Episode 14.) Listener Tales

• Horror
• Supernatural
• Ghost Stories
• Haunted Places
• Cursed Objects
• Eerie Tales
• Suspense
• Storytelling
• Paranormal
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• Listener Stories
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• Mystery
• Spooky

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Follow us for more chilling tales. Contact: [e-mail] | Last updated: September 29, 2025.

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Welcome to listener Tiales podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
into the shadows once again. To day we unravel four
new tales from listeners on the fringes of the unknown,
each a whisper of dread from Canada's wild Heart. No music,
no breaks, just the raw, chilling voices of those who
have faced the uncanny settle in if you dare, as

(00:21):
we step into the dark on this journey. Part one,
The Clock that Ticks Back. I came to a secluded
valley in the Northwest Territories after a life fractured by
a moment I couldn't reclaim. At forty two, I'd been
a watchmaker, crafting time pieces in Yellowknife, my hands steady
with gears and springs, shaped by my father, a clockmaker

(00:42):
who taught me precision under the flicker of oil lamps,
his voice a metronome of patience. We'd work late, his
stories of time's mysteries, filling the air, until a stroke
took him at sixty seven, leaving me his workshop and
a pocket watch etched Jay Harrow nineteen twenty. My business
thrived until a client's lawsuit claiming a clock I repaired,

(01:03):
stopped their heart monitor ruined me, the court calling it
negligent design, stripping my reputation. My girlfriend Lena left her
words bitter, You're stuck in the past. Marcus and I
took a job as a caretaker for an old estate
near Great Slave Lake, its halls silent, its clock stilled
in the attic. I found a grandfather clock, its face cracked,

(01:24):
its pendulum rusted, etched Jy Harrow eighteen ninety, locals warning
it turned time, but I saw a masterpiece to restore
a link to my father. The first night, I wound
the clock in the estate's parlor, the air thick with
the scent of aged wood and moth eaten fabric, the
silence broken by the lake's distant lap, the floorboards groaning
under my steps. The room was a relic, velvet curtains faded,

(01:48):
a shandily adult, the single window framing the snowy valley,
the clock's presence a sentinel. At four seventeen a m.
The pendulum swung, its tick reversing backwards, a hollow sound,
though I'd set it forward. A voice followed, soft and
stern return Marcus, my father's voice from those workshop nights,
commanding yet faint. The clock glowed a dim amber light

(02:10):
seeping from the dial, Shadows forming on the walls, Figures
in old suits, faceless, their hands clutching watches. I checked
the mechanism, no power, no battery, but the glow held,
whispering rewind us Marcus. I logged it in my journal.
Four seventeen a m. You're trapped now. The air grew colder,
smelling of oil and dust, my breath fogging, as if

(02:32):
time exhaled. I blamed a mechanical glitch, the guilt of
that lawsuit still ticking in my mind, but the estate
wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a chronometer, determined
to measure the anomaly. At four seventeen a m. The
tick reversed again, the voice joined by others, men, women, children,
murmuring you stopped us. The shadows sharpened, forming a crowd,
their suits, tattered, eyes hollow. I played back the datas

(02:54):
steady time, but the voices lingered, Lana's tone cutting you
can't move on. I researched at the Yellowknife Library, my
hands aching from the cold, finding records of Jacob Harrow,
a clockmaker who vanished in eighteen ninety. His clock found
glowing logs describing time unraveling. Locals reported unease, their watches
running backward. My flashlight caught glints in the dark, Dozens

(03:18):
of eyes pale and staring, dotting the wood, the air
thick with the scent of rust and regret. The whispers
grew turn with us. Sleep vanished. I covered the clock,
but the glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting Marcus rewind. I spent weeks observing the pendulum,
sweating a dark oil. One dawn, I woke with the

(03:38):
clock in hand, the parlor marked with my prints, the
voices layered with my own, Marcus Stay. The log showed silence,
but I heard a chime, Harrow's cry, cursing me to turn.
I tried dismantling it. The tools bent the clock, laughing
a hollow your hours shadows dragged me toward the dial,
the cold seeping into my bones, Lana's voice pleading. I

(03:58):
fled to a trapper cabin, But the clock's glow follows
four seventeen a m each night, my logs showing her face.
Listener if you hear a backward tick, don't listen. Sometimes
Never Pass Part two, The Canoe that Drifts. I came
to the shores of Lake Winnipeg in Manitoba after a
life adrift from a duty I couldn't fulfill, a current

(04:19):
pulling me toward a past I couldn't escape. At thirty seven,
i'd been a river guide, leading canoe trips through the
boundary waters. My paddle a steady companion that sliced through
the rapids, shaped by my uncle, a cree fisherman who
taught me the water's rhythms under the northern lights, his
laughter echoing over the waves as we cast lines. We'd

(04:40):
fish together on the Winnipeg River, his stories of spirits
in the currants, filling my childhood with wonder talies of water,
spirits who guided or drowned, until he drowned at fifty five,
caught in a whirlpool near Bloodveen, his canoe found overturned,
leaving me his carved paddle and a promise whispered on
his deathbed to keep the river safe, a vow I
broke when a clat, a teenager named Rachel, capsized under

(05:03):
my watch during a sudden squall, Her paddle lost, her
body never found despite days of searching the park, suspending
me for gross negligence. After an investigation that replayed her
scream in my mind. My fiancee Sophie left after three years,
her voice cold as she packed her bag. You let
her die, Tom her departure a second drowning, taking our

(05:25):
shared dreams with her with no anchor. I took a
job as a caretaker for a remote lodge near the lake,
its dock weathered by storms, its waters still and unyielding,
the isolation of penance I welcomed. The lodge was a relic,
its walls sagging with damp, the boat house a cluttered
tomb of nets tangled like spiderwebs, oars broken and scattered,

(05:46):
the single window reflecting the moon's pale light, the air
heavy with the musty scent of wet pine and lake mud.
In the boat house, buried under a pile of rotted tarps,
I found a canoe, its whole scarred with deep gouges,
sides etched m. Redski eighteen seventy five in a hand
worn by time, its wood dark with age, its presence

(06:07):
a silent accusation. Locals in the nearest settlement, a cluster
of cabins fifteen miles south avoided it, their mutters in
the trading post hinting it was cursed, a drifter's soul
that lured men to the depths. But I saw a
vessel to honor my uncle away, to navigate my guilt,
to paddle through the shame that clung to me like

(06:28):
lake water. The first night, I moored the canoe by
the dock, the air thick with the scent of wet
pine and lake mud, the water lapping like a heartbeat
against the pilings, the lodge creaking in the breeze that
carried the scent of rain, the boards groaning under my
weight as I stepped. The boat house was a chaos
of shadows, nets tangled like spiderwebs, Oars broken and leaning

(06:49):
against the walls, the single window reflecting the moon's pale light,
the canoes presence, a silent weight that seemed to anchor
the room. At six thirty three a m. As the
the first light crept over the horizon, the wood glowed
a faint green light pulsing from the etchings, a hue
that shimmered like algae on the water. And I heard

(07:09):
a splash, soft and deliberate, cutting through the stillness like
a dropped stone. A voice followed, gentle yet mournful, rising
from the lake's surface. Save me, Tom, my uncle's voice
from those fishing trips, pleading yet distant, the same tone
he'd used when he warned me of the whirlpool, his
breath smelling of tobacco and fish. The glow spread across

(07:31):
the hull, casting reflections on the water, shadows forming figures
in wet hides, faceless, their paddles raised as if mid stroke,
their forms swaying with the waves. I froze, my heart
thudding against my ribs, checking the canoe, no power source,
no battery, The wood cold and damp to the touch
despite the glow, but the light held, whispering row Us Tom.

(07:52):
The air grew colder, a chill that bit through my jacket,
smelling of damp reeds and decay, My breath fogging as
if the lake exhaled its own life, the mist rising
to meet the glow. I stumbled to my journal, a
worn ledger from my guide days, my hands trembling as
I wrote six thirty three, A M You're a drift now.
The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and I felt

(08:14):
a pull, a tug in my chest, as if the
water called me to join them. I blamed the mist
rolling off the lake, the natural play of light on water,
amplified by my exhaustion, the guilt of Rachel's lost still
drowning me. Her laugh on the river, her trust in
my skill, her scream as the canoe flipped, each memory
a wave crashing over me. But the lodge wouldn't rest.

(08:34):
The next night, I brought a sonar device, its screen
a lifeline from my gidding days, determined to scan the
anomaly to prove it was a trick of the currents
or my mind unraveling after months alone. At six thirty
three a m. The splash returned, a rhythmic patter against
the dock, joined by others, men, women, children, crying in
a chorus that filled the air. You left us. The

(08:57):
shadows sharpened, forming a flotilla on the water, their hide
sodden and clinging, eyes, hollow mouths open in silent pleas,
their paddles dipping into the mist, as if rowing an
unseen river. I played back the sonar data, clear depths,
no movement, but the voices lingered personal now Sophie's tone
cutting through the hum you couldn't save her, followed by

(09:18):
Rachel's faint and desperate why didn't you reach me? I
researched at the Winnipeg Library the next day, a long
paddle that left my arms aching. The librarian's glance cautious
as I asked about old canoes. I found records of
Mikah Redski, a Kree guide who vanished in eighteen seventy
five during a storm on Lake Winnipeg. His canoe found

(09:39):
glowing green logs describing voices from the lake that drew
men to drown his family, claiming he'd angered the water's spirits.
Locals reported disappearances over the years, their boats found adrift
with no trace their families. Hearing whispers at dawn, my flashlight,
held high that night, caught glints in the dark of

(10:00):
eyes pale and staring, dotting the water, like stars reflected
the air, thickening with the scent of algae and blood,
a stench that clung to my skin and clothes. The
whispers grew into a chant guide us home. Sleep vanished,
my nights spent on the dock, The canoes glow a
beacon I couldn't ignore. I chained it to a post
with rusted lynks, the metal cold against my hands, but

(10:23):
the green light seeped through the wood, the splashes seeping
into my dreams, the figures chanting tom Row. I filled
the journal with observations, the hull sweating, A dark water
that pooled on the dock, its surface rippling like a
living thing, staining the boards black as it spread. Weeks passed,
the isolation deepening, the lake's surface freezing at the edges,

(10:44):
and one dawn I woke with the canoe in my hand,
the dock marked with my boot prints circling the mooring,
the voices layered with my own, Tom Stay. The log
showed silence on playback, but I heard the whirlpool's raw,
Redski's cry rising over the waves, cursing me to guide
the lost. I tried sinking it in the lake's depths,
the anchor snapping against an unseen force, the canoe laughing,

(11:05):
a hollow your hours that echoed across the water. Shadows
dragged me toward the edge, the cold seeping into my bones,
the air thick with the memory of the squall's rain
and screams, Sophie's voice pleading come back to me. I
fought my arms, trembling, the weight of the water a chain,
the glow leading me into the depths. I fled to

(11:26):
a fishing camp ten miles inland, but the canoe's glow
follows six thirty three a m each night, my shadow
bending into Sophie's face, her eyes accusing from the mist.
My journal wants a record of river roots, now shows
canoe sketches. I didn't draw, my hands stained with black streaks.
The lake calls me back, its surface glowing from the shore. Listener,
if you see green water, don't paddle. Some drifts never end.

(11:51):
Part three, The map that leads I came to the
forests of New Brunswick after a life lost to a
path I couldn't retrace, a trail that twisted through my
own failures. At forty five, I'd been a surveyor plotting
land in the Fundye National Park. My compass and theodolite
my guides through the rugged terrain shaped by my grandfather,

(12:11):
a trapper who roamed the Miramichi Wilderness with a quiet intensity,
his tailies of hidden trails, filling my youth with dreams
of discovery. We treked together through the dense spruce, his
voice steady over the crackling fires. He built with practiced hands,
recounting stories of lost trappers and secret caches, until he
vanished at seventy during a blizzard in two thousand and five,

(12:33):
his snow shoes found abandoned, leaving me his worn map
case and a note scribbled on birch bark, Follow the
True North, Henry. His final words a riddle I couldn't solve.
My parents distant and worn by his absences. My mother,
a seamstress, my father, a mill worker, died in a
house fire when I was thirty. There lost a silence.
I filled with the precision of surveying, earning a diploma

(12:55):
from the New Brunswick Community College, until a boundary era
in a twenty seventeen day development project displaced a family
their home, bulldozed, the court calling it professional misconduct. After
a bitter trial, costing me my license and leaving me
with a debt I couldn't pay. My wife, Claya left
after twelve years, her words sharp as she slammed the door.

(13:15):
You lost our way, Henry. Her departure second abandonment that
echoed my grandfather taking our savings. In the photo album
we'd built together with no direction. I took a job
as a ranger for a remote outpost near the Bay
of Fundy, Its trails overgrown with bracken, its silence, a
shroud that mirrored my own isolation. The outpost a crumbling
cabin with moss cloaked walls and a roof that leaked

(13:37):
during storms. In the ranger station, tucked behind a stack
of mildewed logs, I found a map, its parchment yellowed
and brittle, its lines glowing faintly with a red hue
that pulsed like a vane etched t blackwood eighteen twenty
in a spidery script, its edges frayed, as if torn
from a larger hole. Locals in the nearest hamlet, a

(13:58):
scattering of homes ten miles west, avoided it. Their mutters
in the general store, hinting it led to the lost
A tail passed down with a shake of the head.
But I saw a guide to my grandfather's secret away
to find my footing, to trace the path he'd left behind.
The first night, I unrolled the map on the station table,

(14:19):
the air thick with the scent of pine, sap and
moldy paper. The wind whistling through the cracks in the walls,
the floorboards shifting under my weight as if the cabin sighed,
the single lantern casting long shadows across the room. The
space was sparse, a cot with a threadbare blanket sagging
under dampness, A lantern flickering with a weak flame, the

(14:41):
single window framing the dense forest, where the trees stood
like silent sentinels. The maps glow, a beacon that drew
my eye. At seven forty seven a m. As the
dawnlight filtered through the mist, the lines pulsed a soft
red light, tracing the paths like blood through veins, and
I heard a rustle, deliberate and close, a sound like
leaves crushed under foot, though the door was barred. A

(15:03):
voice followed, gruff yet distant, cutting through the stillness. Come Henry,
my grandfather's voice from those woodland tracks, urging yet weary,
the same tone he'd used when he last pointed to
the map, his breath smelling of pipe smoke and pine.
The glow intensified, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming
figures in furs, faceless, their steps silent, their forms swaying

(15:24):
as if caught in a wind. I couldn't feel their
hands clutching unseen tools. I froze, my heart thudding against
my ribs, checking the map, no ink pot, no source,
The parchment dry and cracked despite the glow, but the
light held, whispering guide us henry. The air grew colder,
a chill that bit through my coat, smelling of damp
earth and rust, my breath fogging, as if the forest

(15:45):
breathed its own life, the mist seeping through the cracks.
I stumbled to my journal, a relic from my surveying days,
my hands trembling as I wrote seven forty seven, A M.
You're found now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer,
and I felt a pull, a tug in my gut,
as if the map drew me toward the trails it marked.

(16:06):
I blamed the wind howling through the trees, the natural
play of light on aged paper, amplified by my fatigue,
the guilt of that family's displacement still haunting me. Their
cries as the bulldozers moved in, the father's fist raised
at the hearing, the mother's tears soaking the court room,
each memory a thorn in my side but the station

(16:26):
wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a GPS unit,
its screen a modern contrast to the map's antique glow,
determined to chart the anomaly, to prove it was a
trick of the forest or my mind unraveling after months
of solitude, At seven forty seven a m. The russell returned.
A rhythmic crunched through the underbrush, joined by others, men, women, children,

(16:48):
murmuring in a chorus that filled the room. You left us.
The shadows sharpened, forming a procession on the walls, their
furs tattered and stained, eyes hollow mouths open in silent pleas,
their hands pointing to the map's red lines, as if
gidding me. I played back the GPS data, steady coordinates,
no interference, but the voices lingered personal now player's tone

(17:11):
cutting through the hum You never led us, followed by
the fathers accusing you took our home. I researched at
the Monkton Archives the next day, a grueling hike through
mud that left my legs aching. The archivist's glance wary
as I asked about old maps. I found records of
Thomas Blackwood, a trapper who explored the Fundy region in
eighteen twenty, vanishing during a winter storm. His map found

(17:34):
glowing red logs describing paths to the vanished that drew
men into the woods, never to return. Locals reported disappearances
over centuries, their tracks fadding into the forest, their families
finding only silence and a red glow. At dawn, my flashlight,
held high that night, caught glints in the dark, Dozens
of eyes pale and staring, dotting the map like stars

(17:57):
on a night sky, The air thickening with the center
of moss and blood, a stench that clung to my
clothes and hair. The whispers grew into a chant, lead
us home. Sleep vanished, my nights spent by the table,
the map's glower beacon I couldn't escape. I burned it
in the station's hearth, the flames leaping high, but the
red light seeping through the ashes, the voices seeping into

(18:18):
my dreams, the figures chanting henry guide. I filled the
journal with observations, the parchment sweating, a dark stain that
pooled on the table, its texture thick like ink, staining
the wood black as it spread weeks past, the isolation
deepening the forest's edge creeping closer, and one dawn, I
woke with the map in my hand, the station floor

(18:39):
marked with my boot prints circling the room, the voices
layered with my own, Henry stay. The log showed silence
on playback, but I heard a trap snap, Blackwood's cry
rising over the wind, cursing me to lead the lost
into the wild. I tried burying it in the forest floor,
the soil, rejecting it as if alive, the map laughing
a hollow your hours that echoed through the trees. Shadows

(19:02):
dragged me toward the window, the cold seeping into my bones.
The air, thick with the memory of the bulldozers, rumble
and cries Claire's voice, pleading find me, Henry. I fought
my legs, trembling, the weight of the forest a chain,
the glow leading me into the trees. I fled to
a logging camp fifteen miles south, but the map's glow

(19:22):
follows seven forty seven am each night, my shadow bending
into Claire's face, her eyes accusing from the dark. My
journal wants a record of coordinates, now shows trail sketches
I didn't draw, my hands stained with black streaks. The
forest calls me back its depths glowing from the outpost. Listener,
If you see red lines, don't follow some paths, never return.

(19:44):
Part four, The Wind that Mourns. I came to the
prairies of Saskatchewan after a life swept away by a
silence I couldn't break, a stillness that echoed through the
empty fields of my past. At forty one, i'd been
a meteorologist, tracking storms across the plains for the can
Canadian Weather Service. My anemometer and barometer, my allies against
the unpredictable sky, shaped by my mother, a farmer's wife

(20:07):
who read the clouds like a prophet, her warnings of
tempests filling my childhood with a mix of awe and dread.
We'd stand in the fields near swift current, her voice
calm over the gusts that whipped her apron, teaching me
to feel the pressure drop, to hear the air's warnings,
until a tornado tore through our farm in two thousand nine,
taking her at fifty two. As the barn collapsed around her,

(20:29):
leaving me her wind chime, a cluster of metal tubes
she'd tuned herself, and a plea whispered through her tears.
Listened to the air, jasper her last words a command
I couldn't obey. My career soared with early predictions, a
degree from the University of Manitoba in hand, until a
failed tornado warning in twenty eighteen left Estevan devastated homes,

(20:51):
flattened lives lost, the inquiry calling it forecast failure. After
a public reckoning that replayed the sirens wail in my mind,
costing me my job and my credibility. My partner Mere
left after six years, her words harsh as she cleared
her desk, You ignored the signs jasper her departure a
third storm, taking up plans and the quilt she'd made

(21:13):
with no shelter. I took a job as a caretaker
for an abandoned farmhouse near the South Saskatchewan River, Its
fields barren and windswept, its silence a shroud that mirrored
my own guilt. The house a skeleton of peeling paint
and broken shutters, its lofty nest of cobwebs and forgotten tools.
In the loft, buried under a pile of rotted burlap,
I found a wind chime, its metal tubes twisted and

(21:36):
dulled by rust, its tones etched Elkava eighteen eighty five
in a hand worn by time, It sound a faint
hum even at rest. Locals in the nearest hamlet, a
scattering of homes twenty miles east, avoided it, their mutters
in the feed store hinting it was cursed, a mourner's
breath that carried the dead's lament. But I saw a

(21:59):
tribute to my mother away, to hear her voice again,
to tune myself to the air she'd loved. The first
night I hung the chime on the porch, the air
thick with the scent of dry grass and rusted iron,
the wind howling like a living thing that rattled the
loose boards, the house trembling with each gust that carried
the river's distant murmur. The porch was weathered, its chairs

(22:20):
broken and toppled, the field stretching into a darkness, broken
only by the occasional flicker of lightning. The chime's presence
of fragile note against the vastness, its tubes clinking softly
as I adjusted it. At eight twelve a m. As
the dawn broke with a gray haze, the metal sang
a mournful wail rising unprompted, a sound that cut through

(22:40):
the stillness like a cry, and I felt a chill,
sharp and personal, a cold that sank into my bones.
A voice followed, soft yet anguished, rising from the wind itself.
Hear me jasper, my mother's voice from those field warnings,
pleading yet faint, the same tone she'd used when she
last held me after the tornado's aftermath, her breath smelling
of earth and lavender. The chime glowed a pale gray

(23:02):
light pulsing from the tubes, a hue that shimmered like
storm clouds, Shadows forming in the wind, Figures in tattered shawls, faceless,
their hands outstretched as if reaching for something lost, their
forms swaying with the gusts. I froze, my heart thudding
against my ribs, checking the chime. No breeze strong enough,
no sauce. The metal cold and still despite the glow,

(23:23):
But the light held, whispering sing for us, Jasper. The
air grew colder, a chill that bit through my coat,
smelling of straw and ash, my breath fogging as if
the prairie wept with the dead, the dust swirling around
my feet in a dance I couldn't follow. I stumbled
to my journal, a worn log from my weather days,
my hands trembling as I wrote eight twelve a m.

(23:44):
You're caught now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer,
and I felt a pull, a tug in my chest,
as if the wind drew my memories into its grasp.
I blamed the gusts sweeping across the plains, the natural
howl of the prairie, amplified by my exhaustion, the guilt
of Estevan's ruins still blowing through me. The screams over

(24:04):
the phone, the child's toy found in the debris, the
mare's glare at the hearing, each a gust that drove
me deeper into shame. But the farm house wouldn't rest.
The next night, I brought a wind gage, its dials
of familiar comfort from my forecasting days, determined to measure
the sound to prove it was a trick of the
atmosphere or my mind unraveling after months of solitude. At

(24:27):
eight twelve a m. The whail returned, a keening that
shook the porch boards, joined by others, men, women, children,
keening in a chorus that filled the air. You silenced us.
The shadows sharpened, forming a crowd on the fields, their
shawls fluttering like flags in the wind, eyes hollow, mouths
open in silent cries, their hands clutching unseen burdens. I

(24:49):
played back the gauge data, calm ere, no movement, but
the voices lingered personal now mere's tone cutting through the
hum You didn't listen, followed by a child's pleading, why
did you warn us? I researched at the Regina Library
the next day, a long drive that left my hands
aching on the wheel. The librarians glanced cautious as I
asked about old farmsteads. I found records of Levikava, a

(25:13):
settler who homesteaded near the river in eighteen eighty five,
vanishing during a dust storm. His wind chime found glowing
gray logs describing winds of the dead that carried the
lost's lament, his family claiming he'd angered the prairie spirits.
Locals reported disappearances over decades, their homes found empty, with
chimes ringing, their families hearing whales at dawn. My flashlight

(25:36):
held high that night, caught glints in the dark, Dozens
of eyes, pale and staring, dotting the air like dust
moats in sunlight, the wind thickening with the scent of
burnt wheat and blood, a stench that clung to my
skin and hair. The whales grew into a chant, morn
with us. Sleep vanished, my nights spent on the porch,
the chimes glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I buried

(25:58):
it in the field behind the house, the earth cold
and unyielding under my hands, but the gray light seeping
through the soil, the voices seeping into my dreams, the
figures chanting, Jasper sing. I filled the journal with observations,
the metal sweating, a dark rust that pooled on the porch,
its surface rippling like liquid metal, staining the board's black
as it spread weeks past, the isolation deepening, the river's

(26:22):
edge eroding with each storm. And one dawn, I woke
with the chime in my hand, the porch marked with
my boot prints circling the post, the voices layered with
my own jasper stay. The log showed silence on playback,
but I heard the tornadoes roar, cavers cry, rising over
the wind, cursing me to mourn the lost. With the
air I tried melting it in a fire pit in
the yard, the flames leaping high. They died to embers,

(26:44):
the chime laughing a hollow your hours that echoed across
the fields. Shadows dragged me into the wind, the cold
seeping into my lungs, the air thick with the memory
of the storm's howl and cries MEA's voice, pleading come
back to me. I fought my legs, trembling, the weight
of the prairie a chain, the glow leading me into

(27:05):
the gusts. I fled to a grain silo thirty miles west,
but the chime's glow follows eight twelve em each night,
my shadow bending into MIA's face, her eyes accusing from
the wind. My journal wants a record of weather patterns,
now shows, chime sketches I didn't draw, My hands stained
with black streaks. The farm house calls me back, its
fields glowing from the river. Listener, if you hear a

(27:27):
mournful wind, don't answer. Some songs never fade. Thank you
for joining me, sir Winstone, on this journey through four
dark tailies. Until next time, stay out of the breeze.