until a cavin took him at sixty two
(08:11):
during a solo dig in nineteen ninety five. His body
never recovered, leaving me with his worn journal and a
map marked with an ex near Rossland, its edges frayed
from his grip, My parents worn by his obsession, my
mother sewing late into the night, my father drinking himself
into stupors. Died young, she of a heart weakened by
worry at forty eight, he of cirrhosis at fifty two.
(08:33):
There loss of silence. I filled with the clang of rock,
earning a geology degree from UBC. Until a misjudged seam
collapsed during a survey in twenty eighteen killed two miners,
Paul and Jamie, their faces familiar from lunch breaks, their
laughter silenced by tons of slate. The company blamed me,
their lawyers relentless, stripping my credentials with a lawsuit that
(08:54):
drained my savings and left me bankrupt. The court room
a stage for my shame. My wife if Mara left
after ten years, her parting words a sob through the phone,
You buried us Ethan, her voice breaking as she hung up,
taking our dog and the photos from our wedding with
no anchor. I took a job as a caretaker for
an abandoned mine shaft near the Salmo River. Its entrance
(09:17):
collapsed under a landslide decades ago. Its silence a tomb
that mirrored my own the shaft was a wound in
the earth, its mouth choked with rubble, the air inside
thick with the musty scent of damp stone and cold dust,
the walls streaked with iron oxide that glistened like blood.
In my flashlight, I found a pickaxe buried under a
(09:37):
pile of rotted timbers, its handle worn smoothed by countless hands,
its blade etched H. Grayson nineteen o one in a script,
worn but legible, its weight a comfort like my grandfather's tools.
Locals in the nearest hamlet, a scattering of trailers ten
miles east, avoided it, their mutters in the diner hinting
(09:58):
it was cursed of voice of the deep that lured
men to their end. But I saw a link to
my grandfather, a tool to dig into my past, to
unearth the gold he'd chased, or the truth of his fate.
The first night, I leaned the pickaxe against the shaft wall.
The air thick with the scent of damp stone and
cold dust, the mine's darkness swallowing my flashlight's beam, the
(10:20):
drip of water echoing like a heart beat through the
narrow tunnel. The space was oppressive, its walls streaked with
iron oxide that caught the light in jagged lines. The
floor littered with shattered timbers and rusted nails, the air
heavy with the weight of the earth pressing down a
pressure I felt in my chest. At two thirteen a m.
As the river's rush faded to a whisper. Outside, a
(10:42):
rumble sounded, low, resonant, like a groan from the rock itself,
though the shaft was still, the wooden supports intact, their
creaks silenced. A voice followed, gravelly and faint, cutting through
the stillness. Dig Ethan, my grandfather's voice from those violet
tailies of hidden veins, commanding yet weary, the same tone
he'd used when he last pressed the map into my hands,
(11:03):
Smelling of tobacco and earth. The pickaxe vibrated, its blade,
glowing a dull red, a heat that warmed the air
around it. Shadows forming in the dust, Figures in miner's hats, faceless,
their picks raised as if midswing, their forms swaying with
an unseen rhythm. I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs.
Checking the tool, no power source, no battery, the metal
(11:25):
cold to the touch despite the glow, but the light
held whispering, find us Ethan. The air grew colder, a
chill that bit through my coat, smelling of sulfur and
wet clay, my breath fogging, as if the mind breathed
its own life, the dust swirling around my feet. I
stumbled to my grandfather's journal, its pages yellowed and brittle,
my hands trembling as I wrote two thirteen a m.
(11:48):
You're here now. The shadows lingered, their forms shifting closer,
and I felt a pull, a tug in my gut,
as if the earth itself called me deeper. I blamed
seismic shifts, the natural tremors of the reef jin amplified
by the shaft's acoustics. The guilt of Paul and Jamie's
death still crushing me, their faces in the break room,
Paul's joke about my coffee, Jamie's quiet nod. Each memory
(12:10):
a stone on my back, but the mine wouldn't rest.
The next night, I brought a seismometer, its wires snaking
across the floor, determined to measure the sound to prove
it was geology, not ghosts. At two thirteen a m.
The rumble returned a deep vibration that shook the dust
from the ceiling, joined by others, men, women, children, moaning
(12:31):
in a chorus that filled the tunnel. You trapped us.
The shadows sharpened, forming bodies entombed in the walls, their
faces contorted in agony, eyes hollow, mouths open in silent screams,
their hands clawing at the rock as if to escape.
I played back the seismometer data flatlined stillness, no seismic activity,
but the voices lingered personal now Mara's tone cutting through
(12:54):
the hum You never saved us, followed by Paul pleading
why did you warn us? I searched at the Rosslyn
Museum the next day, a grueling climb through snow that
left my back aching the curator's glance wary as I
asked about old mines. I found records of Henry Grayson,
a Cornish miner who worked the Cuteney loads in nineteen
(13:14):
o one, vanishing with his crew in a collapse. His pickaxe.
Found glowing logs describing whispers from the stone that drove
men to dig until they dropped. Locals reported disappearances over
the years, their tools left at the shaft, their families
finding only silence. My flashlight held high that night, caught
(13:35):
glints in the dark, dozens of eyes, pale and unblinking,
embedded in the rock like fossils, the air thickening with
the scent of burnt coal and blood, a stench that
clung to my skin and hair. The whispers grew into
a chant dig with us. Sleep vanished, my nights spent
in the shaft's mouth, the pickaxes glow a beacon I
couldn't ignore. I sealed the entrance with boards and chains,
(13:59):
the woods entering under my hands, but the red light
seeped through the cracks, the rumbles seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting ethan dig. I filled the journal with observations,
the pickaxe pulsing with each tremor, the walls sweating, a
black sludge that pooled on the floor, its surface rippling
like liquid tar, staining my boots as I stepped. Months passed,
(14:22):
the isolation deepening, the river freezing over, and one dawn
I woke with the pick axe in my hand, the
shaft floor marked with my boot prints circling the entrance,
the voices layered with my own ethan stay. The journal
showed silence on playback, but I heard the collapses roar
Grayson's wail rising over the dust, cursing me to dig
into the abyss. I tried burying the pickaxe in the
(14:44):
river bank, the shovel snapping against an unseen force, the
tool laughing a hollow. Your hours that echoed across the valley.
Shadows dragged me deeper into the shaft, the cold seeping
into my bones, the air thick with the memory of
the collapses, dust and screams mara voice, pleading come back
to me. I fought, my legs trembling, the weight of
(15:05):
the earth a chain, the glow leading me into darkness.
I fled to a logging camp twenty miles north, but
the pickaxe's glow follows two thirteen a m each night,
my shadow bending into Mara's face, her eyes accusing from
the dark. My journal wants a record of rocks, now
shows mine sketches I didn't draw, my hands stained with
black streaks. The shaft calls me back, its entrance glowing
(15:27):
from the river's edge. Listener, if you hear a rumble,
don't dig. Some depths never release. Part three, The totem
that judges I came to the hyda guaiis archipelago off
British Columbia. After a life shadowed by a heritage, I
couldn't escape a legacy that weighed on me like the
mist over the coastal pines. At forty four, i'd been
(15:50):
an anthropologist studying indigenous cultures for the Royal Ontario Museum.
My notebooks filled with sketches of totem, poles and oral
histories transcribed in the dim light of archives shaped by
my grandmother, a hider elder who raised me in Prince
Rupert after my parents abandoned me at birth, their absence
a mystery she guarded with a tight lipped silence. She'd
(16:14):
carved by the fire in our small house, her hands
steady despite arthritis, teaching me the stories ravens stealing the sun,
bears guarding the spirit world, spirits trapped in the wood,
her voice a lullaby until she died at seventy eight
of a stroke, leaving me. Her final carving, a small
totem with a stern face, its base etched K. Wilson
nineteen seventy five in her precise hand, a gift she
(16:36):
pressed into my palms with a warning respect the old
ways kai my parents departure remained a shadow. My father,
a logger, and my mother a nurse, vanishing when I
was an infant. Their names erased from family records, driving
me into anthropology, a degree from UBC in hand until
a mistribution in a twenty nineteen paper linked a pole
(16:56):
to the wrong clan, sparking outrage from the Hyder community,
costing me my position, the museum calling it cultural negligence
in a press release that haunted my inbox. My boyfriend
THEO left after four years, his voice sharp over coffee
one morning you dishonored them Kai. His departure a second
abandonment that echoed my parents. With no ties, I retreated
(17:19):
to a remote cabin on Hida Guaye. The totem of
weight in my pack. Its would cool against my fingers.
The island's isolation a mirror to my solitude. Near the shore,
I found a larger version, half buried in the sand,
its wood weathered by salt and thyme, Its eyes carved
deep and unyielding, etched K. Wilson eighteen ninety in a
(17:41):
jagged script, Its presence a silent sentinel. Locals in the
Skygate village, a cluster of homes twenty miles north avoided it,
their mutters in the community hall, hinting it judged the unworthy,
a tale passed down with a shudder. But I saw
a connection to my grandmother, a key to reclaim my roots,
to understand the heritage i'd failed. The first night, I
(18:04):
placed the totem by the cabin window, the air thick
with the scent of salt and cedar rot. The oceans roar,
a constant pulse that seemed to breathe with the tide,
the walls creaking with the wind's breath, a sound like
whispers trapped in the wood. The room was cluttered, a
table strewn with seashells gathered from the beach, a bed
(18:25):
with a wool blanket frayed at the edges, the window
framing the misty forest, where the trees stood like silent watchers,
the Totem's presence dominating the space, its eyes seeming to
follow me as I moved. At three twenty seven a
m as the fire in the hearth died to embers,
the wood glowed a faint amber light seeping from the
(18:45):
carved eyes, a hue that warmed the room unnaturally, and
I felt a stare, piercing my soul, A weight that
pressed on my chest like a hand. A voice followed,
stern and ancient, cutting through the silence. You return Chai,
my grandmother's voice from those carving lessons, firm yet sorrowful,
the same tone she used when she scolded me for
(19:06):
neglecting a story. Her breath smelling of mint and cedar.
The glow pulsed, casting shadows on the walls, figures in cloaks, faceless,
their hands raised in judgment, their forms swaying as if
caught in a ritual dance, the amber light reflecting in
their unseen eyes. I froze, my pulse, racing, checking the totem,
(19:26):
no power source, no battery, the wood cold to the
touch despite the glow, but the light held whispering facu ski.
The air grew cold, a chill that bit through my sweater,
smelling of damp, bark and ash. My breath fogging as
if the cabin mourned with the spirits, the floorboards trembling
undern unseen weight. I stumbled to my note book, a
habit from my ranger days, my hands trembling as I
(19:47):
wrote three twenty seven, a m You're judged. Now the
shadows lingered, their forms shifting closer, and I felt a pull,
a tug in my mind, as if the totem drew
my memories to the surface. I blamed the mist rolling
off the ocean, the guilt of that misattribution still burning
in me. The higher elder's face at the conference, his
(20:08):
quiet anger, the emails from colleagues distancing themselves, each a
stone on my back. But the cabin wouldn't rest. The
next night, I brought a camera, its lens, a tool
I trusted from my field work, determined to document the phenomenon,
to prove it was a trick of light or my exhaustion.
After the journey. At three twenty seven a m. The
(20:28):
eyes glowed brighter, their amber deepening to molten gold. The
voice joined by others, a chorus of elders, their tones grave,
children's voices, high and pleading, intoning in unison. You shamed us.
The shadows sharpened, forming a council behind the glass, Their
faces blurred as if seen through smoke, their eyes unblinking,
some with tears frozen on their cheeks, others with mouths
(20:50):
open in silent accusations, their hands clutching unseen objects. I
played back the footage on my laptop, black screen, no
light captured, but the voices lingered personal now, Theo's tone
cutting through the hum You betrayed your blood, followed by
my grandmother accusing you forgot our ways. I researched at
the Skygate Library the next day, a grueling trek through
(21:11):
mud that left my legs aching the librarian's glance wary
as I asked about old carvings. I found records of K. Wilson,
a Hider carver from eighteen ninety whose totem was said
to judge trespassers on sacred land. His village vanishing after
a harsh winter. Their longhouses found empty logs describing voices
(21:31):
of the ancestors that drove men to madness. Locals reported
unease near the shore, their canoes left unmoored, their last
sightings marked by a glow on the water. My flashlight,
held high that night, caught glints in the dark, Dozens
of eyes, pale and staring, embedded in the wood like
knots in the grain, The air thickening with the scent
(21:52):
of charred cedar and blood, a stench that clung to
my hair. And clothes. The whispers grew into a chant
judge with us. Sleep vanished, my nights spent in the
cabin's corner, the totem's glow a beacon I couldn't escape.
I buried it in the sand near the shore, the
earth cold against my hands, but the amber light seeped
through the soil, the voices seeping into my dreams, the
(22:14):
figures chanting chai face. I filled notebooks with observations, the
wood sweating, a dark resin that pooled on the floor,
its texture thick like sap, staining the board's black, its
surface rippling as if alive. Weeks passed, the isolation deepening,
the ocean's surface churning with storms, and one dawn, I
woke with the totem in my hand, the cabin floor
(22:35):
marked with my prints circling the room, the voices layered
with my own Chai stay. The log showed silence on playback,
but I heard an elder's chant, Wilson's cry rising over
the waves, cursing me to judge the living and the dead.
I tried burning it in a fire pit on the beach,
the flames leaping high. They died to embers. The Totem,
laughing a hollow your hours that echoed across the water.
(22:57):
Shadows dragged me towards the shore, the cold seeping into
my bones, the air thick with the memory of my
grandmother's lessons, the scent of mint and cedar, now sour
with decay. Theo's voice pleading see me Kai. I fought,
my legs trembling, the weight of the ocean a chain,
the glow leading me into the tide. I fled to
a fishing village thirty miles east, but the Totem's glow
(23:20):
follows three twenty seven a m each night, my shadow
bending into Theo's face, his eyes accusing from the dark.
My notebooks, once filled with academic notes, now show Totem's sketches.
I didn't draw, my hands stained with black streaks. The
cabin calls me back, its windows glowing from the shore. Listener,
if you see amber eyes, don't approach. Some judgments never end.
(23:42):
Part four, The Fog that lingers. I came to the
coastal forests of Nova Scotia after a life unraveling under
the weight of a promise I couldn't keep. At thirty nine,
I'd been a lighthouse keeper tending the beacon at Cape Fortune.
My days marked by the rhythm of the foghorn, my
nights by the sees endless sigh shaped by my older
(24:02):
sister Clara, who raised me after our parents drowned in
a fishing accident off Yarmouth when I was twelve. She'd
sing me to sleep, her voice a lifeline until she
married a sailor who took her away, leaving me with
a vow to keep the light burning for her return,
a promise broken when I missed a signal during a storm,
the ship Morning Star, vanishing with her aboard. The inquiry
(24:25):
blamming my lapse in duty, stripping my post. My fiancee,
Elise left her words sharp, you let her go owen
and I took a job as a groundskeeper for an
old manner near the coast, Its grounds shrouded in mist,
its silence and mirror to my loss. One foggy night,
I found a lantern, its glass cracked, its wick unlit,
etched our halt eighteen forty five, locals calling it cursed
(24:48):
a FOG's heart, But I saw a tool to guide
me away to honor Clara. The first night I hung
the lantern on the manor porch, the air thick with
the scent of brine and decaying leaves. The fog roll
in like a living veil, the boards creaking under my steps.
The grounds were overgrown, ivy, choking the walls, the windows dark,
the foghorns distant wail a faint echo. At five thirteen
(25:10):
a m. The lantern glowed, a pale blue light pulsing
from within, and I heard a sigh, soft and familiar.
A voice followed, gentle yet mournful. Find me Owen, Clara's
voice from those childhood songs, pleading yet distant. The glows spread,
shadows forming in the mist, Figures in sodden coats, faceless,
their steps silent. I checked the lantern, no fuel, no flame,
(25:32):
but the light held whispering guide us Owen. I logged
it in a journal. Five thirteen a m. You're lost now.
The air grew colder, smelling of wet wool and salt.
My breath fogging as if the fog exhaled. I blamed
the mist's tricks, the guilt of Clara's loss still choking me,
but the manner wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought
a weather gage, determined to measure the anomaly. At five
(25:53):
thirteen a m. The sy returned, joined by others, men, women, children,
moaning you abandoned us, The shadows shark and forming a crew,
their coats dripping, eyes hollow. I played back the data,
clear readings, but the voices lingered, Elise's tone cutting you
failed her. I researched at the Yarmouth Archives, my legs
aching from the walk finding records of Robert Holt, a
(26:15):
keeper who vanished in eighteen forty five. His lantern found
glowing logs describing voices in the fog. Locals reported disappearances,
their boats found adrift. My flashlight caught glints in the mist,
Dozens of eyes, pale and staring, dotting the air, the
fog thick with the scent of seaweed and decay. The
whispers grew lead us home. Sleep vanished. I buried the lantern,
(26:38):
but the glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting owen guide. I spent weeks observing the mistdeepening,
the ground, sweating a briny film. One dawn, I woke
with the lantern in hand, the porch marked with my prints,
The voices layered with my own ohen stay. The log
showed silence, but I heard a ship's grown holt's cry,
cursing me to lead. I tried sinking it. The rope broke,
(27:00):
the lantern laughing a hollow your hours shadows dragged me
into the fog, the cold seeping into my lungs, Clara's
voice pleading. I fled to a fisherman's shack, but the
lantern's glow follows five thirteen a m each night, my
logs showing her face. Listener, if you see blue mist,
don't enter. Some fogs never lift. Thank you for joining me,
(27:22):
sir Winstone, on this journey through four dark tailies. Until
next time, stay out of the haze.
We are back with another chilling tale from listener Tilley's podcast.
This one comes from a listener in Canada. They call
it The Cabin That Watches. Part one, The Cabin That Watches.
I came to the Yukon Wilderness after a life fractured
by secrets I couldn't bury. At forty six, I'd been
a park ranger in banth gidding tourists through pine forests
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and rocky trails, my boots worn from years of service,
my heart hardened by a childhood marked by my uncle's disappearances.
He'd vanish for weeks, returning with tailies of gold strikes,
his eyes wild, his hands trembling with fevered excitement, until
one winter in nineteen ninety eight he didn't come back,
(00:44):
leaving me with his cabin deed and a note scrawled
in shaky ink, it sees you, Niil. My parents died
in a car crash when I was twenty. They see
Dan skidding on black ice near Jasper. The silence of
their absence of weight. I carried into every forest patrol,
filling it with work until a ranger misconduct charge, falsifying
(01:04):
bare sighting logs to boost tourism revenue. Cost me my
job the park, branding me a liar in a public
hearing that left my reputation in tatters. My partner, Grace
left after five years together, her voice cold and final
as she packed her bags. You'r hiding something, Neil, her words,
a mirror to my own doubts. With no anchor left,
(01:24):
I retreated to the yukon the cabin, a sagging relic
near Cluin Lake, Its windows dark and cracked, its walls,
whispering with the wind that carried the scent of the wild. Inside,
the air was stale, thick with the musk of old
wood and forgotten things. The floorboards warped, the ceiling sagging
with damp. I found a mirror tucked behind a stack
of mildewed blankets, its frame carved with dozens of eyes, wide, unblinking,
(01:48):
etched deep into the oak, its glass clouded with age,
scratched with e. Carva eighteen eighty nine in a jagged hand.
Locals in the nearest settlement, a cluster of cabins thirty
miles south, avoided it, their mutters in the general store
hinting it watched with the dead. A tail passed down
with a shiver but I saw a chance to face
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my past, to see myself clearly, to confront the secrets
I buried with my uncle. The first night, I hung
the mirror above the fireplace, the air thick with the
scent of cedar and damp moss, the cabin creaking as
if alive with every shift of the wind, the lake's
waves a distant murmur that seemed to pulse with the
rhythm of my heart beat. The room was sparse, a
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cot with a threadbare quilt, a table scarred with knife marks,
the walls lined with faded photographs, my uncle's stern face
among strangers, their eyes faded to ghosts, the single window
framing the endless trees, their branches clawing at the glass.
At midnight, as the fire died to embers, the glass shimmered,
a faint glow pulsing from within, a sickly yellow that
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seeped into the room, and I felt a gaze heavy
on my neck, like a hand pressing down. A voice followed,
low and raspy, cutting through the silence your home kneel,
my uncle's voice from those wild tailies of golden ghosts,
urgent yet hollow, the same tone he'd used when he
last hugged me, Smelling of whisky and pine. The glow brightened,
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casting shadows on the walls, eyes countless, blinking in unison,
some wide with terror, others narrowed with judgment, watching me
from every angle. I froze, my pulse racing, checking the mirror,
no light sauce, no reflection of the room, only my
face distorted, my eyes too large, and the gaze held whispering,
see us kneel. The air grew cold, a chill that
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bit through my jacket, smelling of wet earth and something
metallic like blood dried on stone, My breath fogging as
if the cabin exhaled its own breath. I stumbled to
my notebook, a relic from my ranger days, my hands
trembling as I wrote Midnight, you can't hide. The shadows lingered,
their eyes tracking me as I moved, and I felt
a pull, a weight in my chest, as if the
(03:57):
mirror drew something from me. I blamed the isolation, the
guilt of my uncle's fate still gnawing at me. Had
he died seeking gold or had something taken him? The misconduct,
charge of fresh wound that echoed my parents loss, But
the cabin wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a flashlight,
its beam a stark contrast to the mirror's glow, determined
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to expose the trick, to prove it was just the
wind or my mind playing games after years of solitude.
At midnight, the eyes returned, sharper, their pupils dilating. The voice,
joined by others, a chorus of men, women, children, murmuring
in overlapping waves, you left us. The shadows shifted, forming
figures behind the glass. Their faces blurred, as if seen
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through fog, their eyes unblinking, some with tears frozen on
their cheeks, others with mouths open in silent screams. I
played back the recorder. I'd set up static silence, no
wave forms, but the voices lingered. Personal now, Grace's tone
cutting through the hum You never looked at me, followed
by my uncle accusing when search for me. I researched
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at the white Horse Library the next day, a grueling
hike through snow that left my legs aching. The librarians
glance weary as I asked about old cabins. I found
records of Elia's Krver, a trapper who settled near Cluing
Lake in eighteen eighty nine, vanishing after a harsh winter,
his cabin found with the mirror glowing, journals describing eyes
(05:22):
that judged the soul, their pages stained with what looked
like blood. Locals reported vanishings over decades, their last sightings
near the lake, their tracks ending at the water's edge,
their faces pale as if drained. My flashlight, held high
that night, caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes,
pale and staring, embedded in the walls like knots in
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the wood, the air thickening with the scent of mold
and blood, a stench that clung to my clothes and hair.
The whispers grew into a chant watch with us. Sleep vanished,
my nights spent in the cabin's loft. The mirrors glow
a beacon I couldn't escape. I covered it with a blank.
The wool heavy and damp, but the yellow light seeped
through the fibers, the eyes following me as I paced
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the figures, chanting neil see, I filled notebooks with observations,
the glass sweating, dripping with a dark liquid that pooled
on the mantle, staining the wood black, its texture thick
like oil. Weeks past, the isolation deepening, the lake's surface
freezing over, and one dawn, I woke with the mirror
in my hand, the cabin floor marked with my boot
(06:26):
prints circling the room, the voices layered with my own,
Neil stay. The log showed silence on playback, but I
heard a trapper's wail, carver's cry rising over the wind,
cursing me to watch the dead. I tried smashing it
with a hammer from the shed, the metal ringing against
the frame. The head bounced back, the mirror, laughing, a
hollow your hours that echoed off the walls. The sound
(06:47):
reverberating in my skull. Shadows dragged me toward the glass,
the cold seeping into my bones, Grace's voice pleading, look
at me, Neil. I fought my legs, trembling, the air
thick with the memory of my uncle's last embrace, the
scent of whisky and pine now sour with decay. I
fled to a ranger post fifty miles south. But the
(07:09):
mirror's glow follows midnight each night, my shadow bending into
Grace's face, her eyes accusing from the dark. My notebooks,
once meticulous, now show sketches of eyes I didn't draw,
my hands stained with black streaks. The cabin calls me back,
its windows glowing from the lake's edge. Listener, if you
see eyes in the dark, don't look. Some gazes never
(07:30):
turn away. Let Part two, The Mine that Whispers. I
arrived in British Columbia's Cuteeney region after a life eroded
by choices I couldn't undo. At fifty, i'd been a
geologist mapping mineral veins in the Rockies for a mining company.
My hammer and pickax extensions of my hands, shaped by
(07:50):
a childhood spent with my grandfather, a prospector who roamed
the Selkirk Mountains with a fervor that bordered on madness.
He tells stories by the fire in our cabin near Revelstoke,
his voice rough with dust and whiskey of gold hidden
in the earth's belly, his hands sketching maps on scraps
of paper, until a cavin took him at sixty two
(08:11):
during a solo dig in nineteen ninety five. His body
never recovered, leaving me with his worn journal and a
map marked with an ex near Rossland, its edges frayed
from his grip, My parents worn by his obsession, my
mother sewing late into the night, my father drinking himself
into stupors. Died young, she of a heart weakened by
worry at forty eight, he of cirrhosis at fifty two.
(08:33):
There loss of silence. I filled with the clang of rock,
earning a geology degree from UBC. Until a misjudged seam
collapsed during a survey in twenty eighteen killed two miners,
Paul and Jamie, their faces familiar from lunch breaks, their
laughter silenced by tons of slate. The company blamed me,
their lawyers relentless, stripping my credentials with a lawsuit that
(08:54):
drained my savings and left me bankrupt. The court room
a stage for my shame. My wife if Mara left
after ten years, her parting words a sob through the phone,
You buried us Ethan, her voice breaking as she hung up,
taking our dog and the photos from our wedding with
no anchor. I took a job as a caretaker for
an abandoned mine shaft near the Salmo River. Its entrance
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collapsed under a landslide decades ago. Its silence a tomb
that mirrored my own the shaft was a wound in
the earth, its mouth choked with rubble, the air inside
thick with the musty scent of damp stone and cold dust,
the walls streaked with iron oxide that glistened like blood.
In my flashlight, I found a pickaxe buried under a
(09:37):
pile of rotted timbers, its handle worn smoothed by countless hands,
its blade etched H. Grayson nineteen o one in a script,
worn but legible, its weight a comfort like my grandfather's tools.
Locals in the nearest hamlet, a scattering of trailers ten
miles east, avoided it, their mutters in the diner hinting
(09:58):
it was cursed of voice of the deep that lured
men to their end. But I saw a link to
my grandfather, a tool to dig into my past, to
unearth the gold he'd chased, or the truth of his fate.
The first night, I leaned the pickaxe against the shaft wall.
The air thick with the scent of damp stone and
cold dust, the mine's darkness swallowing my flashlight's beam, the
(10:20):
drip of water echoing like a heart beat through the
narrow tunnel. The space was oppressive, its walls streaked with
iron oxide that caught the light in jagged lines. The
floor littered with shattered timbers and rusted nails, the air
heavy with the weight of the earth pressing down a
pressure I felt in my chest. At two thirteen a m.
As the river's rush faded to a whisper. Outside, a
(10:42):
rumble sounded, low, resonant, like a groan from the rock itself,
though the shaft was still, the wooden supports intact, their
creaks silenced. A voice followed, gravelly and faint, cutting through
the stillness. Dig Ethan, my grandfather's voice from those violet
tailies of hidden veins, commanding yet weary, the same tone
he'd used when he last pressed the map into my hands,
(11:03):
Smelling of tobacco and earth. The pickaxe vibrated, its blade,
glowing a dull red, a heat that warmed the air
around it. Shadows forming in the dust, Figures in miner's hats, faceless,
their picks raised as if midswing, their forms swaying with
an unseen rhythm. I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs.
Checking the tool, no power source, no battery, the metal
(11:25):
cold to the touch despite the glow, but the light
held whispering, find us Ethan. The air grew colder, a
chill that bit through my coat, smelling of sulfur and
wet clay, my breath fogging, as if the mind breathed
its own life, the dust swirling around my feet. I
stumbled to my grandfather's journal, its pages yellowed and brittle,
my hands trembling as I wrote two thirteen a m.
(11:48):
You're here now. The shadows lingered, their forms shifting closer,
and I felt a pull, a tug in my gut,
as if the earth itself called me deeper. I blamed
seismic shifts, the natural tremors of the reef jin amplified
by the shaft's acoustics. The guilt of Paul and Jamie's
death still crushing me, their faces in the break room,
Paul's joke about my coffee, Jamie's quiet nod. Each memory
(12:10):
a stone on my back, but the mine wouldn't rest.
The next night, I brought a seismometer, its wires snaking
across the floor, determined to measure the sound to prove
it was geology, not ghosts. At two thirteen a m.
The rumble returned a deep vibration that shook the dust
from the ceiling, joined by others, men, women, children, moaning
(12:31):
in a chorus that filled the tunnel. You trapped us.
The shadows sharpened, forming bodies entombed in the walls, their
faces contorted in agony, eyes hollow, mouths open in silent screams,
their hands clawing at the rock as if to escape.
I played back the seismometer data flatlined stillness, no seismic activity,
but the voices lingered personal now Mara's tone cutting through
(12:54):
the hum You never saved us, followed by Paul pleading
why did you warn us? I searched at the Rosslyn
Museum the next day, a grueling climb through snow that
left my back aching the curator's glance wary as I
asked about old mines. I found records of Henry Grayson,
a Cornish miner who worked the Cuteney loads in nineteen
(13:14):
o one, vanishing with his crew in a collapse. His pickaxe.
Found glowing logs describing whispers from the stone that drove
men to dig until they dropped. Locals reported disappearances over
the years, their tools left at the shaft, their families
finding only silence. My flashlight held high that night, caught
(13:35):
glints in the dark, dozens of eyes, pale and unblinking,
embedded in the rock like fossils, the air thickening with
the scent of burnt coal and blood, a stench that
clung to my skin and hair. The whispers grew into
a chant dig with us. Sleep vanished, my nights spent
in the shaft's mouth, the pickaxes glow a beacon I
couldn't ignore. I sealed the entrance with boards and chains,
(13:59):
the woods entering under my hands, but the red light
seeped through the cracks, the rumbles seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting ethan dig. I filled the journal with observations,
the pickaxe pulsing with each tremor, the walls sweating, a
black sludge that pooled on the floor, its surface rippling
like liquid tar, staining my boots as I stepped. Months passed,
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the isolation deepening, the river freezing over, and one dawn
I woke with the pick axe in my hand, the
shaft floor marked with my boot prints circling the entrance,
the voices layered with my own ethan stay. The journal
showed silence on playback, but I heard the collapses roar
Grayson's wail rising over the dust, cursing me to dig
into the abyss. I tried burying the pickaxe in the
(14:44):
river bank, the shovel snapping against an unseen force, the
tool laughing a hollow. Your hours that echoed across the valley.
Shadows dragged me deeper into the shaft, the cold seeping
into my bones, the air thick with the memory of
the collapses, dust and screams mara voice, pleading come back
to me. I fought, my legs trembling, the weight of
(15:05):
the earth a chain, the glow leading me into darkness.
I fled to a logging camp twenty miles north, but
the pickaxe's glow follows two thirteen a m each night,
my shadow bending into Mara's face, her eyes accusing from
the dark. My journal wants a record of rocks, now
shows mine sketches I didn't draw, my hands stained with
black streaks. The shaft calls me back, its entrance glowing
(15:27):
from the river's edge. Listener, if you hear a rumble,
don't dig. Some depths never release. Part three, The totem
that judges I came to the hyda guaiis archipelago off
British Columbia. After a life shadowed by a heritage, I
couldn't escape a legacy that weighed on me like the
mist over the coastal pines. At forty four, i'd been
(15:50):
an anthropologist studying indigenous cultures for the Royal Ontario Museum.
My notebooks filled with sketches of totem, poles and oral
histories transcribed in the dim light of archives shaped by
my grandmother, a hider elder who raised me in Prince
Rupert after my parents abandoned me at birth, their absence
a mystery she guarded with a tight lipped silence. She'd
(16:14):
carved by the fire in our small house, her hands
steady despite arthritis, teaching me the stories ravens stealing the sun,
bears guarding the spirit world, spirits trapped in the wood,
her voice a lullaby until she died at seventy eight
of a stroke, leaving me. Her final carving, a small
totem with a stern face, its base etched K. Wilson
nineteen seventy five in her precise hand, a gift she
(16:36):
pressed into my palms with a warning respect the old
ways kai my parents departure remained a shadow. My father,
a logger, and my mother a nurse, vanishing when I
was an infant. Their names erased from family records, driving
me into anthropology, a degree from UBC in hand until
a mistribution in a twenty nineteen paper linked a pole
(16:56):
to the wrong clan, sparking outrage from the Hyder community,
costing me my position, the museum calling it cultural negligence
in a press release that haunted my inbox. My boyfriend
THEO left after four years, his voice sharp over coffee
one morning you dishonored them Kai. His departure a second
abandonment that echoed my parents. With no ties, I retreated
(17:19):
to a remote cabin on Hida Guaye. The totem of
weight in my pack. Its would cool against my fingers.
The island's isolation a mirror to my solitude. Near the shore,
I found a larger version, half buried in the sand,
its wood weathered by salt and thyme, Its eyes carved
deep and unyielding, etched K. Wilson eighteen ninety in a
(17:41):
jagged script, Its presence a silent sentinel. Locals in the
Skygate village, a cluster of homes twenty miles north avoided it,
their mutters in the community hall, hinting it judged the unworthy,
a tale passed down with a shudder. But I saw
a connection to my grandmother, a key to reclaim my roots,
to understand the heritage i'd failed. The first night, I
(18:04):
placed the totem by the cabin window, the air thick
with the scent of salt and cedar rot. The oceans roar,
a constant pulse that seemed to breathe with the tide,
the walls creaking with the wind's breath, a sound like
whispers trapped in the wood. The room was cluttered, a
table strewn with seashells gathered from the beach, a bed
(18:25):
with a wool blanket frayed at the edges, the window
framing the misty forest, where the trees stood like silent watchers,
the Totem's presence dominating the space, its eyes seeming to
follow me as I moved. At three twenty seven a
m as the fire in the hearth died to embers,
the wood glowed a faint amber light seeping from the
(18:45):
carved eyes, a hue that warmed the room unnaturally, and
I felt a stare, piercing my soul, A weight that
pressed on my chest like a hand. A voice followed,
stern and ancient, cutting through the silence. You return Chai,
my grandmother's voice from those carving lessons, firm yet sorrowful,
the same tone she used when she scolded me for
(19:06):
neglecting a story. Her breath smelling of mint and cedar.
The glow pulsed, casting shadows on the walls, figures in cloaks, faceless,
their hands raised in judgment, their forms swaying as if
caught in a ritual dance, the amber light reflecting in
their unseen eyes. I froze, my pulse, racing, checking the totem,
(19:26):
no power source, no battery, the wood cold to the
touch despite the glow, but the light held whispering facu ski.
The air grew cold, a chill that bit through my sweater,
smelling of damp, bark and ash. My breath fogging as
if the cabin mourned with the spirits, the floorboards trembling
undern unseen weight. I stumbled to my note book, a
habit from my ranger days, my hands trembling as I
(19:47):
wrote three twenty seven, a m You're judged. Now the
shadows lingered, their forms shifting closer, and I felt a pull,
a tug in my mind, as if the totem drew
my memories to the surface. I blamed the mist rolling
off the ocean, the guilt of that misattribution still burning
in me. The higher elder's face at the conference, his
(20:08):
quiet anger, the emails from colleagues distancing themselves, each a
stone on my back. But the cabin wouldn't rest. The
next night, I brought a camera, its lens, a tool
I trusted from my field work, determined to document the phenomenon,
to prove it was a trick of light or my exhaustion.
After the journey. At three twenty seven a m. The
(20:28):
eyes glowed brighter, their amber deepening to molten gold. The
voice joined by others, a chorus of elders, their tones grave,
children's voices, high and pleading, intoning in unison. You shamed us.
The shadows sharpened, forming a council behind the glass, Their
faces blurred as if seen through smoke, their eyes unblinking,
some with tears frozen on their cheeks, others with mouths
(20:50):
open in silent accusations, their hands clutching unseen objects. I
played back the footage on my laptop, black screen, no
light captured, but the voices lingered personal now, Theo's tone
cutting through the hum You betrayed your blood, followed by
my grandmother accusing you forgot our ways. I researched at
the Skygate Library the next day, a grueling trek through
(21:11):
mud that left my legs aching the librarian's glance wary
as I asked about old carvings. I found records of K. Wilson,
a Hider carver from eighteen ninety whose totem was said
to judge trespassers on sacred land. His village vanishing after
a harsh winter. Their longhouses found empty logs describing voices
(21:31):
of the ancestors that drove men to madness. Locals reported
unease near the shore, their canoes left unmoored, their last
sightings marked by a glow on the water. My flashlight,
held high that night, caught glints in the dark, Dozens
of eyes, pale and staring, embedded in the wood like
knots in the grain, The air thickening with the scent
(21:52):
of charred cedar and blood, a stench that clung to
my hair. And clothes. The whispers grew into a chant
judge with us. Sleep vanished, my nights spent in the
cabin's corner, the totem's glow a beacon I couldn't escape.
I buried it in the sand near the shore, the
earth cold against my hands, but the amber light seeped
through the soil, the voices seeping into my dreams, the
(22:14):
figures chanting chai face. I filled notebooks with observations, the
wood sweating, a dark resin that pooled on the floor,
its texture thick like sap, staining the board's black, its
surface rippling as if alive. Weeks passed, the isolation deepening,
the ocean's surface churning with storms, and one dawn, I
woke with the totem in my hand, the cabin floor
(22:35):
marked with my prints circling the room, the voices layered
with my own Chai stay. The log showed silence on playback,
but I heard an elder's chant, Wilson's cry rising over
the waves, cursing me to judge the living and the dead.
I tried burning it in a fire pit on the beach,
the flames leaping high. They died to embers. The Totem,
laughing a hollow your hours that echoed across the water.
(22:57):
Shadows dragged me towards the shore, the cold seeping into
my bones, the air thick with the memory of my
grandmother's lessons, the scent of mint and cedar, now sour
with decay. Theo's voice pleading see me Kai. I fought,
my legs trembling, the weight of the ocean a chain,
the glow leading me into the tide. I fled to
a fishing village thirty miles east, but the Totem's glow
(23:20):
follows three twenty seven a m each night, my shadow
bending into Theo's face, his eyes accusing from the dark.
My notebooks, once filled with academic notes, now show Totem's sketches.
I didn't draw, my hands stained with black streaks. The
cabin calls me back, its windows glowing from the shore. Listener,
if you see amber eyes, don't approach. Some judgments never end.
(23:42):
Part four, The Fog that lingers. I came to the
coastal forests of Nova Scotia after a life unraveling under
the weight of a promise I couldn't keep. At thirty nine,
I'd been a lighthouse keeper tending the beacon at Cape Fortune.
My days marked by the rhythm of the foghorn, my
nights by the sees endless sigh shaped by my older
(24:02):
sister Clara, who raised me after our parents drowned in
a fishing accident off Yarmouth when I was twelve. She'd
sing me to sleep, her voice a lifeline until she
married a sailor who took her away, leaving me with
a vow to keep the light burning for her return,
a promise broken when I missed a signal during a storm,
the ship Morning Star, vanishing with her aboard. The inquiry
(24:25):
blamming my lapse in duty, stripping my post. My fiancee,
Elise left her words sharp, you let her go owen
and I took a job as a groundskeeper for an
old manner near the coast, Its grounds shrouded in mist,
its silence and mirror to my loss. One foggy night,
I found a lantern, its glass cracked, its wick unlit,
etched our halt eighteen forty five, locals calling it cursed
(24:48):
a FOG's heart, But I saw a tool to guide
me away to honor Clara. The first night I hung
the lantern on the manor porch, the air thick with
the scent of brine and decaying leaves. The fog roll
in like a living veil, the boards creaking under my steps.
The grounds were overgrown, ivy, choking the walls, the windows dark,
the foghorns distant wail a faint echo. At five thirteen
(25:10):
a m. The lantern glowed, a pale blue light pulsing
from within, and I heard a sigh, soft and familiar.
A voice followed, gentle yet mournful. Find me Owen, Clara's
voice from those childhood songs, pleading yet distant. The glows spread,
shadows forming in the mist, Figures in sodden coats, faceless,
their steps silent. I checked the lantern, no fuel, no flame,
(25:32):
but the light held whispering guide us Owen. I logged
it in a journal. Five thirteen a m. You're lost now.
The air grew colder, smelling of wet wool and salt.
My breath fogging as if the fog exhaled. I blamed
the mist's tricks, the guilt of Clara's loss still choking me,
but the manner wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought
a weather gage, determined to measure the anomaly. At five
(25:53):
thirteen a m. The sy returned, joined by others, men, women, children,
moaning you abandoned us, The shadows shark and forming a crew,
their coats dripping, eyes hollow. I played back the data,
clear readings, but the voices lingered, Elise's tone cutting you
failed her. I researched at the Yarmouth Archives, my legs
aching from the walk finding records of Robert Holt, a
(26:15):
keeper who vanished in eighteen forty five. His lantern found
glowing logs describing voices in the fog. Locals reported disappearances,
their boats found adrift. My flashlight caught glints in the mist,
Dozens of eyes, pale and staring, dotting the air, the
fog thick with the scent of seaweed and decay. The
whispers grew lead us home. Sleep vanished. I buried the lantern,
(26:38):
but the glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting owen guide. I spent weeks observing the mistdeepening,
the ground, sweating a briny film. One dawn, I woke
with the lantern in hand, the porch marked with my prints,
The voices layered with my own ohen stay. The log
showed silence, but I heard a ship's grown holt's cry,
cursing me to lead. I tried sinking it. The rope broke,
(27:00):
the lantern laughing a hollow your hours shadows dragged me
into the fog, the cold seeping into my lungs, Clara's
voice pleading. I fled to a fisherman's shack, but the
lantern's glow follows five thirteen a m each night, my
logs showing her face. Listener, if you see blue mist,
don't enter. Some fogs never lift. Thank you for joining me,
(27:22):
sir Winstone, on this journey through four dark tailies. Until
next time, stay out of the haze.
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My Favorite Murder with Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark
My Favorite Murder is a true crime comedy podcast hosted by Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark. Each week, Karen and Georgia share compelling true crimes and hometown stories from friends and listeners. Since MFM launched in January of 2016, Karen and Georgia have shared their lifelong interest in true crime and have covered stories of infamous serial killers like the Night Stalker, mysterious cold cases, captivating cults, incredible survivor stories and important events from history like the Tulsa race massacre of 1921. My Favorite Murder is part of the Exactly Right podcast network that provides a platform for bold, creative voices to bring to life provocative, entertaining and relatable stories for audiences everywhere. The Exactly Right roster of podcasts covers a variety of topics including historic true crime, comedic interviews and news, science, pop culture and more. Podcasts on the network include Buried Bones with Kate Winkler Dawson and Paul Holes, That's Messed Up: An SVU Podcast, This Podcast Will Kill You, Bananas and more.